#but now she can get away with it and justify her misdeeds even if it's totally amoral

[shiromipantsu]

they only let her in the student council bc that’s the only way to keep watch over her, to tame the beast.

#the statement where its said that if shiromi was not in the student council she would be a villain #she doesn't hold any ill will despite her lack of empathy and tendency to incite violence between others for her own desires #she likes the power being in the council gives her.. she already was conniving and hyper-competent at what she does #but now she can get away with it and justify her misdeeds even if it's totally amoral #*mermaid man voice* EEEVIIIIILL

[the-hopeless-haze]

Maybe It’s the Getting By that Gets Right Underneath You (Justified Sin Chapter 1)

Pairing: Bruce Wayne/Batman x Reader

Summary: based on “Desperate Things” by the Killers. Reader’s husband is terrible, and she doesn’t want Bruce to help her. Will she accept the Vengeance? 

Trigger Warnings: Descriptions of domestic violence, don’t read if this triggers you.

He finds himself hitting the wall. Literally. Bruce knows his hands will be bloody and hurt like hell after this, but it’s all he can do right now, refer the pain to his hands, take it away from his head and heart.

“Bruce? Bruce? I heard slamming, and I—“ He hears Alfred coming up the stairs, and he stops his self-injurious behaviors, looks at his stand-in father. Bruce hates the way Alfred looks at him sometimes as if he can read him like a book, and he can. The mask makes it much harder for him to be read, even by Alfred at times, and he almost wishes he had it on right now.

“What are you upset about?” Alfred asks gently.

“She’s in the hospital and I can’t fucking see her because I’m not her husband,” Bruce seethes. “Tell me how that’s fair.”

“I told you not to get involved with her, Bruce.”

“You’re not my father,” he snaps.

“I know. But he’d have told you the same thing. She’s married—“

“Not like they love each other.”

“No. Maybe not. But he’s a powerful man, and sure, you have your father’s legacy, but you’re not exactly equipped in social situations to deal with something like this. This is bad for your image if this gets out. Did you go to the hospital? Try to see her?”

“Yes.”

“As who?”

“Does it matter? I can’t get in either way.”

“Please tell me you didn’t show up as Bruce.”

He sighs heavily. “No. I didn’t. Dave’s the reason she’s in the hospital. You know that, right? This isn’t the first time he’s hurt her.”

It was far from the first time. He thinks back to when he first met you, a year or so ago. You were doing sixty in a thirty-five, the top of your car down, My Chemical Romance blasting from your radio. Your eyeliner and mascara were smudged with tears around your eyes, fresh blood still in your mouth, and dried blood in patterns on your floral summer dress. He was with Gordon on a patrol, and Gordon forced him to come along to pull you over, recognizing your car as one of Dave Matteson’s, one of the most-talked-about mayoral candidates for the next election. Whispers were abound that he was corrupt as it was, paying off certain members of the force to forget about his misdeeds, and Gordon would have loved to be the man to get him on a speeding charge of all things.

But it was you, full of tears and blood, your bottom lip swollen and puffy.

You barely reacted when Gordon asked for your license and registration. No fear, no anxiety, no anger… nothing.

“You always bring the bat to write speeding tickets?” you asked testily.

“You’re bleeding,” Bruce pointed out, nodding to your shoulder. “Who did this to you?”

You shrugged, pressed your lips in a thin line. “Doesn’t matter. Not a job for you, Batty. Personal issue. Not a Gotham-wide one.”

He winced at the name you called him but didn’t let you know it bothered him otherwise. Still, you smiled, seemingly happy to get under his nerves a little.

“Husband?” Gordon asks.

“I told you. It doesn’t matter.”

“We could take him in,” Bruce offers. “Question him a little. Scare him.”

You laughed him off, no mirth in your tone. “When are you going to lose that idealism, batty? You don’t scare men like him. You talk to him, I’ll get hit ten times worse tomorrow. This isn’t your little save-Gotham game. This is my life and this is the only way I can survive.”

“We can take him in, keep him,” he pressed.

“You won’t be able to charge him with anything that sticks. He’s buddies with half the force. Now, I’m sorry I sped through the streets of the city you’ve sworn so selflessly to protect, Sir Bat, but I have to go. Charge me with a ticket and let me leave, please.”

“I don’t feel good about letting you go back home to that house,” Gordon said.

You smiled, your eyes tearing up again. “Mm. No. It’ll be good. The worst part is over. He’ll be sweet as pie when I get home. I know his cycles by heart, now. Give me my ticket so I can leave.”

“We’re not fining her,” Bruce said, looking at Gordon, who nodded in agreement.

“Well, it’s been fun. I almost wanted the ticket. Could’ve said Batman gave it to me,” you snickered, bit your lip nervously. “Not that anyone would have believed me.”

——-----

The second time he saw you was the time you met Bruce Wayne. You were both at a political gala you both did not want to be at, although you looked stunning in your green floor-length gown and you did your best to hide your anxieties. Bruce stayed in corners, trying to avoid everyone and everything, nursing the same glass of whiskey for an hour to minimize trips to the bar. By some design of fate, however, his whiskey glass ran dry at the same time your rosé did, and he met you there, glanced at you quickly, scanning your skin for injuries. A faded bruise on your jaw, a fresher one on your right shoulder that you did your best to cover up with makeup, and multiple scars littered your bare arms.

You did a double-take. He noticed your eyes scan over him quickly, then linger the second time you look. “Bruce Wayne? I didn’t know you were coming tonight.”

“Mm.”

“Ah. I see you’re as talkative as the magazines make you out to be.”

“I’m not here to make friends. I’m here to watch.”

“Watch what?”

“How they all interact.”

“It’s silly, isn’t it? Watch them sell their souls for a little bit of power?”

“Not all of them are corrupt.”

“No. Just the ones who win, usually.”

“Do you want your husband to win?” he asked.

“It would keep him busier, and that would be a good thing. Would it be a good thing for Gotham? I don’t know.”

“I don’t think it would be,” Bruce said.

You grinned. “Blunt? I like that. No one ever talks shit about him to me, even though I know they want to. I’m not his biggest fan either, trust me.”

“Why don’t you leave him?” he asked, trying not to sound too strained like he knew what Batman already knows. Still, the two of you were an odd couple as it was without the added violence. You were young, beautiful; he was older, not so attractive… and you seemed kind, a little testy, as it was.

You shrugged your shoulders, leaned over to whisper in his ear. “Don’t tell anybody, but I don’t have enough money to leave him yet. I know he’d screw me over in the divorce. I don’t have enough to pay for a good lawyer. My restaurant isn’t taking off as I’d hoped.”

“Restaurant?”

“Mm. The 45 Diner? It’s on the outskirts of the city. Just opened a few weeks ago.”

“If I made an appearance, there’d be headlines,” he pointed out.

“You’d leave the house just for me? I’m flattered, Wayne.”

“Don’t call me that. And don’t let it get to your head,” he muttered, but he can’t stop himself from smirking. You had a way of getting under the skin, and looking back he wonders if you’d been flirting with him all this time and he was just too oblivious to notice. He felt inexplicably drawn to you even then, and it’s all he can do not to ask you about the music you had blasting in your car that he hasn’t got out of his head since, to tell you he’d pay for your lawyer, to get you out of there. He didn’t know you well yet, but he knew enough even then to know your pride would never allow you to accept his offer even if he swore he wanted nothing in return. You didn’t want to be tied to another man financially, and he had to respect that even if it gnawed at him day and night.

You looked over at him again, your eyes scrutinizing every centimeter of his face. “You know, you look familiar.”

“Yeah. Must be the gossip magazines you seem to love.”

“Well, yes… but… I feel like I’ve met you before. I know I haven’t, but… I don’t know. Never mind. I’ll see you on Monday? How do you like your eggs?”

---------

"Where exactly are you going at seven in the morning, Bruce?” Alfred asked.

“Out.”

“Not like you to get up this early.”

“I’m going out to breakfast.”

“Where?”

“The 45 Diner,” he said, straightening his tie. “Matteson’s wife just opened it.”

“Oh… don’t tell me, Bruce. You had that look on your face when you came home the other night. She’s bad news.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

But he did. You’re all he could think about, and he didn’t know if it was his savior complex or if he was interested in you romantically but here he was, heading out to be photographed and written about just to draw attention to your restaurant.

Thankfully, the food is amazing. He couldn’t remember the last time he had a full breakfast like this; eggs, bacon, toast, home fries, maybe not since his parents were alive. You were in the back most of the time he was there, helping your staff cook and clean, but he caught your eyes and your grin when he walked in, and he saw your grin widen a little when the paparazzi showed up. He left shortly after they arrived, but soon this became a recurring occurrence. Bruce doesn’t talk to you much while he’s here; rumors were probably going to fly that something indecent was going on between the two of you as it was, and the paps didn’t need any more ammo. Every time he shows up, it’s more crowded, and eventually, he figures out that the time of day it’s least busy is when you’re just about to close on a Monday.

Bruce showed up, and you look frazzled, empty, broken - like you did the night he first met you. Decorum be damned, he thought, heading over to the counter. “Are you okay?”

“No,” you sighed heavily, not meeting his eyes. “But I’ll make it.”

He saw the bandage covering your hand, blood still weeping from the wound there, and then he slid your sleeve up, slowly, up to your forearm, fresh bruises in the shape of a hand covering your skin. Scanning the rest of you, he noticed bruises littered over your neck, the makeup you put on this morning no longer completely concealing them.

“Your husband did this to you?" Bruce asked, but he already knew. You didn’t say anything, give any sign of confirmation or denial and you walked away, biting back tears, and he didn’t see you again until you switched the sign to CLOSED.

“You have to go, Bruce. I have to lock up.”

“Let me help you,” he said.

“I don’t need your sympathy, Bruce, I… I’ve handled this until now. I’ll continue handling it.”

“I’m helping you lock up,” he stated, more matter-of-factly this time, and he punctuated his statement by starting to pick up chairs and stack them back up on the tables. You didn't protest any further and you start cleaning the counters, closing the registers, sending your staff home.

He followed you to the back, and you shook your head. “Go home, Bruce. There’s nothing you can do for me except what you’ve already done.”

“I could help you pay—“

“No.” You shot him down before he could even finish his sentence, which he expected.

“He’s going to kill you,” he whispered, feeling stupid for stating the obvious. You had to know that, and it was fear that he’d kill you sooner if you left holding you down in that house.

“Sometimes I wish he would just kill me,” you said, your eyes prickling with tears, and it wasn’t long before you let go, and you’re sobbing, grasping onto the cloth of his shirt as he holds you into him. It was awkward at first; Bruce was never one to comfort others, not even when he was saving them, but he eventually settled into the embrace, feeling you exhale shuddered breaths against his chest as you slowly stop crying.

“Why did he do that to you?”

“This isn’t the first time.”

“But why?”

“He doesn’t need a reason, most of the time. Sometimes I egg him on, just to get it over with because then he’s nice to me again. Buying me gifts, flowers, telling me I’m the most beautiful girl alive… I know it’s fake now. The real Dave is the Dave that hurts me, not the one who claims he loves me.”

“Do you have any family?”

“None that would believe me,” you said, looking up at him. “Dave was in the law firm with my dad. He’d never… it doesn’t matter, Bruce. I’m doing it my way, the restaurant is picking up business now… I’ll be able to leave in a year, maybe.”

“He worked with your father?”

“Mm. He’s known me since I was twelve. We were basically betrothed. It seemed like my dad had a lot of money, right, but he gambled it all away. He said it was a blessing Dave married me when he did because I would’ve had to work a lot harder to live comfortably.”

“Dave’s a lot older than you.”

“Yeah. I never loved him, it was never my choice. I was my father’s only girl, I wanted to make him happy and I knew this would do it. He was always distraught after my mom died. It’s why he gambled, it was the only time he felt anything.”

“I’m sorry.”

You shrugged your shoulders against his hands that were still against your body. “We all have our cross to bear.”

"You fought back this time. It's how you cut your hand," he realized. "Let me look at it. It's still bleeding."

"It's fine."

"It's the least I can do."

Finally, you acquiesced, allowing him to unwrap your bandage, revealing a deep slash in the palm of your hand, still leaking blood.

"You need stitches."

"Yeah. Didn't get a chance."

"I'll be right back," he muttered, leaving the diner and searching his car for his medical thread and gauze.

"Bruce Wayne, the recluse millionaire, knows how to do stitches?" you asked.

"Just be happy I know. You have alcohol?"

You nod, handing him a bottle of cheap vodka.

"How did this happen?"

"I... I went at him with a knife. It was all I could do to stop him from choking me... and he took it from me, slashed my hand and I ran."

"Did you get him?"

"Right in the ribs," you said, smiling a little.

"Mm. Good girl," he whispered.

You raised an eyebrow at that, but didn't question it, and then he poured the alcohol on your wound, and you winced, biting your lip, muttering "motherfucker" under your breath.

“I want to help you," he said, starting to stitch her wound sloppily. She would've been better if he took her to Alfred, but he didn't want the questions; or a real doctor... but... something makes him want to do this himself.

“You can’t help me, Bruce. Stop pushing it. I can’t leave.”

“But I-“

“Don’t,” you said, firmer this time, wincing as he drags the thread through your skin. “Don’t give me false hope. Did I tell you? The fucking Batman pulled me over a few months ago for speeding. Didn’t know he was on the patrol force now, but whatever. If he can’t do anything to fix it, you can’t, either. You can’t just throw money at things and hope they fix themselves.”

Bruce’s blood ran cold, trying to think of how he could word this without you reading into it too much. “Did you ask him?”

You scoffed. “No. He offered to take him in for the night, I said no.”

“Use the signal, next time.”

You laughed like lemonade, stepping away from him, crossing your arms. “I’m one woman and Dave’s one man. Batman isn’t going to do shit. It’s not some city-wide corruption deal, it’s a man hitting his wife and I doubt he’s the only one in this city. It would be unbelievably selfish of me to ask him to help me, one person when there’s a whole city of people…”

“But you need help. He helps people.”

“Jesus, you sound sort of like him. Wouldn’t have thought you were an idealist."

“Promise me if you need help you’ll use it,” he pressed.

“Yeah, yeah, okay. You really think he’s going to do something?”

Yes. I will do everything in my power. I’ll beat the man to a pulp. I’ll kill him if I have to.

“I think it’s worth a shot,” is all he said.

NEXT CHAPTER

#bruce wayne x reader #batman x reader #the batman 2022 #the batman #battinson x reader

[firein-thesky]

COIN TOSS– PART II

(18+ MINORS DNI)

PART I

PAIRINGS: Tomura Shigaraki x Reader, a little Shouta Aizawa x Reader

SUMMARY: As you fall asleep, you wonder faintly, almost sadly, if you’re the first thing he’s fully touched without losing in a long time.

You are Eraserhead’s troubled protege with a Quirk that cancels out others the moment they touch you. Tomura Shigaraki takes great interest in you.

(Enemies to lovers, a lot of angst, some hurt/comfort)

WARNINGS: Unhealthy/complicated relationships, age gap/power struggle, violence, gore, Tomura’s trauma specifically, (in later chapters) murder, heroes’ abuse of power, smut, some blurred lines, rough sex, a smidge of a spit kink, a smidge of somnophilia (let me know if I’ve missed anything!)

If you are under the age of 18, you should not be reading or interacting with this!

A/N: again, thank you @randomrosewrites for beta-ing!! and thank you guys for the support and comments on the first part! here is your part two!! it's tomura heavy, but for those who love shouta, there's a lot of him in the final part! i hope you enjoy! let me know what you thought!

i also am obsessed with making playlists for when i write and i spend far too much time organizing it all and making sure the songs blend together so if you'd like to take a look at the playlist i made for this fic, it's here!

Read on Ao3

***

Shouta, like the responsible adult he is, soothes things out with you. Well, it doesn’t feel very soothed to you, but Shouta’s made his position clear and you’ve both returned to some semblance of normalcy.

He keeps his distance.

You try not to overstep, but you’re aching and furious.

(You’re holding a secret, too, letting it tear apart your insides, letting it turn circles in your mind until all you can think about is the chill of rain, the bite of a desperate kiss).

You hate that Shouta has retreated from you now. You hate that he’ll stop his hand before reaching out to touch you, like he always has to make sure, like he has to decide if that will be good for you. If you can handle it.

You feel shockingly alone.

You lash out at him more, bicker and argue over things you never used to. You don’t even know why you do it, can’t stop yourself from trying to dig into him. You regret it every time when all he gives you is impassiveness, levelheaded coolness. An adult speaking with an unruly child. He’s good at that, unfortunately.

Some days you want to beg him for answers. Why can’t you love me the way I love you? Is it me? How would you have me? If I was older? I can be more mature, I can be better and better and better–

His undercover work grows greater, draws him away from both you and Shinsou more. Shouta seems to ghost around your life now, drawn away from you, keeping a very careful space between you both.

But there are nights where he tells you to train with Shinsou alone now. You feel responsible. Mature. You glow with pride that he can trust you with one of his students, that you could be a mentor to Shinsou, too.

You grow closer to Shinsou because of this, too, when it’s just the two of you in the gym.

There is one evening in particular, when you’re both sprawled out on the floor taking a too-long water break because Shouta isn’t around when he admits that he used to be– still is sometimes– feared for his Quirk.

He tells you everyone expected him to be a villain.

“I used to be a thief,” you admit, “I was a petty villain, I guess.”

Shinsou looks at you and if he’s surprised, he doesn’t entirely show it, except for the lifting of his brows. You don’t sense judgement from him, though, when he asks, “Really?”

You take another swig of water, humming in affirmation. You swallow, “I was homeless, had no money, nothing. I was stealing from a supermarket when Shouta caught me.”

“You were just trying to survive,” Shinsou adds, like he’s trying to justify the crime, like it soothes him to know there was a good reason for a misdeed.

“Sure,” you reply, fiddling with your water bottle, “But I stole things I didn’t need, too. Just things I wanted.”

“But you’ve changed,” Shinsou says and you can’t tell if he’s trying to reassure himself or you more. “You’re a hero now.”

“Only because my circumstances changed. I was given a roof over my head, food to fill me. Clothes of my own that fit and weren’t torn. I was accepted.” You explain, “If it hadn’t been for Shouta, I would never have become a hero.”

Shinsou is silent, watching you.

“I’d probably be in jail. Or still a thief, in the least, if any other hero would’ve caught me.”

You don’t know why, but you think of Shigaraki suddenly. You think of how young some of the League of Villains are. You wonder if it had been them who offered you food and a home, if you’d be with them now, and not here, sitting on the floor of a nice, sparkling gym attached to U.A.’s dorms.

Something strange grows inside you, something a little bitter. It simmers with sympathy for them, for their lives. For kids like Shinsou with their villainous quirks. You wonder if he’d been poor, if he’d been alone, would he be here, too? Or somewhere else?

“But you were good before,” he says, and it almost feels naive, “I know you’re good.”

You shrug, “Good is relative, you know? I thought I was good because I didn’t kill people, I didn’t steal from other poor people, but society didn’t think I was good. I was still a thief.”

“But you were only a thief because you needed to survive.” he says again, “When given the chance, you changed and became a hero.”

“Exactly.” you say, “How many villains do you think just needed a chance?”

Shinsou goes silent now. His brows furrow in thought, pinching together in a way that makes him look a little too old for his age. You think all of the kids at U.A. grow up too quickly, all of them with too much on their small shoulders.

They’re only kids.

You’re barely older.

Shigaraki is barely older than you.

You push him out of your mind, toss your water bottle aside, and rise to your feet again. “C’mon,” you offer Shinsou your hand to help him up, too, “Shouta would kill me to know I let you lay around so much.”

This seems to pull him from his thoughts and he snorts, taking your hand.

You pull him up. And you both stare at each other a moment. You think he looks at you in a different light now and it isn’t bad, no, he seems to be pondering you more.

(And you’ll realize later that he’s become more sympathetic, that he sees you in villains now, reminds himself they’re people, too, with lives and needs and wants–)

It gives you a strange hope, as you begin to train with him again, to know that he’s the future of hero society.

***

Tomura spots you while he’s out stealing with Toga. Usually it’s Twice or Magne with her, but Twice was onto something else and Toga had decided to latch herself onto him for the day. He’s grown to tolerate her.

Besides, she’d managed to steal him a jean jacket, dark, rough, and worn with holes but it keeps him warmer while still being able to keep the hood of his sweatshirt up to hide himself. To blend in. She’d stolen herself something, too, as the weather begins to get colder and they still don’t have a base, wandering aimlessly.

(He feels stupidly responsible for them. But he’s learned good leaders are, in some way, responsible for their people. They don’t have to care in any way that is emotional, but they have to care in some way, make the group feel important to them. And begrudgingly, they are important to him–)

You’re with a boy around Toga’s age. Wild violet hair. You’re laughing at something he’s saying and you’re sharing street food, he thinks, something that’s warm, steaming up into the air.

He feels a vicious surge of jealousy for a moment. It’s so sharp and jarring that he reaches up to scratch at his neck, tearing into his skin.

But the boy looks too young and you tousle his hair like he’s a younger brother, not someone romantic. While there’s familiarity between you two, it’s not overly intimate.

Toga, unfortunately, follows his line of sight.

She looks between him and you. She tilts her head and Tomura can practically see the gears turning in her strange little mind.

“Do you know them?” she asks, almost innocently.

He doesn’t know why, but he says, “Just her.”

Toga looks back at you. She watches as you talk with the boy– the sun through the autumn leaves cast you in tangerine light, all golden and warm.

When she looks back at Tomura, a smile creeps onto her face. One that he knows is going to give him a migraine.

“She’s so pretty,” she trills, eyeing him too closely.

Tomura scratches at his neck again, harder, wincing a little when he feels a cut reopen.

“Do you have a crush, Tomura?” Toga sings, dancing in front of him to force herself into his line of sight.

“No,” Tomura snaps, bristling, which only seems to encourage her.

“Let’s say hi!” she says, about to bound off and Tomura catches her by the scruff of her jacket like a kitten. He’s wearing his partial gloves, but he still keeps a finger away from her.

“No,” he hisses, firmer now, pulling her back towards him. “They’re heroes. Don’t get distracted.”

Toga twists in his hold, wide-eyed for a moment, before her face settles into another enormous and excited smile. “You’re in love with a hero, too?!”

Tomura grits his teeth, snarling out, “I’m not in love with anyone.” He shakes her then and she yelps a little, “Now focus. We need food and I don’t want to deal with them.”

Toga finally squirms her way out of his hold, pouting at him, “You’re no fun.” she whines and all he does is shoulder past her. He stalks ahead, trying not to look at you again, if only to not draw your eye.

“Do you want to starve?” he asks waspishly, glancing at Toga over his shoulder.

She huffs, rolling her eyes, before hustling to catch up to him. She hums a strange little tune the rest of the time, knocking into his side, throwing him new looks as if to suggest they share some sort of commonality or secret. He grits his teeth but suffers through her torment.

When they return to the rest of the League with what they’d stolen, Toga announces to the whole group, “Tomura is in love with a hero, too!”

The migraine that had begun earlier in his temples reaches full force now. He doesn’t bother trying to deny it. He decides he doesn’t care.

Dabi’s laugh grates on him, though, “Is that so? Which little hero?” he asks Toga, and just as she’s skipping past him, he snags her, snatching the granola bar she’d had in her hand from their little raid.

She turns to grab it back and he pulls it out of her reach, “I don’t know! Give that back!” she squawks, clawing at him.

She must really dig at him because Dabi hisses, “You little twerp–” Just before Magne snatches the outstretched granola bar from Dabi’s hand. She hands it back to Toga, who quickly rushes off with it now.

And thankfully, for Tomura’s sanity, you’re not brought up again.

But he hadn’t noticed you– hadn’t noticed the way you’d seen him with Toga, too. Just a girl Shinsou’s age, following after him like an eager puppy.

Shinsou had trailed beside you like that, too, when you’d both walked back to U.A. with full bellies and new coffees in hand, warm and content.

***

There is a night where Shouta is out doing work undercover and you’re left to patrol on your own. You can’t take Shinsou yet, since he hasn’t earned his provisional license. You don’t mind these nights, by yourself, when you stick to shadows and rooftops, watching the city from above.

It’s cooler now and you tuck your face into the high collar of your hero uniform to hide from the wind that brushes past.

It’s been a quiet night so far. There are other, flashier heroes patrolling, too, meandering around the sidewalks to deter petty crime.

You check the time on your phone, noting that you have a little less than an hour until your shift is over, until you can go home and take a hot shower in an attempt to warm yourself up– especially your fingers, the tips of your ears.

You stretch, standing on one of the low roofs of a building. You’re stiff from crouching, so you decide to move around, change position. You use a grappling tool to shoot it onto a higher roof of the next building. You scale the bricks easily and once safely up, retract your grappling hook.

You look out over the quiet city, the golden light of lampposts, the meandering of cars through the streets. Some restaurants and bars are still open, their windows look warm and inviting with the flush of people inside.

You waste most of the last hour of your shift trying to remain warm, keeping a careful eye on the world below.

Towards the end, you notice a familiar figure in one of the alleyways down below. You don’t even see his face, just the back of his hoodie, just the angle of his shoulders.

Just the way he walks.

The thought should frighten you– that you know him like this, that you’re familiar with just the movement of his body.

Shigaraki Tomura walks away from the soft light of the main city, slips away into alleyways and darkness. You glance at the time. Your shift is nearly over.

This counts as hero work, doesn’t it? Silently following after him?

You drop down onto a fire escape– leap off to latch onto a lower window sill, until you’re dropping silently on to the ground a distance away from him.

You are careful to keep away from him, to use everything Shouta taught you about stealth to remain hidden. And you know Shigaraki is observant, you know he’s always looking over his shoulder so you have to stick to hidden places– behind dumpsters, ducking into alcoves of buildings.

He heads back to the part of the city you grew up in, where everything is falling apart, where there are plenty of abandoned buildings for hiding, plenty of places for runaway teens and homeless to sleep. The cheapest apartments, the streets that are the least patrolled by heroes and police alike, where parts of the Yakuza groups are bolder.

These streets are familiar to you. It’s a strange trip down memory lane.

You think of the last time you saw Shigaraki and flush darkly– it was around here, too, what happened that night.

Still, you follow him because you think you still have some upper hand. Maybe he’ll lead you to the rest of the League of Villains. For a heartbeat, you wonder if you’ll tell Shouta, if you’ll tell the Hero Commissions– you’d have to, right? That isn’t some little squirmish. That’s important information.

But he doesn’t lead you to the rest of the League.

He leads you to an apartment building, small and falling apart on the outside. A window is boarded up poorly. There are stray cats that linger around the side, where the trash is. You’re sure there are rats and bugs, too. You’re sure the building is one bad day away from falling apart.

Shigaraki pauses by the door that is nearly falling off its hinges.

He glances over his shoulder, “Are you following me in, too?”

Your heart kicks up, hammering against the inside of your chest. You swallow hard, internally cursing.

For all your effort of stealth, he still noticed you?

Well, there’s no use lying about it now.

You step around the corner you’d been hiding behind, moving towards the glow of a street light that flickers in and out of power to reveal yourself fully to him.

“When did you notice me?” you ask, peering at him, at the shape of him in the dark.

You catch the lifting of his scar when he smiles, just a baring of teeth, “I saw you on the roof.”

Damn, you curse again, you’ll have to work on that, “That bad, huh?”

He shrugs gracelessly, lifting of his shoulders only for them to fall unevenly, “If I hadn’t, I wouldn’t have known. You were silent otherwise.”

It feels like a compliment– a generous one, coming from him. You don’t know why you have to hold off a smile.

He turns back to the door, shouldering it open. He walks through the archway without another word. He leaves it open and it seems there is no light on the inside, just a blackness that swallows up your vision. He disappears inside.

You stand there, beneath the light that flickers in and out, eyeing the doorway. You could go now, run back home to Shouta, to the Hero Commission and tell them you think you know where he stays, you have a lead on him. You look behind you, glance at the alleyway you came from with it’s’ dull, fluorescent lights that splash against the concrete, that barely fight against the shadows.

You look back towards where Shigaraki had been, the entrance to the building.

You’d probably even get extra little hero points for it from the Commission.

Shouta would be proud of you.

For bringing them to this dilapidated, shabby little apartment complex that rests on the streets of the place you used to call home.

You swallow hard, flex your freezing fingers.

Then you step towards the doorway, peer inside carefully. You hold your breath and the door creaks quietly when you cross it’s threshold, into the darkness.

Tomura is mildly surprised when he hears the door creak behind him. He can feel you, even in the dark of this hallway, the tentative steps you take after him. They’re almost shy.

But you followed him, didn’t you?

You followed and followed and followed him– and of course you did, he thinks, you had kissed him back, hadn’t you?

He supposes you could be playing a part, trying to get close to him but his intuition tells him differently, not with the genuine reaction you’d had. Your sudden guilt for giving in to him. Still, he’ll be careful around you.

He’ll probably have to move again, which would be a shame, since he has already killed the tenant of this apartment– he’d been sure they wouldn’t be missed by anyone, made sure he’d have time. He did the work to get it, thought he’d have it for just long enough until the League made another move.

He almost wants to test you, see if you’re going to run and tattle on his location. He wonders how far you’re willing to follow him.

Tomura walks steadily down the hallway, to the apartment he has taken claim to. He unlocks the door, hands in his partial gloves, shoving it with his shoulder to then enter. He leaves it open for you.

The apartment is a studio, shabby and the heat isn’t amazing, but it has hot water and a lack of bugs in this particular room. It has furniture– a bed, specifically, was all he had cared about. There’s empty wrappers of food and cans of energy drinks on the counters because he doesn’t really bother to pick up after himself but otherwise, the space isn’t his. There’s nothing else of his, besides some spare clothes on the floor.

And still, you follow him here, too. But you stand at the doorway, peeking inside.

He glances at you and is reminded of a fox, something with clever eyes but wary, a little skittish– would bite if he got too close too soon.

So he gives you space, just like he let you leave.

If there’s one thing Tomura has learned, it’s patience. Any good plan takes patience. The reward is always sweeter. The longer and harder the level, the greater the wins.

He ignores you, puts even more distance between the two of you as he wanders further in. He flicks on lights. He takes off his shoes, shrugs off his jean jacket and throws it over the couch. He gives the appearance of carelessness, of letting his guard down. Non threatening.

And you take your fist shy step inside. The door behind you remains ajar, though, for escape.

Tomura has to fight a terrifying smile, fight the sudden twisting in his heart, the inhale of his breath.

“I don’t know how wise it was of you to bring a hero to your home.” you finally speak, cutting through the silence. You’re trying to be witty, but he can tell you’re nervous.

“This isn’t my home,” he answers.

Home, with it’s round and warm syllabus, is not what he thinks of this place.

You eye him some more, but before you can respond, he says, “I don’t know how wise it was of you to follow a villain into his home.”

“I thought it wasn’t your home,” you quip and he only gives you a dry look.

Your bravado is wavering, especially when the door clicks shut behind you, your hand finally falling to your side.

And the two of you are sealed away from the outside world.

“Why did you bring me here?” you ask him and your voice is deceptively quiet. Small.

“Why did you follow me?” he asks in return.

You inhale like you’re trying to steady yourself, “Because I’m supposed to.”

Tomura smiles now, something lazy, almost amused. He knows it’s a lie, can feel it slide along his skin, can see the floundering, desperate look in your eyes.

“Why did you follow me?” he asks again, forcing himself not to move, not to step towards you in his budding excitement. Patience, he tells himself, be patient.

“Why did you kiss me?” you ask instead and the question is raw, as if it’s plagued you, haunted you like an insistent ghost. Crept around in the back of your mind, growing teeth and fangs and spindly, lampshade bat wings large enough to terrify you.

The idea that he’s taken root in your mind in the same way you have infested his is near dizzying.

Tomura weighs his answers carefully. He’s silent for a long moment and it’s heavy, charged with something that he can’t name– has never felt before.

When he speaks, his voice is just a rasp of breath, a little more honest than he’d like, a touch annoyed with the truth, “Because I wanted to.”

Another long stretch of silence where you watch him carefully, where he can see your chest rising and falling too quickly. He can see that frightened look in the rounding of your eyes, the high flush in your cheeks.

And when you speak again, it’s hardly louder than a whisper, like it’s all you can manage,“Do you want to kiss me again?”

It is far too gentle of a question for what he wants– it almost feels innocent, juvenile. Out of place between the two of you. But he’ll take it, he’ll take whatever you give him and then some.

He takes a step towards you. You don’t flinch away so he takes another, then another, until he is standing in front of you. You’re close now– so close that he has to force air into his lungs. He reminds himself of patience, of waiting–

He could take whatever he wanted from you now, he supposes, but he doesn’t want to have to wrestle you for it. He wants it given freely, he wants you to kiss back, like you had before. He wants you to willingly submit and it’s taken longer but it’ll be sweeter, so much sweeter.

“Are you going to run away again?” he asks and he can feel his heart quicken, the squeezing of it awful and tight.

You look up at him in a way that reminds him of his dreams, the ones he pretends to hate, where you make those small, soft noises. Where you let him touch you and taste you and have you.

And you shake your head no, just fractionally, the barest hint of movement but it’s enough for him.

The force of his kiss slams you back against the door. You make a surprised noise against him as he crushes himself to you. It’s just as violent as the first, but this time you take back what he gives. You get your bearings quicker, like you’ve learned a lesson already. He grins into the kiss, opening it, when he feels your little hands clawing at his shoulders, at his back.

He groans when you part your lips for him, when you lick tentatively into his mouth. He possesses you, bears onto you, pinning you to the door as his hands, still gloved, curl around your sides, your hips.

Your hero costume is tight, fits the curves of you snugly and in a way that’s making him nearly insane. He isn’t careful, doesn’t care if he’s moving too fast now as his hands roam and grab and squeeze. There’s layers between you, he naturally keeps a finger lifted away.

One of your hands tightens in his hair, pulling when he bites your bottom lip.

But you don’t seem to mind, either, with the way your breath is hitching, with the way you’re trying to pull him closer, desperately fuse him to you.

Your lips are so soft, he notices, even with the forcefulness with which you’re kissing him back.

It feels surreal for a moment, like one of his dreams, when he parts from your mouth only to slot his lips against your jaw, your neck. A whine is loosened from you, which breaks when he sets teeth to the vulnerable line of your throat.

Your hands are in his hair still, body arching into him eagerly. Youthful in your earnestness.

You’re better than anything he could’ve ever imagined, so alive and rosy and warm beneath his hands, beneath his mouth, which is making a mess of your neck. A particular hard suck over the sensitive line of your pulse makes you pull at his hair.

“Don’t leave a mark,” you hush and he thinks you meant to sound more threatening, but it’s softened by the desperation in your voice.

He scoffs into your throat, dragging teeth roughly along your skin.

“Shigaraki–”

“Tomura.” he corrects without thinking, finally pulling away to look at you, which is almost a mistake because you–

You’re flushed, lips kiss stung and pink, all swollen. Your head is tipped back, exposing the column of your throat, hair mussed with being pressed to the door so roughly. Your eyes are hazy and fever pink with your Quirk activated, like spring flowers, glowing in the low light.

He thinks of paintings and colors and dreams, something like beauty, if he knew anything about that.

And he’s so hard it hurts, teeth grinding together as he looks at you because he can’t even fucking stomach this feeling.

Then you repeat his name for him, “Tomura.”

He’s never heard his name like that, bedroom soft, more of a lullaby and less of a tragedy. He feels like he’s going to shake apart, his body to become just old ruins– he feels as if it’ll collapse inwards, topple over to crush his heart.

Where he’s usually seething and livid and clawing ruthlessly, the festering feeling in his chest is replaced with a new energy; something bursting and squirming and warm. His Quirk lies dormant and docile inside of him with your hand in his hair, your other now at his neck, fingers pressing lightly at his jaw.

It’s terrifying, he realizes, to not feel his Quirk at the edges of his fingers.

(It’s freeing, too, he’ll come to find, to not feel it’s weight, it’s demand that had been encouraged and shaped in him.)

You’re both trying to catch your breaths, looking at each other now. His fingers, still gloved, flex and squeeze at your waist, like he’s scared you’ll run off again.

You inch forward instead, rock onto the tips of your toes to press your lips to his again– softer this time, but no less heated, no less desperate.

He thinks you must be starving, too, with the way you pull him close. His mouth slants over yours, demanding more, a little rougher.

You squirm against the door, the slightest rocking of your hips– he can feel it against his thigh, against his waist. It makes him hiss out a breath against your lips, makes him grab harder at your waist, force you to do it again, harder this time.

You whine and it’s the snapping of his patience.

He reaches for the zipper at the back of your hero uniform, gives it a rough tug, pulling it down some. And then you’re pushing at him, nudging him away from the door and it’s a flurry of movement as you yank at his hoodie while he pulls at your clothes. You’re both stumbling further into the room, towards the bed pushed back into the corner.

Tomura feels young suddenly– feels his age. He feels like a twenty something year old with a girl in his apartment who wants his hoodie off. Who's kissing him hard in between every article of clothing that manages to come off.

He sits back on the edge of the bed to ease the rest of your cat-suit down. He watches with interest as you wiggle your hips to help him get the fabric down over you– and it’s nothing romantic, he doesn’t kiss the newly revealed skin, he doesn’t gently run his fingertips over you, but you grow shy under his gaze.

You’re still in undergarments, athletic slips of fabric, but his eyes fly over your face. You’re nervous, he can nearly feel it, with the way you shift, with the way you catch your bottom lip between your teeth and worry it.

A thought strikes him.

“Have you done this before?” he rasps, hooking his hand in the crux of your knee to drag your forward so you nearly fall into his lap.

“Yes,” you grit out, arms coming up to his shoulders to steady yourself. “Once.” you then shakily exhale.

He doesn’t particularly care– your answer wouldn’t have changed how he’d treat you. He’s not going to be gentler nor slower because you’re less experienced.

“Have you?” you ask, eyeing him, fingers nervously toying with the ends of his hair.

“Yes,” he says, perhaps too sharply, but he gives no other information and you don’t press him, which he’s thankful for. He doesn’t have the patience for useless questions.

Rather, he pulls you down harder, so your bare thighs finally settle into his lap. He slides his gloved hands up the notches of your ribs to hitch beneath your bra. That comes off, too, and then he’s got his hands on you more. You gasp, arching into his touch when his fingers curl around a breast, fingers roughly brushing over the peak.

He doesn’t think anymore, just acts, just moves and does as he pleases. All the things he’s done in dreams or in his mind– he sets lips and teeth to your breast, tongue laving over your nipple. He forces your squirming still with an arm banded around your torso, keeping you flush to his eager mouth.

You yelp in pain when he uses his teeth too roughly, trying to jerk away from him but you can’t with his hold on you. He grins, mouth opening, spit slick and wet against your breast again. He groans against you when you pull on his hair.

But then he twists you, throws you down onto the bed only to crawl over you. He yanks at your panties just as you pull him down for another kiss– maybe to distract yourself, to settle your nerves. When you pull away, you’re on your back and he’s over you, your legs hitching over his narrow waist. His hands are on your thighs and you–

You suddenly grab for his hands.

“Take off your gloves,” you get out, breathless, and before he can respond, your fingers are sliding against his wrist, up to his hand, beneath the glove and against his palm.

It makes him shiver, makes him grit his teeth. You pull off one, then the other.

For a moment, he just looks at you all spread out and bare for him, his hands now open and uncovered, too.

You squirm under his scrutinizing gaze.

“C’mon,” you coax and he thinks you’re trying to find your bravado, “Touch me.”

There’s nothing between his hands and your skin now and he settles his palm on your stomach, beneath your breast.

He naturally keeps a finger lifted away.

“Tomura,” your voice is pitched, almost pleading, “You’re not going to hurt me– c’mon.”

He tenses for a moment, eyes flashing over your face. For a moment, his heart stumbles, he grows wary. He thinks of you slipping away beneath his touch, falling away into nothing and all he’d have is a bed of ashes.

But your eyes are bright with your Quirk.

His final finger comes down. Nothing happens, except you smile a little, except you arch up into his touch– alive and vivid and furiously warm.

He feels like he can’t breathe, can’t even function.

He catches a groan behind his teeth, falls forward as his hands become feverish and possessive, suddenly confident, suddenly brash– touching and squeezing and grabbing at you.

His teeth clank with yours as he tumbles into another kiss. You’re needier now, making those higher pitched noises that used to haunt him.

It drives him insane, makes him feel half feral, overeager and desperate. His fingers wander lower, seeking and searching, just as the kiss grows in intensity again. It’s messier, all open mouth and tongue.

When he pulls away, a string of spit connects the two of you and he lets more of the saliva pooling in his mouth drip down with it, letting it fall between your open lips, some on your bottom lip, too. It’s depraved and dirty and his eyes simmer as he gazes down at you.

Your face scrunches up as you go to wipe at your mouth, and he hates it because all he can think of is how cute that face is.

“Gross,” you mewl, but his fingers finally move between your legs and–

And all he finds is that you’re hot and slick for him.

He has to grit his teeth to keep from moaning.

But you nearly cry at the touch, a pathetic little noise, hips jolting like you’re not sure if you want to go towards his touch or away.

“Gross, huh?” Tomura asks, voice low, the pad of his finger sliding easily, teasing you slowly before he goads, “Why are you so wet then?”

He sinks a finger in suddenly– just because he can. Just because he wants to watch your face screw up again, which it does, your mouth falling open, eyes squeezing shut.

“Hm?” he hums, amused with the way you’re gasping beneath him. He starts a slow but deep rhythm and–

And he’s had sex before, a handful of times, but it’d always been for him. He hadn’t cared how the other person felt, hadn’t cared to try and get them off. But now he suddenly wishes he had learned, if only for you, now. He wants you as obsessed as he is, wants you to feel as maddened as he feels.

Thankfully, you’re so expressive. And he doesn’t have to worry about his fingers. He can find the spot inside you that makes you toss your head back into the sheets and moan for him, he can focus on the way you keen when he finds your clit with his thumb.

You’re a sensitive little thing, clawing at his bare shoulders, whining into his neck. He forces in another finger and you start rocking your hips, growing more desperate until–

“Fuck,” you gasp, “Fuck, I’m going to–”

He curls his fingers harder, watching your face as you fall apart, as you try and twist and squirm beneath him. He forces you through it, isn’t gentle, but selfish, wringing everything he can from you.

And when he’s finished watching you whimper and feeling you flutter and gush around his fingers, he takes them out only to force them between your lips.

Once more your face screws up, but you close your mouth around them and he groans low and raw. You look hazy, drooling all over his fingers, lashes fluttering prettily.

He uses his other hand to fumble with his belt, to work his pants down low enough for his cock, aching so bad that he swears he’s going to go insane–

He pulls his fingers from your mouth, watching the mess that comes with it, so wet and slick and shiny. He can’t help the growl he gives, before covering his mouth with yours again.

As you kiss, sloppy and desperate, Tomura slides the head of his cock against you and you’re so slippery and soft and molten for him that his next moan tapers off into a whine.

You pull away fractionally, “Shouldn’t we–”

He thinks maybe you were about to ask about protection of some kind, but he shoves inside you hard, breaches your body and watches as your eyes roll back, just about to cross as your nails turn sharp against his back.

You moan, low and drawn out.

He can’t help the absurd laugh that is wretched from him, his head dropping onto your neck as he snaps his hips forward. He can’t believe he’s actually gotten you here, in his bed, beneath him– let him inside where you’re so warm and soft.

“Fuck,” you gasp, maybe laced with pain, clawing at him, raking your nails down his back.

“Does it hurt?” he hisses, excited, his teeth coming down to close over your exposed neck.

“Yes,” you get out, almost a whimper, “Feels good, too.”

He snaps his hip forwards roughly, grinding deep as he laughs again when you just about sob into his shoulder.

You latch your teeth onto the vulnerable juncture between his neck and his shoulder, where you’d already laid claim to him once before.

He wrestles for your wrist, the one he broke, and forces it down onto the bed.

“Look at you,” he almost snarls, voice low and gravely, “Little hero letting me fuck her.”

You gasp when he angles his hips, when his other hand reaches beneath you, to fist a hand in your hair and pull so your neck is arched and exposed to him.

“I used to dream of this,” he admits roughly, the confession like a curse being spit out of his mouth, “Wanted to stalk you or possess you or–” he groans because he can feel how you’re throbbing around him, how slick you are for him, “Wanted to fucking ruin you–”

He pulls at your hair more, tries to get you to look at him through your wet lashes. The flash of pink meets red and his smile is more a cruel bearing of teeth.

“And you feel so much better than I dreamt– fuck, so much tighter–” he babbles as he ruts into you hard and quick. You keen, high and broken, just as he feels you flutter around him again and he almost loses his mind because–

“Are you going to fucking come again?” he growls, pulling harder on your hair.

“Yes,” you groan, “Please, fuck, please, c’mon–” your voice is high and wrecked and all he has to do is angle his hips a few more times before you’re shattering, nearly breaking apart, squeezing down on his cock so tightly that he shudders, that he let’s go of your hair just to focus on his own pleasure.

He doesn’t even realize he’s drooling into your neck, not as he loses his rhythm, as he shoves himself as deep into you as he can and comes hard. Pleasure races up his spine, turns him white-hot and sensitive, making his eyes roll back into his head, too.

You’re both breathing hard when he collapses on top of you. Your fingers, which were once scratching down his back to cause sharp shooting pain, are now surprisingly gentle, slipping back into his hair.

You squirm, fussing slightly– no doubt sore, no doubt aching with him still inside you but he doesn’t move. Doesn’t want to.

He mouths at your neck, feels you sigh, before he moves to cover his mouth with yours again. He kisses you languidly now, slow and deep.

You’re making breathy little noises against him, content and surprisingly soft, your other hand tracing over his side.

(He doesn’t like how much he enjoys this part, the afterglow, all that violence slipping away, expelled from you both–)

Tomura feels his cock twitch inside of you again, feels your hips arch up a little, and before he knows it, he’s moving his hips again. It’s a slow rocking, your lips still attached to his, heated and gentle.

“Gross,” you say again, just a breath against him as he fucks his cum further into you, feels himself harden, feels the mess he made of you. But you still hitch your leg over his hip, pull him deeper into you.

He grins lazily against your lips, “You like it,” he says and it’s not a question, rolling his hips until he gets you to shut your eyes and moan against him.

“Yeah,” you reply, nudging your cheek against his, rubbing like a cat until he returns the gesture. Until he’s humming because he’s sensitive and you feel so good, better than anything he’s ever felt in this miserable fucking life–

You whine a little, ‘Touch me again?”

He doesn’t deny you for whatever reason, doesn’t even have something smart to say as he slides his hand down your torso, down to where you’re both slick and connected. He rubs unpracticed, messy circles around that sensitive bundle of nerves until you’re sighing.

He’s no expert but he doesn’t really care and you don’t seem to mind this time, either. It’s unhurried now, lazy.

This time your peak is a fluttery, soft thing, and he watches as you gasp, as you blink away tears. She’s pretty, he thinks, feeling stupidly young again, she’s pretty like this. Like his dreams.

Tomura spills inside you again soon after, groaning against your collarbones, and this time you force him to slip out of you. Force him to lay beside you as you both catch your breath again.

And he’s not expecting it, but he has the vicious need to be close to you, desperately wants to feel your skin against his. It’s a new feeling– usually after sex, he wants to be as far away from someone as possible. Usually he can’t leave or kick them out fast enough.

But there’s something about you now, hazy and pleasure-drunk, fucked out and dazed, that makes him want to stay close. Maybe it’s just that you’ve soothed all the festering that usually squirms in his chest. Maybe it’s just that you’ve made everything in him quiet for once.

He expects you to find some sort of your regret now, he’s sure that you’ll feel guilty, collect your clothes and go. But you don’t. You stay in bed with him. And it’s strange but he knows he wants to touch you, so he does. He doesn’t deny himself, why would he? He’s always taken what he wanted.

He curls around you, shivering a little with the skin to skin contact after the fog of sex has cleared from his mind. His hands slide over you, touch you fully and without restraint because he can, because you won’t disappear beneath his touch.

And for a moment, as he traces along the dips of your waist, he thinks maybe you were made for him– cut from his rib, isn’t that how the story goes?

He doesn’t know, only that there’s no one else in the world he can touch like this.

You’re surprised.

You’d figured after Tomura had his fill of you, he’d kick you out, send you away. You figured you’d feel guilty, that you would rush out of here and try to wish the whole thing away. But your hero suit stays on the floor and you’re still in his bed.

You didn’t think he’d be a cuddler, you assumed that he wouldn’t want nor care for any sort of contact after. But his arms are wrapped around you now, one of his hands sliding curiously over the curves of your body. All five fingers down, pressing into your skin.

But you suppose, for someone who has to be so careful with touch, that he would like this. That he might want this. You wonder if he ever gets to touch anyone like this, if he ever allows himself intimate touch like this– tender and for no other reason than to soothe or comfort.

You get the impression that he doesn’t, that touch is just a means to an end for him; sex is probably just an itch to scratch. You can’t imagine that he’s very relaxed or enjoying himself when he’s worried about decaying the person he’s with.

But all his crackling, restless energy now seems subdued, sated, as he walks his fingers over you. His hair tickles your bare skin as he nudges closer, nose running along your jaw.

Once more, you feel your age. You don’t feel like a hero, but just someone young, maybe on the cusp of being old. He looks young now, too, with his vivid eyes shut and relaxed, nothing to crease his brow. He doesn’t seem like a villain, either.

You brush a finger over his cheek, touch lightly at the scratches beneath his eyes, drag your thumb down to touch the scar at the corner of his lips.

His eyes flutter open to watch you, half lidded, squinted almost like a cat.

But he allows you to run your fingers over his face, doesn’t protest or jerk away from your touch.

No, his eyes fall shut again. He lets out a deep sigh that you think he has held inside him for years.

He doesn’t have a gentle face, but one that shows it’s angles and sharp edges, the scars and cuts that trail down onto his neck. You’d noticed some on his chest, too. Proof of an uneasy life lived, proof of violence and pain.

You imagine he’s seen horrors, kept them trapped inside for fear of letting them spill out, like maybe it’ll be as gruesome as the memories.

His body hasn’t been handled gently, you can tell, with it’s indents and scars and scratches. You don’t know who was the last person who touched him without wanting to hurt him. And you shouldn’t but you think of yourself when you were a child– desperate for love and affection, desperate for any scrap of attention like the scavenger you always were.

Maybe still are.

So desperate that you’d end up in the bed of your enemy– all because you couldn’t end up in the bed of your ally. So hungry that you’d eat out of a hand that has harmed and killed and destroyed.

Hands that haven’t known gentleness, a body that hasn’t known peace. But he’s being gentle with you now, isn’t he?

So you try to give gentleness to him now, too, with your careful touch. You keep your fingers kind and sympathetic.

Even your own eyes drift shut for a moment, still tracing idle patterns into his skin.

You only slip away from him for a moment, to use the bathroom, to clean up. Your reflection in the mirror looks strange; raw and flushed with color. Honest in a way that makes you turn away.

You slip back into bed with Tomura, let him latch onto you again. You drag your fingers gently over his ribs, over his sides.

You let your eyes fall shut, too.

There’s a sudden, loud buzzing from the floor that cuts through the quiet, which makes your eyes startle open. It’s insistent and you realize after a moment that it’s your phone, caught up in your hero suit on the floor.

You never came home after your shift. You curse softly, almost certain you know who's calling.

You squirm out of Tomura’s hold again, which he huffs at in irritation, but eventually allows you up.

“Where are you going now?” he asks, annoyed, when you climb out of bed to find your phone. Once found, you hold it up to him.

It’s still buzzing in your hand, lit up with Shouta’s contact.

You think the guilt should hit you now.

It doesn’t and that’s what you feel worse over. You swallow hard, frown down at your phone.

(Horribly, you even feel somewhat spiteful, as if you’re trying to prove something to Shouta. Maybe to yourself.)

You don’t answer.

And then you see the several texts from him, wondering where you are. They’re all bland, but you can tell he must be worried. It’s unlike you to not tell him where you are.

“Are you going to leave?” Tomura asks and there’s something strange in his voice, something you can’t place.

“Do you want me to?” you ask in return.

He doesn’t answer right away. But he does eventually give an annoyed drawl, “Do what you want.”

You take that as a no, don’t leave, since you’re certain if he wanted you gone, he would’ve told you.

You send a text to Shouta;

Sorry. Staying with an old friend for the night. Be back tomorrow.

It’s not unheard of, for you to spend time with an old friend from the foster care system.

You get a dry “okay” from him in response. You fight the urge to roll your eyes for some reason, tossing your phone away again.

You end up staying the night with Tomura Shigaraki, one of the most wanted villains in all of Japan.

Its not romantic— he isn’t sweet or funny or caring. But he holds you tight, leaves no room for distance. And it is the first time you’ve ever slept with someone like this, tucked away into a bed, bare, and wrapped up in each other.

Is this what it always feels like? You press yourself into the crooks of his body. You wonder if you’re supposed to fit this well together.

And it’s the first time since his Quirk developed that he hasn’t needed to wear his partial gloves to sleep in fear of decaying something.

He won’t admit it but it’s the best he’s slept in a long, long time.

You won’t admit it, either, but you think you could get used to this, too; this closeness, being held as if you’ll slip away, being held like he doesn’t want you to.

The morning brings rosy sunlight that slants through the windows. Neither of you talk much. You try to tell yourself this won’t happen again, can’t happen again.

But you had kissed him goodbye before you’d left, like he was a boyfriend and not a criminal, and you’d been in a surprisingly good mood for the rest of the day.

Like you had a crush, puppy love you never got as a teenager because you were too busy trying not to starve, only to realize you’d been starving in other ways, too.

But you’re sugar soft and excitable, dropping into bed that night alone, and allowing yourself to admit, in the quiet and privacy of your own thoughts, that you wish you were in his again.

***

One time turns into two which turns into three which turns into so many times you’ve lost count. That little, rundown apartment that isn’t really Tomura’s has turned into another world entirely, some harbor away from the rules of society. It’s almost too good to be true, a dream, a place for a secret as bad as this one.

When you’re here, you don’t talk of heroes and villains. You urge him not to; you think you’ll keep some part of your innocence in this affair if you don’t actually know anything about him or the League of Villains. You’ll feel too guilty, if you know any part of their plans and don’t tell Shouta. And telling Shouta anything about Tomura is beginning to feel like a betrayal, too.

You don’t know anything substantial about Tomura Shigaraki and that’s the way it needs to stay.

You know he likes sour candy, though, and drinks too many energy drinks– they’re sickly sweet and you think kissing him might make your teeth ache. You know he likes video games but no longer has a console. He has trouble sleeping at night. You’re familiar with the scars on his skin, the jagged ones across his neck, the one on his lip. The beauty mark on his chin. You know his moods; from the prickly ones to the downright vengeful ones. You even know the calmer ones, the quiet, contemplative ones.

(In this way, he seems like a normal twenty-something-year-old. In the quiet moments, when you’ve convinced him to watch a cheap horror movie on the tiny, staticky TV in the apartment, he could be anybody. When he’s got his bare hand up your shirt as someone onscreen screams and begs for their life, he’s not the heir to an underground empire. He’s just Tomura, with his face buried in the crook of your neck).

He pretends to get annoyed with you, huffs and scoffs against your lips when you’re being cheeky. You wear his worn down hoodies, slip your thumbs in the holes at the sleeves. He eyes you when you wear them, pulls you to him by the collar.

(He likes to fuck you in them– pushes the hoodie up your stomach to watch you ride him. But he likes things bare and raw, too. Skin to skin. So close it’s terrifying, so close you feel like he’s trying to tear you apart from the inside out. He likes it dirty, you think, because it makes it more intimate.)

You soothe him. You know you do because when he’s festering and angry, all it takes is your hand on his wrist, pulling it away from his neck. Sometimes, when he can’t think straight and there is too much on his mind, he forces you to lay on top of him until his breathing slows and his head is clear.

He can’t talk to you aloud about what’s plaguing him, but you must quiet some part of him. He likes to use you to think, runs his long fingers through your hair as you lay atop him. He pets you until his thoughts aren’t as jumbled, but smoothed out and sharp. Or until he doesn’t want to think anymore at all and he drags you into languid makeouts that always end with him surrounding you, inside you, possessing you.

You bicker sometimes, flash your teeth to make his eyes spark ruby and excited. Mostly, you act your age with him.

You don’t know when his birthday is or where he grew up. You don’t know what his childhood was like or what memories shaped him, don’t know where he’s been or where he’s going to be. You only know him now, in this moment, in this little world you’ve created for each other.

He’s what you imagined first boyfriends are supposed to be; excitable and often immature but fun and new. You never had the luxury of first loves, just odd first kisses with strangers and an uncomfortable loss of virginity with a friend of a friend of a friend who jammed his tongue too far down your throat. You hadn’t had anything stable until–

Until Shouta.

Shouta has grown suspicious of this old friend of yours and how much time you now spend with him.

He questions you about him and you wish you felt worse for lying. The rebellious part of this affair is thrilling, though. Feels like you’re sixteen and sneaking out from under your dad’s nose to be picked up by the boyfriend you’d know he’d hate. Feels like swiping liquor too young and getting sick off it, smashing the bottles and laughing with your friends because sometimes things just need to break.

“Will you at least tell me his name?” Shouta had asked one morning, when you’d let yourself into his apartment after another night at Tomura’s. You had your own hood pulled up around your face to hide the rose blossom hickeys against the skin of your neck.

He’d still poured you a cup of coffee. You’d watched his careful, large hands as they made it the way you liked it.

You’d given him a lie, fed it to him the way he feeds you breakfast, “Shinta. Are you happy?”

He’d slid the mug to you, let you catch in the cradle of your palm. He’d shrugged, but you think his eyes had flashed to you, “You know you can bring him around, right? You don’t always have to go to him.”

You’d had to bite back a painful laugh. It wasn’t funny. It had hurt strangely in the pit of your chest.

You had shaken your head, tried to brush him off, “It’s not like that.”

“Alright,” he’d said, but he hadn’t believed you. “You’re training alone with Shinsou again tonight, I’ll be busy with a job.” Then he’d given you a stern look, “And don’t cut it early to go see Shinta.”

“I’ve never done that!” you’d protested, perhaps a little too defensively. But it was true, you’d never do that to Shinsou, wouldn’t dream of it. The only time you’d cut training early was to share takeout with Shinsou, not ditch him for–

This comment had rubbed you wrong, scratched up against something abrasive and surprisingly fragile inside of you. Maybe because he was questioning your dedication which already felt so flimsy, even if he hadn’t been entirely serious, even if maybe he’d just been trying to take a dig at you. At this new boyfriend.

Shouta had grown cold then, shrugged impassively, took his mug of coffee and brushed past you to keep getting ready.

It had angered you enough to bring it up later to Tomura, when you’re falling into his lap and he’s squirming his cold, fluttery hands beneath your shirt to touch skin, to make you hiss through your teeth.

His lips tilt into a small smile as you fidget while he warms his frigid fingers on your body.

“Eraserhead asked about you yesterday,” you tell him, letting your nose brush against his, “Told me I could bring my friend around– don’t always have to go to him.”

Tomura snorts, eyes falling half-lidded when your lips skim over his. The night is plum dark, presses into this little apartment that’s tucked away from the world.

“How’d you get out of that one?” he asks, fingers walking over the dips of your spine. He likes tracing the bone beneath your skin, likes making you shiver.

“Told him it’s not like that.” you respond, your own hands wandering to his neck. You're careful over the ridges of flesh there, skim lightly to get to his jaw.

“No?” Tomura asks, pulling you closer, pressing his chest to yours, “Don’t want to bring me home to meet Eraserhead?” he sneers and there’s something underneath his voice, lurking, with its hackles raised.

You think maybe it’s jealousy, the same flash of his eyes like Shouta’s when he’d said Shinta.

But then he kisses you deep and drags your hips against his, forces a warbly, surprised little moan from you.

Most of your thoughts melt away then, most turn to something base and desperate, all desire and need. You can’t help but think about it, though, how you can’t ever take him home to Shouta. You can’t ever expect anything more than whatever stays in this room. He kisses you hard, your teeth clinking against his like clashing with the truth of it all.

There’s no happy ending here.

It’s like smashing bottles because sometimes things just need to break.

***

Tomura thinks you would be a good edition to the League of Villains.

You’re clever and capable. He comes to find you’re not just a good thief and pickpocket but an excellent one. You swipe everything from his pockets, right from under his nose, just to play with him. You’re stealthy and sharp; he could use someone like you at his side.

Your Quirk could be useful, though he doesn’t like the idea of you getting so close to people while in battles. You have a reckless streak, but he thinks he could temper that. All you need is a little guidance.

You were a thief once. You give him clues of your past; you didn’t grow up like the other heroes, didn’t come from a warm home with dreams of saving the world. Your head wasn’t filled with fantasies of rescuing the downtrodden. You were the downtrodden. And you learned that there was no one who was going to save you, except yourself. So you stole and fought and survived a world that was willing to forget you.

You’re like him, a very quiet part of him thinks, no one saved you. Not until you were too old, all grown up with sharpened teeth and claws, eyes that see in the dark. That could be now used and extorted by the heroes.

He thinks they’ve leashed you, taught you how to sit and stay and sic ‘em.

He wonders if he’d have gotten to you first, if you’d be with him and not your heroes.

Tomura doesn’t dwell on it, though. He refuses to imagine it. What would be the point? It didn’t happen.

Besides, he is certain he is capable of slowly swaying you to them still. You possess a startling amount of compassion for villains which, perhaps wouldn’t help you as a villain, but that’s fine.

(You’d have him. No one would touch you if you were at his side. You could be as stupidly compassionate as you wanted.)

You meet members of the League with him by accident, times when Toga and Twice’s meeting with him overlap with you arriving. Toga goes on endlessly about you, it seems. Dabi drops by once in the middle of the night, bloody and demanding a place to sleep because he’s tired of sleeping on the streets.

It’d been one of the more insufferable nights, perhaps one of the worst ways for Dabi to find out about you. You’d already been asleep, cocooned beneath blankets and Tomura’s body, just in one of his loose shirts.

Tomura had already been lying awake, listening to your even breathing when he’d heard the handle of the door shake roughly. He’d gotten up then, slipped into clothes, melted into the darkness by the door and waited for the intruder to try and step inside.

The lock had been picked.

He had nearly decayed Dabi by accident before realizing it was him.

A ridiculously quiet but terse argument had ensued then, before Dabi had asked, in a regular speaking voice, “Why the fuck are we whispering?”

Tomura had almost winced when he heard you stir from the bed before your small, sleepy voice had murmured into the darkness, “Tomura?”

You’d said it too soft, too sweet. It’d been for his ears only and something about Dabi hearing you, seeing you, being in this space that had been for you and for him had made Tomura suddenly livid.

He had watched Dabi’s mouth fall open in shock before you’d switched on the bedside lamp to flood the room with artificial, golden light.

Dabi’s face had been near horrific in the light, one side of it all bloody, the stitches mangled or falling out. Part of his face almost looked like it was melting, his eye squinted shut with the damage.

But he’d thrown his head back and laughed when he’d seen you, sitting up in the bed, blinking sleepily at them. Tomura hated a lot of things, but he’d hated nothing more than the sound of Dabi’s rasping laugh in that moment.

You’d narrowed your eyes when you had realized who it was.

“I had no idea you had it in you, Tomura.” Dabi had said.

“Why the fuck are you here?” Tomura had hissed instead, fighting the urge to tear into his neck, fingers twitching agitatedly.

Dabi had gestured to his face with a lazy flourish, “I need medical attention and I’m crashing on your couch.”

Tomura’s teeth had ground together, “Get. Out.”

“No, I’m sick of sleeping on the streets when you’re here playing house with your little hero bitch–”

Before Tomura could even react, though, you had found the small supply of first aid from beneath the sink in the tiny bathroom. You had come up beside them near silently and offered it up, asked, “Do you want help?”

And there it had been– that compassion of yours. Even for the likes of Dabi.

In that moment, he’d wondered how you had ever survived with it. He’d thought that you’d lose your hand if you kept extending it.

Dabi hadn’t let you touch him but you’d gotten a cool rag for him to clean up the blood, watched as he tried to patch up the wound. It was made worse by a mangled staple in his cheek, jutting out strangely.

“Does it hurt?” You’d asked but with the way you were looking at him, at his marred skin up close, Tomura could tell that you weren’t just referring to this one injury.

Does it hurt? You’d asked, like you were asking if it all hurt. You weren’t just seeing a singular part of Dabi, but a series of tragedies that was proudly presented in large, rippling scars against his skin.

“Of course it fucking hurts,” Dabi had spit out, all venom and bitterness. But you hadn’t even flinched.

Tomura had tried to kick him out again once his wound had been treated.

“It’s fine,” you’d said, resigned, tired and rubbing at your eyes.

(Later you’d shrug and tell him, I know what it’s like to not have somewhere to sleep).

“Yeah, it’s fine,” Dabi had drawled, already pulling off his heavy boots, prying the coat from his body to toss onto the floor. “Just don’t do any weird shit.”

And you’d gotten back into bed with Tomura, fit yourself against him, ducked your head down beneath his chin and pressed your hands against his sides, felt the notches of his ribs.

Sometimes he wonders if you can feel the missing one, the one you took from him, the one you’d been made out of.

It had occurred to Tomura that either you didn’t fear Dabi or you trusted him enough to know he’d never let Dabi harm you while sleeping.

Both were acceptable to him, both would aid him in converting you. And they were true, too. You shouldn’t fear Dabi, especially not with him around.

Tomura had brought his hand up then, suddenly covered your mouth with his large palm, letting all five of his fingers come down against your pretty face.

You’d furrowed your brows in confusion, not fear, which made something inside of him grow warm and hungry.

Then he’d slid his other hand down your body, between your legs, just to spite Dabi.

He’d watched as your eyes went wide in the dark, cheeks flushing beneath his hand. He could feel his smirk, smug and sharp, fitting across his teeth like a muzzle.

You’d tried to shake your head, tried to squirm away from his touch, but he’d been persistent and soon enough you were sighing against his hand, melting into the bed he pressed you into. Soon enough you were trying to hold back whimpers, all slippery and soft beneath his fingers, silently begging with your eyes.

He hadn’t denied you that night; no, you were being good, walking the steps he wanted for you. You were moldable and sweet beneath him so he’d give you what you wanted.

He watched in satisfaction as you came hard around his fingers, face scrunching up in that way he loved, fingers easing you through it. He was gentle with you then, taking his hand away from your mouth slowly, letting you nudge closer and cling to him.

(He loved when you clung to him).

You’d wanted so much affection that night and he had indulged you, letting your nose brush against his, or rubbing your cheek against his chest while his fingers wound through your hair.

You’d fallen asleep all tied up in him.

The next morning, you were gone before Dabi even woke up.

Dabi had asked, “What the fuck are you doing with her?”

“Mind your business,” Tomura had snapped, fingers already seeking out his neck again when they couldn't find you. He hated that he wanted your presence so badly now. (Hated that he missed you, but he would never say that, never even dream of it). Then he’d added,“And find someone else’s doorstep to show up on.”

Dabi had scoffed, “Whatever. Just don’t get distracted.” He’d pulled out a cigarette from his jacket still on the floor then, much to Tomura’s annoyance, and lit it with a spark of his fingers. Smoke curled into the air with his first drag. “I’m not about to watch all our efforts fall apart because you wanted to play Romeo and Juliet with some braindead little hero.”

He’d torn into the skin of his neck then. Wished he could tear into you instead.

“Violent delights and violent ends and all that shit,” Dabi had said then, his smile just a curled stitch, smoke pouring from his lips, evidently amused with himself.

But Tomura has never read that play and he doesn’t know anything about poetry in the same way he doesn’t know anything about art or beauty, just that you’re the only thing he’s bothered to compare to a painting.

***

You put Tomura into your phone as Shinta and when you’re too busy to visit him between missions and training, you text him. Though short, he is surprisingly witty over text, something that has you biting back grins and distracted, feeling like a schoolgirl as you try to hide the screen of your phone from the rest of the world.

You grow distracted with hero work, with Shouta. You pay less attention to your life at U.A. You don’t visit Shouta for lunch as often. You haven’t spent a quiet night with Shouta in weeks. You tell yourself you don’t care.

It’s better than fighting with him. It’s better than trying to beg for his love and affection.

Early tomorrow morning you’re supposed to shadow Shouta on a brief mission.

The Hero Commission is trying to train you into espionage and underground work, trying to mold you in the shape of Shouta.

But at night, when you’re alone in your bedroom, tucked away into your own apartment and not with Tomura, he calls you.

You let yourself say his name into the receiver of your phone, hushed and excited.

He doesn’t say I miss you or when will I see you again?

He says, “Touch yourself.”

And you don’t say I miss you, too, or hopefully soon.

You do as he says, let your fingers fan out over your stomach like they might be his. You listen to his breathing turn ragged over the phone. You moan softly for him.

You do what he says in the navy dark of night, bite back frustrated whines because you’ve gotten too used to his touch.

“–Wish it was you, fuck, it’s not fair,” you gasp, tilting your hips up into your fingers desperately.

You can hear the hiss of breath he takes, “Did I ruin you?” he croons into the phone lowly, his voice slithering through to you, making your thighs clench. “Can’t even touch yourself without needing me?”

You groan, high and defeated, fingers slipping against yourself. You’re aching and empty and bereft without him, “Yes, yes–”

He rambles about what he’s done to you, almost seething by the end, when he demands you tell him that you’re his, that he’s the one who made you this way. He’s the only one who can soothe you now. You need him.

He isn’t wrong, you realize, when you still aren’t satisfied after your climax. When it doesn’t feel as good as when you’re with him. You realize you hate sleeping alone now. You miss the press of his body to yours. You coo into the phone about it, lay on your stomach, arms curled around your pillow with your ear still to your phone.

It never gets overly sentimental. You don’t want to scare him, especially as you grow terrified of your own feelings. It doesn’t feel as fun anymore, you realize, only because your attraction to him has now grown serious.

Your crush has grown teeth and claws, ready to tear apart the vulnerable, fleshy parts of you.

But he talks with you until you fall asleep, phone still in hand, heart still on the line.

***

There’s a stray kitten that hangs out around Tomura’s apartment– he thinks there must be a colony of strays in the area, since it’s not the only one. But this one is scrawny, just a messy tuft of grey fur. It’d be sleek and pretty, if it wasn’t so malnourished, if it wasn’t missing clumps of fur or full of scars and scratches.

The kitten likes Tomura a great deal for some reason. It rubs itself against his legs, follows him around outside of the apartment, much to your utter delight.

You coo and fawn over it, scoop the little thing up into your arms and hold it up to Tomura’s face.

He hates it, the face you give him. The face the kitten gives him. He hates that the corner of his lips twitch upwards.

“He’s so cute,” you gush and he can hear now that the little thing is purring furiously in your hands. You wiggle the cat a little bit in front of his face and Tomura finally reaches up to stroke the back of his knuckles against the kitten’s head, if only to appease you.

Your smile is crooked– an excited curve of your lips, your eyes alight.

You’re always so expressive and he used to be livid about it, wanted to teach you a lesson in the worst way possible, but now he just wants to keep you from learning them.

He has to turn away from you at the thought, heads towards the door of the apartment building. You follow after him dutifully, coming up to nudge against his side. He’s become too comfortable with you there, knocking into his elbow.

You’re still smiling down at the kitten in your arms and he wants to look away because some part of this is starting to sting.

The kitten is excitedly looking around, green eyes all round and bright. It’s purring happily.

“Put it down, it’s not coming in with us.” Tomura tells you, his voice rough and soft.

You stop in front of the door with him. Your bottom lip pulls out into a pout. Your eyes get round like the kitten’s.

He gives you a cold stare.

You hug the kitten tighter to your body, “C’mon,” you whine, “It’s just a baby.”

“I’m not taking care of a cat.”

“I’ll take care of it!”

“No,” he responds, harsher, voice a little sharper.

Maybe, in the beginning of this little affair, you would’ve headed the warning in his tone, but now you don’t even bat an eye at him.

“Yes,” you respond indignantly.

You both glare at each other. The kitten’s purr still rumbles on.

Tomura can tell you’re not giving this one up, he can tell by the set of your jaw, the way you’re clinging to that little creature. There’s a determined flush to your face. Your eyes are bright and fiery.

All over this little stray.

“You’re a brat,” is all Tomura says and you take that as a win, because your face immediately morphs, brightens up completely. You duck past him, into the apartment building with the kitten cradled in your arms.

He heaves a deep sigh, following in after you. “I’m kicking it out when you leave.”

“Don’t be mean,” you reply, waiting at the door, and the irony is not lost on him. He comes up behind you, his chest to your back, crowding you against the door.

“I think you need to remember who you’re speaking to,” he says, his voice just a rasp against your ear and maybe at some point, it would’ve sounded threatening, but now you just lean back into his chest. His heart beats against the curve of your back.

Something soft is growing between the two of you, he can feel it. It has no place here, though, in this world. In the two of you. His ugly infatuation with you, all that anger and vitriol he had for you has melted, turned spring soft inside of him after an unforgiving winter.

He unlocks the door, he lets you in.

The kitten ends up coming and going. He opens the window to let it in and out, let’s you feed it. You call it Ryuji. It lives partially in this new little world the two of you have built.

He thinks of it like the pause screen in a video game, somewhere to return to when he’s frustrated or tired or done. Idle, soft music and the freezing of his screen. A moment away from the turmoil or struggle of the game.

But he’ll have to unpause eventually.

He can’t stay here forever, he knows it, but he just has to be sure he plays it right– he doesn’t think he’ll be able to start over this time, with you.

And he wants you there at the ending, at his side like in his dreams.

The ones where it’s all in ruins, the world nothing but his, destroyed, but he gives you his hand to have, and you take it in yours to hold.

***

The distance between you and Shouta stretches and grows until it snaps in the form of a blowout argument. Which, is mostly just you, shouting, crying furiously, and Shouta stone-faced and cool.

It had started with an offhand comment from him about how you’re not focused anymore. You’re getting sloppy. You’re distracted. And usually, you take his criticism with a stiff upper lip and a determined glare.

But you and Shouta haven’t been the same since you tried to kiss him.

You blame yourself, maybe, but part of you feels angry with him, too. Bitter. You thought, in some way, he reciprocated your feelings. He’d acted like it. And when he’d rejected you, he’d pulled away, been more careful with you.

(You wonder if this proves your point, that he was toeing a line with you then.)

And maybe your lies are starting to eat at you, too, starting to rot away on the inside of you. If you focused on them too hard and all that Shouta’s done for you, you think you’d start crying every time you looked at him.

But Tomura has also thrown all you know into question. And you’d already been critical of the life you were afforded by becoming a hero.

You look at all of Shouta’s students and you just get angry. You look at Shinsou, so determined to prove he can be a hero, that he’s good and you are livid. You look at Toga, with her villainous Quirk. She’s near Shinsou’s age and something about it just makes you ache, it makes you sick.

You look at her and see who she could’ve been as a hero– you wonder if they would’ve stuck her in espionage, with the likes of you and Shouta. You wonder if she would’ve gone to U.A. You wonder what it would’ve taken to change her fate.

Even Tomura, you look at him and in the safety and privacy of your own heart, you dare to wonder what he would’ve been like if he hadn’t been a villain.

(He could’ve been a rescue hero, you think, and he could’ve decayed debris to save people. This version of him lives in the quiet, tentative parts of you. It grows soft and underground, a seedling that has sprouted on the inside of your chest, and one day you think this little dream of yours will grow so large inside of you that it’ll breach skin and show the world it’s horror.)

It feels like a coin toss, almost, like the difference between a hero and a villain sometimes is one flip away from changing.

You don’t bother to wonder what would’ve happened if it hadn’t been Shouta that found you, but someone like Tomura. Or All For One. You know if you’d been given somewhere to sleep and a warm meal, you would’ve done what they wanted.

You wish you could say you were a noble, starving person, that there was something shining and golden inside of you. But all you were was starving.

Shouta says you’ve been underperforming lately. He says he’s considering limiting the nights you patrol until you can get it together.

The Hero Commission was supposed to come observe you to see if you’d progressed enough to begin accepting your own missions. He tells you he doesn’t think they should come any longer. It feels like a dig, too, like he’s reprimanding you somehow.

And you snap, “Well maybe I didn’t want them to observe me!”

He looks taken aback for a moment, before he asks, “What is that supposed to mean?”

“I don’t know! Maybe I’m tired of being observed and used and watching all of these kids be observed and sought after and–”

“Alright,” Shouta sighs, and it makes your teeth grit because he sounds like he’s trying to parent you, “It’s one thing to be upset yourself, but I don’t see how this has anything to do with these kids.”

Your nails dig into your palms as you try to find the words to get him to understand you.

But he speaks before you can, almost patronizingly, “Clearly, you’re struggling through something, so it’s probably a good thing we’ve put this off.”

Tears well up hard and fast. It hurts to be dismissed like this. It hurts to look at him, to think that he’s a part of the ever growing issue that has been itching beneath your skin. You’re a part of it, too, but you have the sudden urge to run. To get out.

Still, you swallow down all of that turmoil and say, “I hardly know what I want now, so how do you expect children to know that they want to be a hero?”

“What is this about?” Shouta asks.

“It’s about the Hero Commission and U.A. and the entire fucking system. That’s what it’s about.” you seethe, looking up into his eyes, trying to find something there.

“It’s not just about you?” he asks, unperturbed.

“Why can’t it be both?” you respond, trying to keep your voice from going high, from going hysterical. There’s so much you want to say, so much that it’s making you sick, that it’s turning your stomach. “I’m– I’m barely older than them!” you say, because all you keep thinking about is how they’re just kids. And you were just a kid. And at one point, Tomura was just a kid.

He’s barely older than you. Closer in age to Shouta’s students than to him.

“I didn’t invent the system,” Shouta says and he sounds weary, “I just try to give my students the best opportunity at surviving being a hero. I try to teach them everything to keep them alive.”

They’re just kids! You want to shriek, kids that were chosen or forgotten or accepted or shunned.

Looking in the face of the system now feels so massive that it’s hopeless; a system that produces shiny heroes from children with their perfect and acceptable Quirks and discards the rest. Even you and Shouta, with your Quirks that aren’t as flashy, are pushed into the shadows to do the Hero Commissions business. And what business is that? You have to wonder their intentions, too, with all the money that’s pumped into it. Into all of these heroes. A system that forgets anyone who doesn’t fit into it’s perfect mold.

“But you see how it’s wrong, right? And just because you didn’t invent the system doesn’t mean you get to throw your hands up!” You say, voice raising.

Shouta levels you with a cool look. He lets loose a sigh. “What would you like me to do?”

You don’t have an answer, it’s too big of a question.

(You see the appeal suddenly, in wanting to get rid of it all, in destroying it since it’s such a mess.)

But you hate his aloofness, you hate that he doesn’t care. You hate that you feel crazy.

“I don’t know!” you shout, tears finally falling down your angry and flushed face. “I don’t know!”

“Are you done?” Shouta asks and it makes you want to scream more. You just want a reaction from him, you realize, you want something more than his impassiveness. You think of trying to shout more, to try and say something cutting or powerful or enough to make him wince.

But nothing comes to mind and you’re just stubbornly trying to keep back a sob.

So you shoulder past him, rush out of his apartment, rubbing at your cheeks and trying to keep back your hiccuping cries.

You have every intention of going to Tomura’s.

But you realize when you’ve nearly made it to his door that it might be foolish to go to someone like Tomura with tears in your eyes. What is the leader of the League of Villains going to do? You have a feeling you might just get your feelings hurt more.

So you pause, rub at your eyes again, try to dispel all the turmoil inside you. It doesn’t work, so you turn away from him, too, and you start moving.

Your feet carry you to the train station, carry you across town, to a warehouse you used to vandalize and hide in when you were young and alone.

You haven’t been here in years.

It feels strange, loping around the side of the building. The alleyways are cast in garnet light with the fading sun. It makes it look prettier than it is. You enter through the same hole in the wall that you used to when you were young; you’re bigger now, though, need to duck lower, curl yourself up to get through it.

You think of yourself scurrying around, knowing the ins and outs of this dilapidated building the way most children know their childhood home.

It’s strange, stepping back into a place you haven’t been to in years. You know, in some way, it has to have changed. It’s falling apart more, there’s larger holes in the ceiling, letting in auburn light, setting everything ablaze. There’s a lot of debris; from torn tents to discarded sleeping bags to spare junk, it’s all spread out throughout the place. Graffiti covers every corner of the walls. You used to look for a face painted in pink, it’s eyes dripping down it’s face in the back corner of a wall. When your eyes slide along all the artwork, it’s nowhere to be found now. No doubt covered up by the years, but you know it’s there, somewhere beneath all that color and paint.

There are a lot of empty bottles, glass laying around that crunches beneath your shoe.

You pick up a glass by the spout, watch as it catches in the light, murky gold and sunkissed.

You feel small again, fragile like the bottle in your hand. You stopped crying at least, but all that’s left is the aftertaste. Just the lingering frustration, the bitter aloneness that settles over you as cold as Shouta’s stare.

Your fingers squeeze around the glass, curling tight, before you suddenly hurl it at the wall.

It bursts on impact, explodes into thousands of shining, glittering pieces that spark in the sun.

It feels good, so you pick up another glass– this one’s mint green, pretty like the sea, reminds you of spring and the stems of flowers.

It breaks prettily, too, the sound ringing and sharp in your ears, your eyes trying to catch all the splinters of it. It explodes in the light. It’s cathartic, letting all your aching frustration and hurt rush out with each breaking, with each smashing.

You don’t get through many more, not before you hear footsteps behind you.

You can’t say you’re surprised to find Tomura, but you can’t say you were expecting it either. Quickly, you turn away, try to school your features. You try to rub at your eyes again, as if this will somehow dispel damp lashes and splotchy cheeks.

“Are you stalking me?” you ask, but there’s no bite to it as he comes to stand beside you.

He doesn’t answer.

You think he might be, but you can’t find it in you to care.

The sound of the distant city is just a hum between you two. Glass sparkles on the floor like stars in the fading, ruby light.

You turn to face him, don’t bother trying to look up into his face, just shove yourself into his chest. You bury your face into his hoodie, rubbing your cheek against his chest. “Creep,” you mumble, “What are you doing here?”

His hands come up, one at the back of your head, the other along your back. He has his gloves on. Not that it matters.

“I followed you from the apartment,” he admits and his voice is quiet, but it seems to echo in this open space. Then he says, “You should be more watchful.”

“Don’t start,” you grumble, letting your fingers curl in his jacket, “Been scolded enough today.”

The hand at the back of your head tugs at your hair lightly, lifting your head from its hiding place against his chest so that he can look you over carefully.

The light casts him in maroon and russet, saturating him, making the dark of him stand out sharply. It makes the silver of his hair seem peach, brands him in all the sun’s honey and whiskey glory.

His eyes are vivid, maybe the most true shade of red you’ve ever seen in your life.

He takes in your face, perhaps your bloodshot eyes, your damp lashes. You aren’t a fool; you’re certain he can tell you’ve been crying. You have the urge to squirm away, to try and hide from his gaze.

But all he asks, in a surprisingly gentle tone, is “What happened?”

You shake your head fractionally, “Nothing. Got into an argument, that’s all.”

He hums lightly, tracking your expression. You want to glance away from him, but he holds you still for a moment longer.

When you can’t take his scrutinization any longer, you ask, “Wanna break some shit with me?”

He lets you go finally, let’s you step out of his arms despite not responding. You pick up another glass, this once an icy blue that reflects light that reminds you of the color of morning skies.

You watch as it explodes against the wall, flashing like a little firework. Glass rains down onto the ground, some of it flinging up into the air or back towards you. Tomura pulls you away from it by the back of your jacket, yanks you back into his chest as glass shards fly past you.

He glares at you somewhat and you can tell he wants to scold you, but he doesn’t. You squirm out of his grasp to do it again.

Glass showers down as you break another bottle. It rains in shards of tangerine and pale yellow, bright pops of cherry in the light. It feels good, to watch it all burst apart in the sunlight, like watching little stars burst and explode at your hands. It’s so pretty, for such a violent act.

You hand a bottle to Tomura, offering him the chance to also act out. Instead, he pulls off one of his gloves– tugs it off with his teeth, the glint of sharp white against flesh pink. You watch fascinated for a moment, catch his eyes, blazing and barbed.

When he takes it with all five fingers, you watch as it first cracks in your palm, before fluttering away into dust. Into nothing.

You make a face, “That’s not as exciting as breaking them.”

He rolls his eyes, but you catch the way the corner of his lips hike up. He takes another glass, this one icy silver, caught peach in the honey light, though. He keeps a finger lifted away delicately as he lifts it up to the beams of scarlet sun that flare through the rafters.

And in that fiery patch of dusk, with the glass reflecting iridescence onto the angular plains of his face, your heart gives a violent lurch, like it’s trying to burst free from your chest.

I think I love you, you think, unbridled, and so suddenly that it feels as if the thought has slammed into you the way a body might fall from the ledge of a roof.

I think I love you, you think again, because you can’t quite believe it, as he lobs the bottle at the wall. It fractures into a thousand little beams of glass and light, like an exploding comet. You feel as fragile as that, like he’ll do the same to you. Maybe you’ll be nothing but shards by the end of this, nothing but dust slipping through his fingers.

He turns to you, no doubt to say something snarky, but you’re already taking quick steps to him. He doesn’t get the chance to speak, not when you collide with him, hard and reckless, throwing yourself up onto your toes to kiss him with a new violence.

He makes a surprised noise, soft, but catches you otherwise. His hand is already up, worming beneath your clothes to press chilled fingers into the bare skin of your upper waist. He likes the way you hiss into his mouth, and you like the way they dig roughly into you. He forces you closer, melds his mouth to yours, rough at the edges, slick and warm at the center as the kiss blossoms into slow simmering heat.

And by the end of it all, when the light has given way to violet darkness, the press of indigo shadows that stretch tall in this abandoned warehouse, there is too much glass on the floor. Everything is shattered or decayed. Your lips are stinging from sharp-toothed kisses and the desperate press of his mouth to yours. You’ve turned molten, fallen apart the way glass does.

You walk home together, hand in seeking hand.

Your eyes flush pink with your Quirk, brightening up in the dark.

You knock into his side like you’re a kid, eagerly trailing beside him. He has the hood of his sweatshirt up, hidden, as you rush into the next train back to the part of town that holds the little, distant world of his apartment.

You sit beside each other on the train, knees pressing into each other. He leans over to crowd you against the cool glass as the world streaks past you in a wash of darkness. He ducks his face to yours, his hood hiding the both of you from any onlookers as he seers his mouth to yours again.

You feel like a teenager, kissing in front of strangers, beneath the flickering light of the train car. You feel young and reckless, letting him have you like this, while the city burns like a blurry halo behind you. But you feel older, too, older and in love, like you finally know the secret of the universe, the one that every adult knows and has only learned in the burn of a kiss, in the messy squeezing of your heart.

He licks into your mouth slow, you curl your small hand into his worn hoodie. If people stare, you don’t know, don’t care.

He pulls away from you, forcing you up when your stop is announced, leaving you a little dazed and dizzy, but you eagerly follow after him. Your hands bunch into the back of his jean jacket. You stumble behind him a little, feet tangling with his as you duck beneath his arm to come to his side.

Ryuji finds the two of you on your walk home the closer you get, follows you both inside, happily chirping at your coos. But he paws at the window to be let out again a short time later, after you’ve fed him something. Tomura opens the window for the cat, but not before you catch him rubbing a knuckle against the kitten’s fuzzy cheek, brief but gentle.

You think he likes Ryuji more than he lets on. You think he loves all this more than he lets on.

Tomura takes his time with you that night, surprisingly languid for once, like you’re not on borrowed time. Like this is an entirely new planet, a version of the two of you that is not bound by pasts and future expectations. No strings puppeteering you both, no invisible hands holding you both back.

He pulls you down into his lap, to sink onto him, fill yourself with him as you please. You twine your arms around his slender neck to pull him close, eyes half lidded and pyretic pink, fiery and soft with the way your Quirk reacts to his. It always hums somewhere inside of you, brushes against his until it quiets, until he’s soothed and relaxed.

“Do you feel powerful?” he murmurs against your lips, eyes flickering up to find yours.

The question takes you by surprise for a moment, pulling away fractionally from his parted lips. And with the way your heart squirms in your chest, looking down at him like this, you want to say no, I feel terrified and new and desperate.

But he drags nails down your back, makes you gasp and roll your hips down onto him, which startles a groan out of him. The sound of it turning your stomach in the best and worst ways, making you flush, making you squirm to try and sink lower onto him. Greedy and desperate, you wiggle your hips to make his breathing come out ragged.

It makes you realize you have one of the most dangerous villains beneath you, as desperate as you are.

You roll your hips again, slow, take what you want of him. You fist your hand in his hair, tilt his head back and watch as his eyes flutter. His cheeks are flushed.

Pretty, you think faintly.

“Yeah,” you breathe, gliding your lips along his, heart a storm in your chest to have him looking up at you like this, “I do.”

His lips tilt into a knife-sharp smile, enough to gut you.

And he lets you take what you please of him that night, and the thief that you are, you take and take and take. You steal from him with deft hands and a smile that he thinks he’d destroy the world for. You take all the love that you want from him, gorge yourself on it until you feel sick.

Until you feel as if you could rot with it, carrying your love for him in the pits of you, coveting in the safe, secret parts of you, for no one else to find.

Just you and him, like this, hand in seeking hand.

***

PART III

#shigaraki tomura x reader #tomura shigaraki x reader #tomura x reader #shigaraki x reader #shigaraki tomura x you #tomura shigaraki x you #tomura x you #shigaraki x you #tomura x y/n #shigaraki x y/n #tomura shigaraki x female reader #tomura shigaraki fanfic #bnha x reader #bnha fanfic #tenko shimura #tenko shimura x reader #bnha

[mgsapphire]

Ethics and morality... and how they're not the same...

Weird title, and I don't even know if I'll properly approach this one with all the topics I wish to this discuss in today's The Devil Judge essay, because a lot of things peaked my interest, I was debating on doing a separate post for each subject, but I'll do them all in here:

Starting simple

I know we're only 4 episodes in, but I want to break down the things that I often look for in a new show:

Cinematography

Soundtrack

Character building

Plot devices

Social commentary (sometimes)

Of course, these are things most people would consider basics, but I find that a lot of TV shows don't have enough balance in them. Also, cinematography and soundtrack are pretty up there for me because when a plot gets slow, or something like that, I stay for those two (biggest example: King Eternal Monarch).

The soundtrack in The Devil Judge is amazing and the cinematography can be a character of its own. They really get me hooked and are used as tools to properly tell a story. And I'll get into that further down this post.

The onlooker will never understand the actor

Experience is your best friend not only applies to job hunting, but it's true in the real world too. You can't truly weigh in on something unless you've experienced it yourself, you can give it your judgment and everything, but when bad things happen to someone, you'll never truly understand their pain. Am I bringing up because of the difference of mind in Judge Kang and Judge Kim's opinions? On how the public treated the minister's son? No. I'm talking about a very specific scene, where the cinematography told me to think that way and not the dialogue (it's that easy for my mind to be swayed). In episode 3, when the rich are about to dine right after the foundation's commercial for a better future, we see this aerial shot:

What's interesting about this? The seclusion and the enclosed feeling it conveys as a counterpart to the poverty shots we were just shown. Yet, these are the people making ads for a better future, what do they know?

They live comfortably behind concrete walls with no windows to see what goes on apart from the bubble they live in. This idea is further enforced at the party in episode 4, where they're not even a part of the donations, and watch and mock from afar as spectators. Yet, these people call the shots. They even call it commenting, as if they were watching the pain of others on TV.

The intriguing personality and the duality it encites

Now, this was a costume and wardrobe decision, but it was also very well thought of:

Judge Kim wears white and Judge Kang wears black. One is morally perceived by viewers of the show as morally good and the other is perceived as morally dubious at best. However, besides the costume and wardrobe thought put into this, we also have to think about the delivery of this scene and how it may further affect my detailing of this section. Judge Kang brings down the coats, and hangs over the coat to Judge Kim, he's the one who is making that annotation: You're pure, I'm tainted. This can have one of two interpretations:

Either Judge Kang believes Judge Kim to be pure and innocent due to his status as a rookie in the field

Or he believes Judge Kim to be morally white and himself morally black as he's looking at his brother's face and not at Judge Kim's heart.

Because most of the back story we're unveiling is through Judge Kim's perception, there's also an inherit bias we're having as well, because in Judge Kim narrative, he believes he's doing what's right and believes Judge Kang to be evil. In being served information about Judge Kang through Judge Kim's eyes, our bias is inherently skewed.

Another thing is that, when they put on the coat, they're standing in front of the other, as if the producers of this series are telling us they're two sides of the same coin.

The duality is made in more deceitful ways, which include:

A difference of classes that implies one has suffered while the other has not.

A difference of experience that implies one is more tainted while the other is pure.

A difference of age that implies one is a sly fox while the other one is is bunny about to be eaten.

A difference of temper that makes one erratic and the other logical.

Power dynamics

This one, in this one I could make a whole thesis based on just a couple of scenes in the drama. And you know I have to mention it: director Jung being the puppeteer.

It may not be as unexpected at first, nevertheless it brings forward a lot of things I've wished to touch upon for quite some time now. A woman being a puppeteer of an old man in the portrayed dystopia that The Devil Judge is painting makes much more sense than more common demonstrations of these dynamics where it's either a:

A man of power being controlled by a bigger man of power.

A man of power being controlled by a seemingly man of a lower status.

A woman being controlled by a man of power.

Although, there's nothing wrong with those power dynamics, and if they were to be used, a message could also be conveyed, this one in particular works as a megaphone.

A subversion of power in such a way can be interpreted as a true indication of the weak overcoming the powerful. Why? It is not that woman are naturally weaker than men, but that in society, patriarchy has been a big factor in taking voice away from women in order to give it to men.

In order for Director Jung to achieve her purposes, it's smarter for her to do it under the pretense that an old rich man in power is the one calling the shots.

This is better exemplified by her stance when the old man tries to excuse his behavior, and what her moral compass is. I'm not saying I agree with her unethical conduct, but that her morality is directly impacted by the perception of the public of her as a weak woman:

Just because a dog bites a human does the person get dirty?

This is telling on how she perceives the actions of the old man in gropping the waitress. She didn't do anything wrong, even if you touched her, you are the dirty one.

While she's evil, it's a refreshing and deep evil.

The public's opinion and how there's actually logic in the show's portrayal

The public opinion can make or break a person, even if it's not on a public trial like this. While "cancel culture" barely works in today's society, a person's reputation is forever tainted. The show does tell that, but it also exhibits the scary downside of it, by showing how easily it was to make people accept flaggelation as a fitting punishment.

There are many experiments that have tried to test the effect of societal pressure on an individual's decision and the effect of the authority's enforcement of power in the outcome of these decisions. Furthermore, theories based on analysis of human behavior not necessarily relying on experiments can also help break this down. What do I mean? Here's a small attempt at explaining:

Milgram Experiment on Authority: which measured the individual willingness to carry out actions that go against their conscience due to an authority's approval.

Argument from Authority; The idea that people are more likely to use an authority's opinion on something as an argument for their reason. This is often seen in science, where trusted authorities have done the research and offer it to the public. In here, authority bias also plays a role, as we often believe, at first, that an authority must be right.

Moral disengagement: basically speaking, because this is evil or bad, I'm not part of it and I most probably am not actively participating in it. One may disengage by moral justification, which means that before engaging in something that has been previously perceived as immoral, I'm changing my stance on it based on what I tell myself to be logical arguments. This particular form of moral disengagement is very effective in changing the public opinion. I'll be touching on another form further down this post.

Other factors played a part, but these ones in particular came to mind when public flagelation as a form of corporeal punishment was wildly accepted. First, an authority is the one telling them it's correct, to go ahead. Secondly, another authority (the minister) had previously shown approval to such unusual punishment. Thirdly, they are not the ones to be engaging directly in the act, and even if they were, it would be acceptable because an authority has told them so. They may even believe the punishment to be a necessary evil for the greater good.

In fact, the minister's son was actually correct when pleading his case, they were accepting it because it wouldn't affect them directly.

Regarding the cinematographic descent of the public opinion regarding the situation can better be exemplified by the old man we've seen through the episodes.

Does suffering justify misdeeds?

Today I came along the difference between excuse and reason. You may give a reason for your behavior, but it doesn't excuse it.

Not because I've suffered through shit, means I have to make you suffer too.

I may explain myself, but it's on the other side to excuse me.

Why I hate the unreliable narrator and why I love it so much

This story has been told mostly through the eyes of Judge Kim and what he hears and sees regarding Judge Kang, if anything, the narrative is very close to that of the narrative we've seen in The Great Gatsby. An enigmatic man is being narrated to us from the eye of a man who hasn't known him for a long time.

How is that an unreliable narrator? The narrator has their own set of bias and moral standards which function as lenses through which they see the world.

Another way of putting it would be the way teenage romances are often written in a first person narrative where either of the two teenagers is the narrator, so the author can sell to us something as simple as offering a pack of gum as the most romantic act on earth. We're perceiving interactions through rose tainted glasses.

In this case, we're seeing the interactions through Judge Kim's eyes who doesn't trust Judge Kang from the get go due to his own preset bias.

The narrative becomes even more unreliable as we're not exactly sure if what Judge Kang disclosed himself is a fact.

The reason why I love this narrative is because it leaves a lot of space to make simple plot twists to a narrative and make them seem grand, and can elongate a story without making it obvious.

The reason why I hate it is because sometimes, in tv shows mostly, we as viewers can see the other side of the story and grow increasingly frustrated with the main character's prejudice and misunderstandings (I'm looking at you my beloved Beyond Evil).

Also, because I have to wait for a long time before I actually have a clear picture of it.

#kdrama #kdramas #kdrama recommendations #analysis #rant #the devil judge #got7 #park jinyoung #ji sung #kdrama meta #kdrama quotes #kdrama analysis #meta #the great gatsby #kim min jung #please dont let this flop

[aliensunflower-fics]

Marinette’s Big Fall: An angsty Prompt

[ I have had not one. Not two. But THREE anonymous asks for some Miraculous ladybug angst with a pinch of salt SO here you go. Also because people keep asking me if they can make fics from my prompts I will just put here that YES you can I will love you if you do, please just tag me so I can squeal. I always love fan-art and I always love fics based off my ideas just go nuts guys. ]

If you asked the students of Bustier’s classroom what happened that sunny tuesday at 1:36pm they would all tell you it was an accident. None of them had meant for anything to happen and none of them had so much as laid a finger on the dark haired girl. It was just an accident that was all, but still their faces would lose blood and they would shake as they remembered the sight of Marinette Dupain-Cheng laying still as a stone at the bottom of the stairs. If you asked them to start at the beginning they would take a shaky breath and start their tale at the first warning bell of the school day, before Marinette had arrived and when Lila Rossi did.

The italian had for months been telling them of Marinette’s misdeeds and though many were proven to be false it seemed like not a day went by where Lila didn’t have some new to say about the bakers daughter. That days newest tale was about how Marinette had ruined Lila’s photoshoot at the park with Adrien. It was suppose to be a romantic shoot for valentines day and Marinette had arrived at the park where it was taking place with little Manon. Lila claimed that Marinette bribed the child into pushing Lila into the fountain during the shoot thus ruining the whole thing and making her look bad in front of the employer. Now hearing this story the students of Bustier’s class felt mixed Marinette was prone to fits of jealousy but would she really bring a child into it? Some were angry at Marinette for her repeated felonies some were unsure and one other a certain Adrien Agreste still had no idea what everyone meant about Marinette being jealous and while he knew that Lila had ended up in the water and that it was Manon who did it... He also knew for a fact that Marinette was in no way involved.

The debate over Marinette’s innocence would last until the young designer arrived then the class would fall into steely silence all fuming and grumbling trying to justify the Marinette they knew and loved with the jealous green eyed monster Lila suffered under. As they day wore on Alya always the seeker of truth began badgering Marinette trying to get to the bottom of the whole affair, and while Marinette admitted to being at the park and admitted to babysitting Manon and yes she even confirmed that Lila wound up in the fountain she claimed no responsibility arguing that little Manon had just wanted a hug from Adrien and had accidentally shoved the italian. This information spurred only new arguments though they happened without Marinette’s knowledge in back and forth messages when the teachers back was turned. Lila meanwhile continued to weave her web sending her own messages to the class with new accusations and ‘evidence’ something had to give as the tensions rose and at exactly 1:00 when Mme. Bustier stepped out something did give indeed.

No one really remembers the argument only who was leading it. Alya was a good person a bit too trusting and maybe a bit too gullible and brash but she always protected the weak and thats why Marinette loved her. The problem was right now Alya thought the one who needed that protection was one Lila Rossi. Marinette did her best to diffuse the situation she argued that it was a child’s mistake that Lila should let it go. Alya argued that Marinette always had issues with jealousy and that she needed to fess up and apologize. Marinette would no apologize for something she didn’t do and so the argument continued, classmates joined in things got more and more heated in the spur of the moment with everyone yelling and Lila sobbing Alya snapped and said two things she never should have. One she told Marinette they were no longer friends unless Marinette stopped being jealous. And two, she revealed just why Marinette was ‘jealous’ her crush on Adrien Agreste. The moment the words left her mouth Alya was hit with regret, the moment she saw embarrassment in her friends face and tears hot and fresh welling in her eyes she was hit with shame. No one spoke as the bakers daughter let out a choked sob but suprising them all it wasn’t an accusation of anger at Alya for outing her secret that left the dark haired girls lips it was a quiet shaky and broken:

“W-Were not friends a-anymore?” Followed by yet another choked and heartbroken sob.

Before Alya or anyone could answer the girl bolted for the door shaking with sobs. Everyone stood shocked still for a moment before Adrien bolted up and rushed after the girl the rest of the class followed. But they never reached Marinette in time. In her distressed state the pigtailed girl had tried to make a break for home but she was clumsy and clumsier still when upset so when she rushed down the stair she tripped and everyone could only watch in silent horror as the bakers daughter only managed to let out a gasp before her body slammed into the hard concrete. When the students of Bustier’s recalled everything later they would note with some shock that it was Chloe who moved first yelling out Marinette’s name, not her last name no, just her name as she rushed down the stairs and to the dark haired girls side. She noted the young girl wasn’t responding and quickly snapped for Sabrina to phone an ambulance while she continued to monitor Marinette. No one else would move, Alya would cry silently and in horror as Chloe called out to Marinette and checked her pulse, Nino would clutch his hat and stare mouth agape as Marinette lay like a lifeless corpse, Adrien Agreste would fall to his knees at the top of that stairs his eyes like saucers as he tried to comprehend what had happened. And Lila Rossi? She would feel every bit of blood in her body turn into ice as guilt gripped onto her and told her that this, all of this was because of HER.

Everything that happened next was a blur, the ambulance arrived Marinette was driven away with Chloe of all people. The police arrived, Bustier and Damocles felt there sweat turn cold as they were questioned, the other students of the school would stand around murmuring and pointing at the Akuma Class Rose would hear the kinder people ask what happened in hushed tone, Juleka would hear the crueler people say that the Akuma class had tried to kill the one person they couldn’t akumatize. Soon enough parents arrived and dragged away their children Kim and Alix would notice the small patch of blood on the concrete where Marinette landed, they would later puke thinking about it, but they told no one of what they had seen.

Meanwhile on the way to the hospital Tikki was in a panic, her dearest chosen her most precious and rare creation soul was BROKEN so many bones and bits of her body were mangled beyond repair... Well beyond NORMAL repair but Tikki was a god, a sentimental god at that and she would not let heaven or hell get in the way of her helping Marinette survive no matter the cause. And so sitting silently, hidden in the girls hair out of sight of the paramedic and Chloe who was telling them all she knew of Marinette’s medical background Tikki used her magic to mend all she could, she would make sure that her sweet precious Marinette would be alright but while she mended the broken body Tikki knew that there would be a price to pay. Magic always came with a price. In the past when she’d used her magic to heal holders this way some had lost their eyesight, others their voices, some would lose a limb, Tikki had no idea that cost Marinette would pay but she knew whatever it was her precious little bug would be alright.

And she was. The doctors were shocked to find that while Marinette had a broken leg and two broken ribs, some deep cuts that would never fully heal, and some awful bruising that would leave the girl sore for who knows how long she was in fact just fine. There was no internal bleeding, and no serious brain trauma, and somehow she’d be just fine to walk when her leg healed up. Sabine and Tom cried tears of joy at the news and stayed by the young girls side. Tikki was also pleased with the news from her hidden spot where she lay utterly exhausted. She knew still that their would be a price to pay but at least Marinette was alive and well. The bakers daughter did not wake up until early the next day and when she did she was mobbed by her parents. She smiled at their concern and when the doctor came in to greet her he decided to check her memory.

“Standard procedure.” He said. “It’s not unusual for there to be some minor memory loss surrounding the incident itself were just going to check.”

And so the questions began. They started with things like her birthday, and her parents names and ages, then they moved on to recent events, so far no problems. Finally they asked about the day itself and the ‘incident’ in questions Marinette opened her mouth to answer then paused thoughtfully. She couldn’t remember. Not unusual assured the doctor, and then he returned to asking other questions probing gently to ensure everything was alright, and it seemed to be up until the doctor asked a simple question.

“What’s your best friends name? And can you describe them.”

Marinette froze and stayed silent. Tikki suddenly felt a strange twist in her tummy. Sabine and Tom looked at their daughter uncertainly. Finally after a long pause. Marinette spoke with a strained laugh.

“I uhh dont remember having one sir.” Sabine felt her stomach suddenly drop, hidden away behind a plant Tikki felt the same thing.

Concerned by the answer the doctor probed more with Tom and Sabine joining in. The answers were startling. Marinette Dupain-Cheng had forgotten every single person that was present when she fell down the stairs. She could recall other students at the school and her teacher, but all the students of her own class? She could not recall their names or their faces. When her parents asked about a specific memory the first time Nino and Marinette met and became friends. Marinette’s eyes lit up. She remembered the event, she remembered someone being bullied and helping them and then they became friends. Her parents were hopeful and the doctor calmly asked Marinette to tell them who the bully was and who the person being bullied was. At that all Marinette did was frown and hold her head. She could remember the incident but... The faces of the bully and the one being bullied were blacked out she had no idea who they were. They tried asking her if she knew the bullied boys favorite things, she had no idea, his name? Nothing. Favorite color? Nope. It was odd extremely so and the only theory the doctor could offer was trauma based memory lose triggered by stress and the possible incident surrounding her accident.

Later when her parents left and it was safe. Tikki emerged and was overjoyed to learn that Marinette remembered her and being ladybug. Tikki was a bit worried about the holes in her dear chosens memories but she knew that this was the price Marinette had payed. She got to keep her life and all her limbs and eyes but she had lost something precious, her friends, they were now black holes burned into faded memories. And it extended into her superhero life. Marinette knew Rena Rouge she could remember her powers and her skill, but when Tikki asked who she was Marinette could only frown and hold her head as it throbbed. Alya, Nino, everyone even Adrien were gone, Marinette had the memories but no faces, no names, no attachment she had lost her friends. Tikki felt guilty of course and told Marinette as much but the young girl just kissed her Kwami’s head and confidently said that they would figure it out.

It had been a week sense Marinette’s big fall. And the students of Bustier’s class sat restless in their seats. None of them had been able to check up on Marinette as her parents had forbidden visitors and the bakers themselves were illusive now a days as they kept close to the hospital keeping their daughter company. All anyone knew was that Marinette was alive, and while that was great news it wasn’t enough. And to make matters perhaps more odd then Marinette’s disappearance was the complete inactivity by Hawkmoth. It was as if he was busy dealing with something else. Like maybe his teenage son who had been expressing all of his teenage rebellion and angst in a concentrated dose ever sense a certain bakers daughter had fallen down the stairs. Adrien was indeed the most miserable about the whole situation, he’d given up on bathing, moped all day, snapped at Lila for even opening her mouth, and was refusing to care for himself or attend any and all photoshoots and extra curricular activities. Adrien’s rebellion was causing big problems for Gabriel’s business and he was stuck rushing about trying to re-organize events and juggle his son who had become terrifyingly good at escaping the house to go to school no matter what kind of locks were installed.

As the day wore on for Bustier’s students ignored the looks given to them by the other students in the school. More then a few of them blamed them squarely for what had happened to Marinette while others shot them looks of sympathy or concern. The class as a whole looked like they were from a bad zombie movie, but the one who looked perhaps the worse of them all was Lila Rossi, while some would try and argue its because of how bad she felt for poor Marinette others would recognize that she seemed paranoid and on edge with her eyes darting about and how quick she was to defend herself against even the smallest assumed accusation against her. Finally lunch rolled around and like the mob of zombies they were the students of Bustier’s class walked mindlessly to the cafeteria that is until one of them spotted a familiar looking girl though her hair was no longer in pigtails and her clothing had changed it was undoubtedly her! The class rushed forward with a surge catching the attention of the whole school who watched the exchange curiously. Apologies were hurled out questions were yelled and poor Marinette looked overwhelmed silence only came when Sabine stepped forward with a warning look though there was an odd glint of pity and sadness in her eyes. Finally it was Alya who broke the silence.

“Marinette! We are SO sorry, please can you find it in your heart to forgive us?” The Ladybloger was holding back tears and no one had heard her voice that shaky before. After a long pause Marinette spoke.

“U-Umm... Hey listen I dont... Really know what your apologizing for... And uh I dont really know who you are but... Umm sure of course I forgive you! You seem very nice?”

The crowd was stunned. Marinette had no idea who ALYA was? Her best friend? The girl she’d fought with last? Sensing the tension in the room Tom gently guided Marinette away shooting Sabine an odd look. Both parents had hoped that seeing her old school would jolt Marinette’s memory but it seemed that even her best friends face wasn’t enough to bring back what had been lost. As Tom helped Marinette climb the stairs with her cast. Sabine took a deep breath and proceeded to explain what she could. That Marinette had lost... Some memories, specifically relating to people who had been around during her accident... She didn’t remember any of them and no one not even the doctors or Tikki herself could change that. As Sabine apologized for what must surely be a shock she excused herself to follow her daughter and husband to the principles office so they could discuss the situation.

For the students of the akuma class life felt like it had been turned sideways. Lila who had been consumed by guilt had begun to hyperventilate. Alya felt slapped and raw her best friend had no idea who she was and the last thing she had done before Marinette forgot all about her was denounce their friendship. For Kim and Nino their were tears and disbelief the girl that they had known sense childhood had no idea who they were and regarded them like any stranger on the side of the road. For Chloe there was the oddest feeling of heartbreak, now she would never know if Marinette could truly forgive her, because the Marinette to whom she’d been so cruel was all but gone. But it was perhaps Adrien who was hit the hardest, Adrien who had learned that Marinette liked him the day of the accident, Adrien who had watched her fall, who had not rushed to check on her, Adrien who had felt torn by guilt confused about his feelings, Adrien who felt like the world had lost the sun with Marinette gone, Adrien who had wanted Marinette to come back so he could see she was okay and ask her on the date she deserved, and now Adrien who meant nothing to her because she had no idea who he was.

As for the rest of the students of Dupont? Well many of them were overjoyed to know Marinette remembered them at least but they felt pity for the akuma class but many others wondered what the future held. Would Marinette’s old friends try and rekindle their friendships? Would they bring photos and music and videos to try and bring back the girls memories? Or would new friends take the place of the old and forgotten? Would Adrien continue down his path of rebellion fighting for a place in Marinette’s heart once more, or would he return to being a docile lamb under his fathers thumb his heart and mind numb due to the shock of it all. Would Lila Rossi return to her old ways? Would she crack under the feelings of guilt and shame? Or would she go mad and attack Marinette. How many people would forever flinch and rush to offer Marinette help whenever she so much as when near a flight of stairs? Would it be possible to anyone to reclaim Marinette’s lost memories or would new ones need to be made? No one knew. But they did know for certain that things would be different from now on.

[ Wanna Support Me? Donate HERE! ]

[ Wanna Read More? Masterlist HERE! ]

#my fic #lila salt #ml salt #ml salt prompt #lila salt prompt #ml prompt #alya salt #class salt #protective Adrien #adrinette #chloe sugar #Marinette deserves better

[ofnebulaeandstars]

not to compare the devil judge to beyond evil bc they’re both amazing and also v different, but i’m thinking about the origin of justice and morals and punishment (ignoring crime for rn). both explicitly or implicitly cite the infamous Nietzsche quote - "He who fights with monsters should look to it that he himself does not become a monster. And if you gaze long into an abyss, the abyss also gazes into you” - as sort of grounding principles for describing how monsters are made and fought. 

The antihero-ness of Dong Sik, Ju Won, and Yohan (and literally everyone else in the devil judge tbh) can be seen in the first part of the quote. They're fighting monsters and so they do what they can, even if its what they shouldn’t. There are lines that should not be crossed and sometimes they tiptoe it and sometimes they slip across it and sometimes they just don’t care where they’re stepping and just keep going:

Dong Sik beating the suspect bloody when his partner dies, moving Min Jung’s fingers instead of calling it in;

Ju Won pressuring the woman to carry out an illicit sting operation with him that eventually got her killed; Ju Won being convinced that he’s got the killer pinned and investigating w/ extreme prejudice

not to mention the lying and the slight or blatant flaunting of proper police procedure throughout because they knew the victims or suspects or whomever.

Dong Sik and Ju Won are prepared to do whatever it takes in order to catch the culprit. This, of course, has deadly consequences. So whilst we’re looking for justice in Manyang, we ask how far is too far to get the bad guys, find out the truth, and so on and so forth. Chief Nam tried to protect Dong Sik and Dong Sik tried to protect Ju Won and Ju Won tried to protect Dong Sik each from becoming monsters despite the monstrous things they may have been inclined to do. In the end, Chief Nam died and Dong Sik and Ju Won stayed away from becoming monsters.

Yohan and Gaon and crew are also out here doing monstrous things for their own purported goals. 

bribing witnesses, making up witnesses, colluding with defendant’s lawyers

taking hammers to people’s cars

choking out criminals, setting fires to buildings with people inside to prove a point

threatening to kill rivals

killing or leading to their death people who’ve wronged them

general lies and such

The thing, however, about doing monstrous things is that 

it starts small and 

a monstrous thing may not even seem that monstrous at all.

Gaon from episode 1 is convinced that Yohan is up to no good, so he taps his office and follows him around and informs on him to Min Jung Ho. What’s he’s doing can’t be that bad compared to the potentiality of Yohan’s crimes and misdeeds. Do the ends justify the means...? From there, it’s only a hop and skip to joining hands with Yohan and doing more and more inappropriate, illegal, and morally suspect stuff in order to achieve their purported goals. What’s wiretapping against murder (threats, attempts, and otherwise), corruption, jingoism, bribery, etc? What’s murder against corruption, jingoism, bribery, etc? What’s bribery against- you get the point.

Obviously TDJ still has two weeks till the end (so soon!) and Beyond Evil has been over for months so it is possible that whilst legally the monsters and the heroes-cum-monsters were punished in Beyond Evil - jail time or death - it’s unclear how much and how thoroughly our monsters and heroes-cum-monsters in the Devil Judge will be punished or proven in-universe. 

The fundamental difference is that the universe of Beyond Evil is built on the belief that the law is fundamentally correct and a few bad apples don’t ruin the punch. Dong Sik goes to jail, serves his time and is punished for unknowingly allowing Min Jung to die. He’s still, in our and the story’s eyes, fundamentally a good person. Councilwoman Do Hae Won, Lee Chang Jin, and Han Ki Hwan go to jail and our punished for their crimes. Dong Sik looked into the abyss and was a good person whilst our main BE monsters looked into the abyss and became or were revealed to be monsters. 

The universe of TDJ, however, does not have the same underlying principle. It’s a dystopian world, which, depending on what country you’re tuning in from, may be closer to your reality. The law and the lawmakers are corrupt, skewed, and not fundamentally correct. The SRF, the media, the Blue House, the Courts - none of them are upright. We don’t need them to gaze into the abyss to no that they’re not fighting monsters but are monsters. Even if prison were the appropriate response to crime, it’s not even working correctly. So our heroes are fighting what may very well be a losing battle, as Sunah says, if you remove all the trash in power, some other trash will just come up and replace them. How far is too far when the bounds of morality and law are already shifting and insolvent?

I’m also thinking about Gaon looking into the abyss - not Yohan, but the gauntlet of Minister’s Cha’s suicide - and not liking who he saw reflected back at him

Another thought I’ve been having in the moral relativism of the devil judge is that no one, not even (especially not) villains think of themselves as villains. Yohan barely sees himself as human but he doesn’t see himself as the villain. He, like Sunah, like Minister Cha, like Gaon, like the rest see themselves as justified in doing whatever it takes to get what they want. Yohan, of course, seems to want to take down the SRF (revenge) and to watch everything burn if it takes it (general chaos) and so justice is not his primary motivator. Gaon wants justice to prevail and to fight corruption. Sunah wants to be a good kid (to be rich and shiny) and get what she believes she’s owed in life. If each is the main character and their morals rely on the ends justifying the means then they may see themselves as brutal or self-serving but not fundamentally bad. Most of us are rooting for Yohan and co and maybe delighting in, if not actively rooting for, the carnage in Sunah’s quest. If the story was told from another point of view we may or may not be as sympathetic to our main leads goals and methods.

This was ridiculously long, barely coherent and convoluted for no reason, but I’m done now.

#the devil judge #beyond evil #the devil judge meta

[hereyoucantseeme]

The Host, cogitations about ethics and morals.

The Host has always been my favourite book and the truth is that nobody understands why. They always say "How can it be your favourite book? You're 21 years old, study science and that book is a love novel for teenagers" (I think that is not reason enough not to be, but anyway) I have decided to explain here why, in my opinion, people underestimate this book.

When you have this book on your hands for the first time, on the back cover you can read that the book is about a love story. And that is right, but people are closed to the love of a romantic relationship for teenagers (which too) judging by the section of the bookstore from which they have taken this book and they read with that preconceived idea in their heads which, unfortunately, does not let them see the deep interior that this story has.

WARNING, SPOILERS.

I think the part of the book that we can learn the most from is (more or less) when Wanda decides to stop at Picacho Peak, since this point, it is a mere introduction. Melanie gets Wanda to reach a somewhat more objective point of view since she "forces" her to empathize with her situation. During the book cogitations are made on what good and evil implies and on what is good or bad that, although it defies logic, are not always linked.

The author exposes two realities, one is the society of souls, in which everyone is kind, empathetic and helps each other. We could say that they are doing good, right? In the same way, souls speak of an enemy, the Vultures. But would not the role of souls on earth be the same as that of Vultures on the first planets where souls settled after The Orgin? They say that their enemies were really bad with the inhabitants of these planets but they "fixed" it. On the other side are humans, who act violently against souls but, although the latter refuse to realize it, they behaved with humans like Vultures on other planets. I don't mean to say that the end justifies the means, but in this case, don't humans have the right to claim what is theirs? In this case, although violence is associated with evil, these people fight for the only thing left in the world, their lives and the lives of the people they love and that could be understood as something that is right. How do you get away from the reality that you have been taught to see and learn to be objective? It is something really difficult since each point of view supposes a different reality (yes, I think I'm more or less quoting Qui Gon Jinn), but I think that being objective means assuming the point of view that generates more benefits and less damage without take into account our personal situation. This book teaches us this very well.

Another point to discuss about the book is trust, how can we learn to trust the unknown? I don't want to say "trust an enemy" because I just don't see it that way. As Ian says, Wanda would be nothing more than a private under the misdeeds of her commander, she would not be explicitly the enemy, if not an unknown. 

This world has taught us not to trust, (I personally don't usually trust anyone, I only trust three people and two of them are my parents, and if I don't trust them turn off and let's go*) but if someone shows us that their intentions are good in all its fullness, why does it still cost us so much? Doc exposes himself to us as someone with the ability to understand and make people understand and he acts with kindness as one would expect from a doctor [I must say that he is my favorite character in the book (yes, obviously Ian goes  after him, Ian is lovely, let no one suffer) but, seriously, what were they thinking about in the casting of the movie? THAT'S NOT DOC, it should have been Jake Abel. Well, almost no character fits but we better not go there], he does not hesitate to distrust the medicines that Wanda takes to save Jamie. In this case, this lack of confidence may be due to pride, it hurts him as a doctor not to be able to heal someone he loves and that, instead, someone comes with a magic potion and heals him as if it were a miracle. But Doc deep down understands that Jamie's health is above anything else. However, what about the other characters? What about, for example, Sharon? (What was Doc doing with Sharon? Ehh, no, I mean, they don't even glue, sorry, Doc deserves someone better). Sharon, by not trusting Wanda mired in her stubbornness, was capable of letting her little cousin die. And she also left Doc, who was supposedly the love of her life, because he trusted in something that, to human eyes, was strange. It could also be about envy but I don't want to extend this too much since envy is something that we usually perceive easily without anyone having to show it. Finally I would like to highlight the case of Jared, it seems to me that it was the most difficult for him to trust and he was the one who did it with more strength and security. Maybe it was because he had nothing else left to hold on to but, if anything, he had faith in Wanda when it was more difficult for him to trust her (Jeb had a great judgment because of his age and, moreover, it was his niece's body, which did not interfere sentimentally, and Jamie played with the benefit of the innocence of children, for whom it is easier to trust and believe). He had to put his prejudices and feelings behind him to keep a cold head and act objectively and I think that's commendable.

We are also taught to forgive. Not only in the most obvious moment, when Kyle apologizes for trying to kill Wanda (Kyle, I must admit, is a character that seems somewhat comical to me, perhaps because, in a less violent way, he reminds me of close people. We all know a Kyle), I mean more hidden moments in the book. When Jamie approaches Wanda for the first time after she was released from her makeshift prison (the second time he has seen her in history), it is understood that he has forgiven her, he has forgiven her taking away her sister, the closest thing that he had to a mother. Although Wanda apologized later, by that time he had already forgiven her. Melanie, by allying with Wanda, makes it clear that she has been forgiven since her intentions were not really bad. In the same way, all the characters forgive through Wanda all the evils that souls have done to them. It is not easy to know how to forgive and even less in certain circumstances, but this book shows us that it is possible, but we must want to forgive.

Finally, The Host teaches us to love. Not the love that Wanda feels for Jared, in fact that is an example of the only meaning that today they usually give to love someone. Love implies sacrificing for another person, doing everything possible to make the other feel happy. She loves Melanie because she knows that she is a friend whom, after all they have lived together, she can trust. She loves Jamie because she knows that in the child there is only kindness and sincerity. She loves Doc because she knows he is a man of his word and that he would not harm anyone, not like many other people in this world. When Wanda saves Kyle from falling into the water, she does it, mainly because of her affection for Ian, she doesn't want him to suffer for losing his brother. I believe that to know how to love others you have to get rid of any desire for evil towards the other and learn to appreciate their virtues and defects, because each person is unique, otherwise we would be like the souls that, lacking defects, are identical and incapable of loving.

Ultimately, it seems to me that the book shows us Wanda as an allegory of the hidden virtues in each person that, perhaps out of fear, we are unable to show others. I hope you now understand why this is my favorite book. And these are things that are very difficult to find in other stories, so it seems to me that it has a very special value and that almost no one, unfortunately, is able to appreciate.

I'm sorry if there is any mistake or some quote or reference that may be wrong, I'm Spanish and I have read the book in my native language. Thank you for reading!

*Spanish expression that means there is nothing left to do

#the host #stephenie meyer #smeyer #ian oshea #wanda #jared howe #kyle o'shea #ian o'shea #doc #melanie stryder #jamie stryder #twilight #the host book #morals and ethics #cogitations #morals #ethic #reflection #thoughts #quotes #quote #filosophy #smeyer's the host

[genyyasafin]

Consequences (They’re finally here)

Part 2 of 8!! Featuring young Curie and her grandmother (sort of) and told in the style of an interview. 

Tagging: @zoyyanazyalensky @fire-sapphics @official-flower-consultant @jam-is-my-food @i-love-side-characters @damischs @knifescythe

Somewhere in MidMerica, Year of the Raptor, 8 months after the sinking of Endura

BT (interviewer): Hello, I’m here about Susan Bauer?

VB (interviewee): *imperiously* No. You’re here about Honorable Scythe Marie Curie. I have little to add that has not already been said. 

BT *visibly confused*: I was led to believe that they were the same person. 

VB: Oh, they are. In a sense. You see, Scythe Curie has been and has been seen as many things. Apprentice and leader, infamous and simply famous, enigma and open book. However, Susan Bauer has only ever been two things: a little girl with a conscience, and my favorite granddaughter. 

BT: You sound like you have a lot to say about her. 

VB: She deserves more notice than she has ever been given. You see, if you had asked Susan Bauer, countless years ago, she would have told you that she knew everything there was to know about consequences. She would have told you that they were punishments for wrongful actions and therefore she never needed to fear them. And she’d have told you that consequences were always justified. She’d have been wrong on all three counts, lessons that she appears to have learned all too late. 

BT: I’m beginning to see what drove her to become the Scythe Curie we all know today. 

VB: You don’t, not really, and you couldn’t without being there. No matter what name she was known as, Susan was a force of nature that changed every life around her for the better. Perhaps the best example of this came years ago, in times I can scarcely remember. Susan was a teenager, I’ve forgotten what year. She hadn’t yet gotten mixed up in the scythedom though. Have you ever set back your age?

BT: No. 

VB: Then you weren’t there, in those early days. It isn’t an experience that can be recreated. Everyone was just a little bit corrupt and just a little bit scared. Police officers, however, were among the worst. 

BT: Police officers?

VB: They were something like the Nimbus officers without being beholden to the Thunderhead. Instead, they were beholden only to themselves and that made them dangerous. Trying to avoid them was a potentially deadly game of chess- both sides knew the moves, it was down to which side could execute them better. One common move, for those brave enough, was to step between the police officer and the victim and film them. However, this was meant for people older, stronger, more than a small little girl who spoke too angrily. Not that it was enough to stop Susan. 

BT: What happened?

VB: Hush. Let me tell the story. You see, I was with her when it happened. We’d been doing… something… and we’d come across a police officer cornering a girl not much older than Susan herself. One second, I’m a bit hazy on the details.

VB: I believe the police officer was asking about the girl’s parents, it was a bit hard to see. However, she was clearly uncomfortable and was constantly asking to leave. The officer, instead, moved closer and asked louder. Susan was, as always, incapable of staying away from a misdeed. I remember telling her to stay put, that I’d take care of it, but she rushed out of my hold and towards the scene. She started recording the disruption and asked loudly what the girl had done to warrant such treatment. The officer did not have a very good answer, instead gesturing and muttering something about how she was “obstructing justice” or “if she would just cooperate, we could have avoided all of this”

BT: What? That’s… ridiculous. Why didn't the Thunderhead discipline them?

VB: The Thunderhead had very little power back then, now let me get back to the story, please. Anyway, Susan, obviously, was unimpressed. She told the officer that unless the poor girl was a suspect in a murder- because that was still a thing in those barbaric days- he would need to leave and this was not, in fact, an emergency. Alone, this may not have done much. However, I loudly agreed with her, and soon other people chimed in as well. Perhaps the officer could have handled being chastised by a young woman, but he could not handle being chastised by a young woman with every other man there agreeing with Susan. He slunk away, and the recording went viral. 

BT: Was Susan well known then??

VB: Oh, not really. You see, her face was not in the recording, merely her voice, and few people cared just who had called the corrupt officer out. It was merely important that someone did. Within a few months, the officer was sacked, and police power had been reduced vastly. Susan was not the first loud voice in the debate or the most critical one, but she was unable to resist being one of them. Even back then, there was no conflict that she did not have an opinion on, although perhaps Susan was much more careless with her beliefs than Scythe Curie had become. 

BT: I can see how she ended up the Grand Dame of Death.

VB: Hush. In another world, that moment could have ended very differently. Susan could have been in danger or alienated or ineffective. However, in this world, she was a girl beginning to see the world around her and its bloodiness. She did the right thing and was rewarded with other right decisions. It was experiences like those, surrounded with the support of other righteous people, that set Susan up for the mistakes of Honorable Scythe Marie Curie. She had never been ineffective, had never seen how it could be a blessing in disguise. Oh no, Susan acted on her conscience, and that was a rare thing. Perhaps that's why, through all these years, no one had the heart to teach her the consequences of good decisions.

BT: That’s quite a story. Susan was quite a girl. 

VB: And she may have matured into a different woman, but she stayed just as vibrant. Her fate was ill-deserved, an unjust consequence for someone who was once the fiercest proponent of justice this world has had. Consequences are coming for Rowan Damisch. 

VB *definitively, as if a weight has been lifted from her*: Thank you, for letting me share an old story. Feel free to take some more cookies, and I hope you got all the material you needed. 

#mine #writing #fanfic #scythe #aoas #arc of a scythe #scythe curie

[make-it-mavis]

Homesick (Entry #36)

(cw: discussion of addiction/violence, suicide mention) ----------

01/24/88   6:30 PM

Hey.

Once I’d chosen my “higher power”, the rest of the program really began to interest me more.

That isn’t to say that I had suddenly seen the light and knew exactly how to fix everything, no. I was still on wobbly legs and I knew it. The goal was to shift my entire worldview, and that sort of thing does not happen overnight. But I had an idea to go off of, which was more than what I’d had before. And the more I sat with it, the more the idea unfurled itself. 

There are no absolutes in a world of color. No rules, only choices. I thought I’d lived my life as a rainbow, but I’d been painting with one color for so long. I was indigo -- cold, proud, with the depression of blue and the aggression of violet. I was the color of bruises, the sort that are almost beautiful, but hurt something awful. All of my choices were touched by a shade of pain. I never really thought there was another way to be.

But this new theory of mine challenged that with the phrase: ‘There’s always another color.’

I didn’t know which ones exactly I wanted to move forward with, but I sort of figured that keeping an open mind and paying close attention would reveal them to me. And that, as it turned out, was sort of what step three was all about.

Step three is Surrender. We were expected to surrender to our higher power, and hold it in greater importance than our own selfish desires. My own desire was to learn to live by my new worldview anyway, so it seemed easy enough. But I was told that swallowing my pride would be a tough thing to maintain, so I had to stay on top of it. Well, duh. Of course it’s been hard. You and I were always some of the most prideful little beasts in the arcade. I still fail regularly, but I haven’t given up yet. Which is really what matters. Or so I’ve heard. 

I’ll admit something sad. Sometimes, while I’m doing all this work, I wonder if you could have benefitted from anything like this. Like, maybe it would have helped you sort out all that darkness in your head. Maybe it could have saved you, and you’d be sitting right here beside me right now. I don’t know… maybe not. I’m not sure how you’d have ever been convinced to try it. I mean… it took a monumental catastrophe and threat of imprisonment for me to even consider it. If only you had been lucky enough to survive your own… catastrophe. Then, well... maybe.

It hurts so much to think about.

If nothing else, it makes me want to succeed for the both of us.

I was still on step three by my fourth session, but I was preemptively worrying about the upcoming step four. It had been causing me a fair bit of anxiety since the beginning, and I was almost afraid to complete step three and arrive at it. Step four is Courage, which involves pretty much digging deep into your code and listing all the bad things you’ve ever done. A ‘fearless moral inventory’, they called it. I just had no idea how I was going to tackle that. Others might have been able to make a list based on things they felt bad about. I was going to have to think a little harder about mine. Not that I have any shortage of misdeeds to list -- I probably have a hundred for every day of my life. I just… didn’t feel bad about most of them. Feeling any kind of remorse or regret for my actions was never something I was very good at. 

I began to wonder why that was. Probably for the first time ever.

While I considered it, I just listened in to all the shares from the other members. During step three, I’d been going along with the challenge I issued myself before, the one meant to lessen Worluk’s effect on me. It was going alright. As I paid more attention to them, the other members had started to take on their own colors in my mind. I definitely got to know some of them a bit more, and even found that listening to their stories helped me gain better perspectives of my own.

I feel a bizarre need to respect the anonymity of the program even here, so I won’t name names. But I’ll name their colors.

An NPC sprite who gave me pinkish-mulberry vibes told us about his experience with step five, Integrity, which I’d been trying not to think about. He seemed near tears as he spoke, just brimming with emotion.

“I’d been so afraid that she would turn me away when she heard about the things I’d done… but she just hugged me. She said that she would have been there for me sooner if I’d just opened up to her… but I think I’d just been so ashamed, I didn’t even think I was worthy of help. I never knew how important that was. Just to feel like you deserve saving.”

That one reminded me of you a little bit, which hurt. I thought about how you had only chosen to let me in on our very last night together. How you barely gave me any time to help you. I hoped you felt like you were worthy of help, but I also kind of doubted it. 

It also raised questions about my own self worth... but I tried to tuck those away for later.

A Bad Guy sprite with an orange air about him piped up in response, saying he could relate. But in his case, the sprite he had tried to make amends with turned him away. “It was awful,” he said. “It was everything I’d been afraid of, but all the same… I had to accept it. I’d done wrong by them. I have to live with the consequences of that and choose to be better. Even though my fears came true, I’m still alive. I’m still okay. And that’s kind of freeing.”

Again and again, fear played a heavy role in their struggles. And the more I sat with it, the more it sank in, and the more sense it made. As much as I hated to entertain the idea, maybe I’d been afraid, too. Of what, exactly… I couldn’t really say for sure. But I took a look at my life for a moment, and all the things I loved to do, like drinking and fighting and breaking the rules… and felt kind of sick. Like… maybe it wasn’t always just about chasing freedom. Chasing one thing… could also mean running away from another.

But I could hardly be blamed for that, could I? I’d felt alienated for so long, like different rules applied to me because my Easter Egg role sucked so much. Like my pain validated all the bad things I did. It was only fair, right?

But that was when Worluk spoke up. Her voice didn’t strike quite as much terror in me as it had before, but even as small and raspy as it was, it demanded my attention.

“I’ve tried apologizing to the boys. To everyone, really,” she said, a quiet, tired frustration in her voice. “But they won’t take it. They see right through me. I did a lot of things that hurt them while I was neck deep in buffs. And I’m sorry for hurting them, I really am. But I’ll be real with you all. I’m having trouble regretting the things I did. They were all things I wanted to do already. It just felt like buffs made me actually go out and do something about it.”

“That’s understandable,” Clyde said. “But none of us are exempt from regret. None of us here can decide that we’ve done no wrong. The sprites around us, the ones we hurt, are the ones we need to listen to in order to understand the gravity of the things we’ve done.”

Worluk shook her head a bit at that, refusing to look. “I know. I get that. I do. But if you had only seen what I’ve seen, you wouldn’t say that…”

“Pain is the one thing all of us have in common,” Clyde reminded her calmly. “No addict is free of it. But pain only explains our behavior. It does not justify it.”

I winced. 

It felt like that sentence saw my thoughts and slapped me hard for them. His words hung over my head and forced my gaze to the floor. I wanted to argue. I didn’t want it to be true. I needed to keep being the exception in order to justify my actions. After everything I’d been through, I couldn’t be held to the same standard as everyone else.

But, to my dismay, that also seemed to be how Worluk felt.

I knew firsthand how unjust her actions had been. I knew that she had no excuse. Her decision to attack me was nothing but misplaced rage and overwhelming bloodlust. She was nothing more than a dangerous, sadistic lunatic in my eyes, and she deserved to be locked up. She didn’t even deserve to be in that circle with the rest of us.

It was unspeakably frightening to me, then, that we could have the same thought. That we could be the same in any way at all. Yet, I was helpless to deny it.

We were very similar.

We had both used our pain to justify some pretty horrible things. We both refused to take responsibility. And the scariest part was, even though I hadn’t attempted to murder anyone, who’s to say that I wouldn’t have gone down that route if I hadn’t gotten help when I did? I mean, I did threaten someone just to get their buffs. If the circumstances were right, could I have done the exact same thing as Worluk?

Wouldn’t I have killed to avenge you?

I felt sick. I couldn’t let it be true. I had to be better than that. Better than her. 

But in a weird sort of way, I kind of... wanted her to do better, too. Not out of compassion. It was sort of selfish, actually. I felt like she and I were, unfortunately, in the same sinking ship. I could have just let her drown, but I’d just be watching her suffer a fate that would quickly come for me after. If that makes sense. I hated her. I still wanted to rip her antenna off and feed them to her. But if she was beyond help, then so was I. Somehow, I had to believe that it was possible to turn things around, even after we had sunk as deep as we had.

And counselling is hard. Really hard. And boring. But she had to do it, same as anyone else there. She had to swallow the same giant pill that I did, so maybe I could jam it down her unwilling throat. 

Maybe I could take things into my own hands, just a little bit.

I didn’t want to speak to her directly, because I might have lost my nerve and started screaming at her. But I thought up a way to get my point across. Whether it was a good idea or not, I didn’t have time to assess. I only had until my turn to plan, so it was going to be mostly improv.

It was time for more rolling with the proverbial punches.

Once my turn came, I found myself trembling with the severity of what I was about to do. This bug sprite had caused me so much pain and suffering. But I took a deep breath and reminded myself that I could paint with a color outside of revenge if I so chose. So I loaded my brush with exactly what the dreaded step four called for -- courage.

“Hi, my name’s Mavis, I’m an addict,” I began as usual, leaning on my knees. “I’m on step three tonight, but... all I can think about is step four.”

I was met with some knowing nods. Someone muttered, “That’s a tough one.”

I flashed a half-smile and continued, “Honestly, a big part of why it’s so daunting is, I mean, I’ve probably done more bad things in my life than good things. I could try to list them all, but then I’d be on step four for the rest of my life.”

There were a couple chuckles.

“But listening to you guys and your stories about, y’know, opening up to sprites you care about, I, uh…” I paused. “Well, I’m really not good at… being helped. I never really have been. A big part of that’s just pride, but I think, uh… everything that goes along with lettin’ people in has never been my forte, and that’s only gotten worse ever since, uh… well, lately. I haven’t let anyone in on what I’ve been going through. But... well, I guess, keepin’ with step three like I oughtta, I feel like... it’d be surrendering to my higher power to-- Okay, I don’t know quite how to word it, but I need to paint with a different color. That much is clear. And I thought… y’know, I could start right here. So… I’ve got a story I’d like to share, if that’s alright.”

“Please,” Clyde prompted.

“It’s an ugly one,” I warned him.

“There are no judgments here,” he reminded me with a smile.

I took another deep breath and sighed. Here goes, I thought.

“Well, it’s probably no secret to y’all that I haven’t exactly been the most popular sprite in the arcade since… y’know. Everyone’s got their opinion. And some sprites, uh, share it more loudly than others. Throwin’ stuff, yellin’ at me, that all sucks, but I guess I can deal with it. The thing is, though, someone… took it to a whole other level. Back before I got hooked on GC, someone, well… tried to kill me.”

That got everyone's attention.

Clyde turned blue. There were several horrified gasps. Sprites leaned towards me, their eyes wide, so many emotions growing behind the shock on their faces. Worluk's antennae perked up as she listened. Obviously, she knew that I knew who she was. But I don't think she knew what I was doing. She looked less angry and more curious -- maybe she was curious to see if I'd be dumb enough to try to accuse her.

When Clyde came to his senses, he asked me worriedly, "Have you told the Surge Protector about this, Mavis?"

"Well… yeah, I did eventually," I told him. "But not ‘til a couple weeks ago. Right after the attack, he helped me across Game Central, but I just-- I couldn't talk about it then. It was weird."

Before I could continue, a little sprite with lavender vibes interrupted, quivering in alarm, "Wait, wait, I think I saw-- I saw you! With Surge! And your shirt was all--"

"Yep."

"You mean, that was when you’d been--"

I nodded and swallowed. "Yep. Sure was."

"Oh no," the little sprite put their hands near their mouth and looked at everyone. "I saw her, everyone, she looked awful. She could barely walk. Her-- her legs were bleeding!"

"Actually," someone else added, "I remember seeing her, too. I just-- I didn’t look too close 'cause there was so much blood on her face…"

I felt myself going red. It was embarrassing to have them remember just how awful and abused I looked. But it felt like the point of the program was to get used to embarrassing myself, so I tried to take it as a good thing. 

"What did Surge say?" Clyde asked.

"Well,” I said with a defeated laugh, “he said there was nothing he could do. I have no evidence. I don't know who it was. I didn't even see them. I was blindfolded and tied up."

So many horrified eyes were fixed on me. I glanced at Worluk just for a moment, and saw just the slightest hint of nerves in her body language. She was glancing around just a bit more than usual. I figured she would never get my point if she got too defensive, so I decided to cut to the chase.

“Look, settle down, everybody, okay?” I put my hands up with a half-smile. “I’m okay. I mean, I’m here, right? And I’m not here to give anyone nightmares with the details. I just wanted to get that off my chest, because I’d been keeping it to myself for so long. It was one of the big reasons I got into GC. I wanted to drown out the memory. I’m not even totally sure why I didn’t tell anybody. I think… maybe I didn’t wanna seem weak. Or something like that.”

“How could that make you weak?” The lavender sprite asked. “You’re incredibly strong to have survived that.” 

My ears felt hot. I didn’t know what to do with that. “Uh… thanks. The thing is -- and this has puzzled me ever since it happened -- whoever did it… they left me alive. I was totally at their mercy, but they left me alive. For a while, I sort of thought that they might have done it to be cruel. Leave me alive and humiliated. Let the fear consume me ‘til I’d corrupted myself on buffs. Let me tell you, what they did to me screwed me up real bad. It ended up in all my bad trips in one way or another. And I spent many a sleepless night just imagining what I’d do to this sprite if I met them. The revenge I’d take for all they put me through.”

Worluk was watching me dead on for what may have been the first time. I hated admitting that she had made such a significant impression on me, but I tried not to return her gaze too obviously or tense up under her scrutinizing glare.

“But nearly dying of corruption, and blacking out and nearly burning down Tapper’s, it, uh… it put a lot of things in perspective, y’know. ‘Cause, uh… my attacker -- well, attackers, there were actually four sprites there, but the ringleader -- I never did get to see her. But I heard her, and I could tell… she was definitely high.”

Soft gasps. Solemn nods.

“And I’ve sorta realized how lucky I am to be here now. Not just to be alive, but to be getting help. Because really, there’s no denying that I could have gone down that same road if I had more time. And with that, y’know, I wonder… would revenge even make me happy now? Now that I know it could’ve been me? Now that I know how similar she was to me?”

I chanced a glance. Worluk was frozen stiff, her expression intense but unreadable. My words were making an impression. Good or bad, they were doing something to her. An encouraging rush of adrenaline coursed through my body. Don’t stop now, it told me. 

Finish it.

“I never understood why she left me alive, but I think I get it now,” I indirectly spoke to her, my heart pounding. “She’s not a nightmarish monster, she’s just a sprite. A sprite who, when it comes down to it, knows the difference between right and wrong. Who knows that killing me would not actually make her happy. She must have realized that we’re not so different. Otherwise, I wouldn’t be alive right now. Buffs make monsters of all of us. But I can’t condemn her for that, not without condemning myself, too. Wherever she is, she’s not beyond redemption. And neither am I.”

“YOU DON’T DESERVE REDEMPTION!!”

The whole room jumped out of its pixels, and everyone was upright in an instant, reacting to the screeching bug that had leapt to her feet, her yellow wings spread out and quivering with rage. She screamed in a voice that was suddenly far closer to how I remembered her:

“I LEFT YOU ALIVE BECAUSE THE BOYS BEGGED ME TO, NOT BECAUSE YOU DESERVED TO LIVE!”

Well.

All bets were off.

My first instinct was to fight. She was threatening me. Challenging me. Surely, she was about to dive right into me and we would lock into our fated fight to the death, just like I thought we would from day one. But as my hand snapped to the empty space at my hip where my brush would be, my path to her was suddenly blocked. A few other members had stepped in front of me. It took me just a second to realize that they were not barring me from her. 

They were barring her from me.

I’ve felt alone to many varying, crushing degrees in this story, regardless of who was actually there for me. I’m not sure why, but that split-second moment when those sprites stepped in front of me was when I realized I wasn’t alone. I had never been alone. The thought that everyone in the arcade wanted me dead was never true. There were always allies waiting for me.

I had barely a moment to process that.

That was also the moment when the big, buff security guards leapt into action. Two of them were upon her immediately, gripping onto her arms and wings as she thrashed and buzzed. The third guard disappeared entirely, surely out to call the Surge Protector.

Voice deep with horror and disbelief, Clyde called out to her, “Worluk… You’re not really saying--?!”

“YES,” she snapped, “I’m SAYING. Don’t lie and tell me none of you ever thought to do the exact same thing! How can any of you say you trust this lying glitch?! You know she was in on the Roadblasters attack -- she even went all Turbo on Tapper’s, for Pong’s sake!”

A couple of voices came to my defense. I think they said that Tapper’s was a buff-related accident. That Worluk had no proof of my involvement in the Roadblasters incident. That I was just as much a victim as anybody.

I barely heard any of it. All I could hear, echoing again and again, drowning out all coherent thought, was your name said in her voice.

I wanted to push through everyone and rip out her tongue. I wanted to snap off her mandibles. I wanted to mangle her vocal cords just for thinking for one second that she deserved to say your name.

I didn’t do that. I stood there, breathing hard, flames roaring in my belly until I finally shouted the question I’d wanted to ask since the night of the attack.

“Why the HELL would I be in on it?!” 

Everyone’s gaze turned to me. I was shaking, on the verge of tears from pure, raw emotion. Hearing that bug’s horribly familiar screams brought back harrowing flashes of the emotions and sensations I felt the day she tortured me. I felt that fear and helplessness once again, and that fact kicked up seething, scorching rage. I would not be her victim again. I locked eyes with Worluk, sharpened my voice to a deadly point, and demanded, “Why would I help my best friend kill himself?!”

She gave a single, ugly, humorless laugh. “He didn’t kill himself. You just didn’t save him. The plan went sideways, and you failed.”

I shook with so much fury, I felt like I was going to burst out of my own skin. I could barely stand to stay in one spot, twitching and tensing with animal rage. My allies started to lift their hands, trying to keep me under control and preparing to try to catch me if I leapt over them, which I was dying to do. “WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT, YOU SCUM-SUCKING BIT-BAG?! WHAT DO YOU CARE?! YOU DON’T CARE! YOU DON’T KNOW ME -- YOU DIDN’T KNOW EITHER OF US! YOU’RE JUST SOME SADISTIC FREAK WHO NEEDED SOME FRESH GORE TO GET OFF ON!”

“I CARE,” she roared back, fighting against the security guards’ arms, tendons in her neck straining as she threw herself into her wet, hissing screams, “BECAUSE I WATCHED YOU LEAP RIGHT OVER MY SISTER’S BURNING BODY JUST TO SAVE A MURDERER -- AND YOU COULDN’T EVEN DO THAT!” 

That threw me. I blinked hard. “Your sister?! What sister?! What are you talking about?!”

“YEAH, MY SISTER! HER NAME WAS GARWOR! SHE WAS SWEET AND INNOCENT AND YOU COULD’VE SAVED HER, BUT NO, YOU WANTED TO SAVE THE MONSTER THAT STARTED THE FIRE IN THE FIRST PLACE! YOU REALLY WANNA LIVE, KNOWING THAT? IF I KILLED YOU, IT WOULD’VE BEEN A MERCY! I WOULD’VE SAVED YOU FROM YOUR OWN FILTHY, PATHETIC EXISTENCE!”

I didn’t understand. She had to be lying. 

But the massive memory gap concerning the time of the Roadblasters incident scratched and dug at my brain. I still didn’t remember that day. But from the stories I’d gathered, there was a blast. There was fire. Always with the fire. It felt like her words were sharp fingers digging into my brain and trying to forcefully uproot my mind. A sharp, pounding headache hit my skull, and I couldn’t speak. 

Before I could manage a response, Surge materialized in the room with a flash of static.

“Alright, alright now,” he said firmly, standing between Worluk and the group and holding a hand up to both sides. “Someone better tell me what’s going on here.”

“Gladly,” Worluk answered without hesitation. “Surge, I confess to the attempted murder of that scrawny waste of pixels over there named Make-it Mavis.”

Surge stood a bit straighter. He seemed surprised at how easy that was. “Is that right?”

“That’s right. I’d rather quit this stinkin’ program and be locked up for life than sit in here and have to pretend she and I are the same for a second longer.”

And, amazingly… that was it. I wish that I had said something more. Anything, really. Just to have the last word. But life doesn’t always work out that way. My head was so muddied up with the explosive stress of the encounter, I could barely speak.

Surge took the confession as the proof I wasn’t able to give him, and he cuffed her, and recited her sentence and rights to her as he and a guard escorted her out of the room and out of sight. To say everyone was shaken would have been an understatement. A couple sprites cried. One nearly had a panic attack and needed to be calmed down. No one came into the meeting that night expecting such a harrowing confrontation. Not even me.

I had come into the program wishing so badly that I could get rid of Worluk. Then, almost the second I convinced myself to live and let live, she got rid of herself for me. I think we really were very similar, in the end. I very easily could have left the program in a similarly explosive fashion. But the only difference between us was that I chose to do better.

I think that was really the moment that sealed my faith in the ‘colors’ idea. It really did come down to choice. She chose to give up.

And I could choose to heal.

That was my surrender. That was step three.

But at the end of that session, I was raw. I was fragile. I felt terribly sick. I made sure to thank everyone for defending me. It really did mean a lot. But I told everyone I’d take a session or two off just to rest and recover. They all understood, of course. A couple others even said the same. But we’d all be back, we promised.

I just had a lot to process.

#fanfiction #fanfic #wreck it ralph #make it mavis #original character #turbo #homesick

[ficklefics]

Who Needs Enemies - Chapter Two: Lost and Found

Harleen can’t worry about Jerome right now - she has a job to do, and people to meet.

Jerome Valeska x Harleen Quinzel, Jeremiah Valeska x Harleen Quinzel

SERIES MASTERLIST ~ MASTERLIST ~ CHAPTER ONE

Warnings: None

“Harleen! Have you seen this?”

I’m shuffling downstairs still half asleep when Wren shouts to me from the kitchen. I give a vague mumble in response.

“Hurry up!” “Okay!” This time I manage to form something resembling a word. It’s the little things.

I make my way into the room where she’s standing holding the television control and rewinding. “What is it?” “Just watch.”

She presses play.

“Jerome Valeska, known criminal and anarchist, has been arrested.” I’m not surprised, but my heart still freezes in my throat. “After a standoff with the GCPD last night, he was taken into custody and will return to Arkham Asylum later today. Valeska has evaded attempts to apprehend him since his escape from Arkham in February.”

“He didn’t escape, he was kidnapped,” I mutter, purely for the sake of it. “That’s not the point.” Wren gives me a look. “I’m just saying, they shouldn’t be spreading misinformation.” “Shush.”

“Valeska has been responsible for countless deaths and destructive incidents since the murder of his mother five years ago; most recently, the kidnapping and torture of socialite Harleen Quinzel.”

“Ooh, I get a special mention. I’m so glad my reputation isn’t permanently impacted by him.” I roll my eyes before grabbing the controller and turning the tv off. “Moving on: what time’s your train?”

*

Two hours later I’m hugging Wren goodbye at the station. A day isn’t long enough after so much time. But she and my parents are flying to Barbados tomorrow – summer vacation far away from the grim realities of life. “Stay safe,” She says into my shoulder. “When don’t I?” I tease. Another look. “I’ll do my best.”

I wave until the train is out of sight and resist the urge to cry, instead turning and striding away. In half an hour I’m meeting Bruce and I need to be ready.

*

The café we’ve arranged to meet at is small, cosy and, most importantly, quiet. There’s a mocha and a croissant sitting in front of me as I wait for him to arrive.

Since February we’ve tried to meet up regularly – both of us wanting to make sure the other wasn’t becoming isolated – but the chaotic and unpredictable nature of Bruce’s life made scheduling more than difficult. We’re lucky to see each other once a month.

In a way that works better for me. It makes it easier to hide the truth, to lie straight to the face of one of my best friends. To pretend that everything is okay. That everything is normal. That I’m not falling for an insane criminal. That I’m not a traitor.

“Harleen!” The smile on my face is genuine when I see Bruce standing at the counter. I give him a wave and wait for him to come over, carrying a tray holding a black coffee and a blueberry muffin. “It’s good to see you.” “You too. I’ve missed you.” And I mean it. “How’s life?” He sighs, looking away. “Good days and bad days. Sometimes… sometimes it just feels like no matter how much good I do, Gotham is just getting worse and worse.” “I get that. There’s so much darkness here – it’s suffocating. It’s so difficult to know what’s right and wrong.” I’m consoling myself as much as I’m consoling him. The line between good and evil has practically disappeared. The greater good is irrelevant – what did walking in the light ever do for me? At least in the darkness, I can hide. At least I can protect myself. “I’m glad you understand. Selina doesn’t struggle with things like this – if she can justify it, she’ll do it. No matter what.” “I wish I could do that – make a decision without second-guessing myself.” It feels all I do these days is question my decisions – is this really what I want? Is Jerome what I want?

Eventually, I’ll have to make a decision. Peace or chaos. Duty or freedom. Bruce or Jerome.

I can’t imagine what Bruce would say if he found out the truth. I know he wouldn’t understand. And I know he would never trust me again.

“That’s life though.” He shrugs, a melancholy look in his eyes. But with a sip of his coffee, he perks up and smiles. “How about you? How are you getting on?” “Surviving.” I laugh, tearing my croissant and taking a bite. “I finally have some control back in my life. No parents, no school, flexible work -” “No Jerome.” He interjects. “No Jerome.” I nod. Bullshit. “He was arrested last night.” “I saw. How do you feel?” “I don’t know.” There’s some honesty. “At least now we know where he is. But they mentioned me in the report.” Bruce nods. “It’s as though… as though I’ll always be associated with him, whether I like it or not.” Do I want that? Do I want my name alongside Jerome’s for the rest of my life? I chose him… But what does that mean?

“So you haven’t seen him since-?” “Since he killed the people who took us from Arkham.” More lies. All I can do is lie. “He’s left me alone. Moved on.”

Liar.

*

Next stop is the library. I hurry up the steps just as it starts to rain. Inside it’s quiet. Obviously.

I smile at the librarian as I walk past the desk in the direction of the computers. Sitting down, I pull out Jerome’s note. ‘Zachary Tumble’. I can’t get Jerome out of Arkham. I can’t play the hero. But I can do this for him.

There’s no feeling of guilt as I type the name into the search bar. I know that if I find him and tell Jerome where he is, he’s as good as dead. But he deserves it. Just the thought of Jerome as a young child, being tortured and abused by this man, makes him deserve it.

“Practically cooked me down to the bone.”

My jaw set, I begin my research, noting down every detail that I can, anything that might help.

I will find him.

*

A few weeks later and there’s been no word from Jerome. He’s still in Arkham and all I can do is wait. Life has become boring, monotone, without his presence.

So there’s only one thing to do.

For the first time in months, I’m back out on the streets in the dead of night. All in black, hood up, blending into the nightlife of Gotham. I don’t plan on committing any “misdeeds”. It’s enough just to be out, that vague sense of rebellion, of danger. It’s barely anything compared to everything I’ve experienced now, but it’s better than nothing.

It’s as if I don’t exist. Just another person in a sea of ghosts.

At some point, I become aware of someone following me. When I turn and look back there isn’t anything out of place, but I know that’s not true.

Thinking strategically I turn down an empty alleyway. With the sound of the city muffled I know for certain that there is someone behind me.

I wait a moment before I pull the gun out from my waistband and point it at my stalker.

It’s Selina.

“Since when did you start carrying a gun?” “Since I got kidnapped and tortured on live television.” I lower the weapon. “Why are you following me?” “I wanted to talk to you.” “You know where I live.” I frown at her, brows furrowed in confusion. “I went to your place. You weren’t there.” She steps closer so that she’s standing right in front of me. “So I found you.” “Well, here I am.” I shrug. “What did you want to talk about?”

“How are you doing?” She shoves her hands into her pockets. “Really?” “Yeah. We’re friends – I wanted to check in.”

I start walking again, with Selina at my side, and head back into the streets. “I assumed Bruce would keep you updated.” “He does. But I want to hear it from you.” I know Selina could see right through me if I’m not careful. “Honestly? I don’t know.” Careful, Harleen. One wrong move and you could lose everything. “It’s weird. Everything’s so different. I’m not afraid anymore.” She examines me out of the corner of her eye. “Why not?” “Because now I’m in control. I’m not running from anything or anyone. I get to decide what my life is – no one else.” Technically not lying. “Good. You’re strong; you need to use that.” I nod. “There’s something else.” “Oh dear.” “Penguin asked to see you.”

“What?” I stop in my tracks, confused. “Penguin hates me.” “Well, he wants to talk to you. He didn’t say why.” “When?” “As soon as possible.”

“Let’s go then.”

*

It doesn’t take us long to get to the mansion. I even manage not to crash this time.

I lead the way inside. It’s exactly as I remember it, luxurious and dark. We find Penguin in the lounge, despite the late hour, with a glass of whiskey in his hand. “Penguin.” He doesn’t seem surprised to see us standing there. “Thank you, Miss Kyle.” “No problem.” She turns to leave, giving me what is almost a warning glance. “Good luck.”

And then we’re alone. Penguin gestures towards the chair opposite him and I sit down in it, resisting the anxious instinct that screams at me to run. No weakness.

“It’s been a while, Miss Quinzel.” “Yup.” I pause for a moment, and as he’s about to speak I interrupt him. “You know, you could just call me Harleen.” He examines me for what feels like an eternity. “You might be aware I escaped Arkham recently. While I was there, Jerome and I spoke.” “You saw him?” I struggle to cover the emotion behind my question. But I’m pretty sure he knows anyway. “Is he okay?” “He has the run of the place – he’s only there because he wants to be.” “And why’s that?” “He didn’t tell you?” I shake my head. “I assumed you would know the details.” “I don’t know anything. Other than that he’s looking for his uncle.” “Well, he wanted me to tell you that he has a plan. And that you need to be ready when he breaks out.” He swirls the liquid in his glass, watching it sparkle in the warm light of the fire. “What do you mean ready?” “That’s all he said.” Penguin’s eyes lift to meet mine. He’s stern, as always, but there’s a flicker of fear. I don’t know what Jerome told him, but it’s serious. “He’ll come and get you, and you need to be ready to leave. He’s bringing everyone here.” “Everyone?” Who’s everyone? As far as I know, Jerome’s allies are always temporary. But maybe there’s something he hasn’t told me. “That’s all he said.”

I stand up, irritated and relieved at the same time. I’m glad Jerome’s okay – but the ambiguity of his message his frustrating. “Be ready.” What does that even mean?

“Thank you, Mr Cobblepot.” Turning to leave, I’m at the door when he speaks again.

“One last thing.” “Yeah?” “He wants you to get him a suit.”

CHAPTER THREE

#jerome valeska #jerome valeska x harleen quinzel #harleen quinzel #gotham #jeremiah valeska #jeremiah valeska x harleen quinzel

[rachelbethhines]

So I’m rewatching all of Varian’s episodes in preparation for season 3 and I came across The Alchemist Returns and I just wanted to point out something that’s been on my mind lately...

Varian was justified in taking the flower

Now I’m not saying everything he did was right, nor was his actions afterwards justified, but anyone one else in his position would have done it, including the King who already did. 

So here’s the scenario you find yourself in. You’re home has been hit by a natural disaster, everyone is ordered to evacuate,  but someone you love has been seriously injured in the event. Now, due to the still on going devastation, no one can immediately come to help. OK it is a scary situation but understandable. But then once the emergency has passed you find yourself waiting and waiting and still no one comes. And all the while time is growing short for the person you love; they may even already be too far gone. 

Then someone does arrive. It’s the military. Surely they’ll help. They’re here to rescue people right? Nope. Rather then send in relief or help rebuild, the government has decided that your home and your loved one aren’t worth saving. You and any survivors are ordered to be removed, but you’re injured loved one can’t move! They’re sick! You refuse to go with them and instead leave to go find someone who will help. 

Only, no one will. The government has placed trumped up charges against you. You’re deemed a dangerous and violent radical all because you refused to comply. Because said government is trying to hide their incompetence in handling the situation. Few even know about the natural disaster that hit your home, even fewer believe you when you said you were framed. 

So you’re now an outlaw, on the run, and trying desperately to find the means to save you’re sick loved one. Then in your search you find out that the government has been hording medicine. The very medicine that could save your loved one. Medicine that could potentially save countless people. Turns out the government has been hiding this life saving medicine for years and no one but you and a few top government officials knows it even exists. 

Now you can’t tell anyone about this. No one would believe you; you’re a criminal after all. Further more if the government got wise that you even knew their secret, you'd be good as dead. So you devise a cunning plan to steal the medicine. 

And you succeed! Sure the government found out your plans and now the president has deemed you a traitor and public enemy number one. So few will ever know of your true deed and if caught you’ll never live to see daylight again. But who cares? You got the medicine! Your loved one is saved! 

Only...only... it doesn’t work! What you stole was just a prototype. The real medicine is still with the government. In fact it’s with someone within the government who you once trusted for help but now believes you to be a criminal same as everyone else. What do you do?! You just threw away your life, your future, your freedom, and your very soul all for this one shot and you blew it! The possibility of ever clearing your good name is now gone forever and you’re loved one is one step closer to the grave. 

What do you do?

It’s not a one to one analogy, obviously. But it’s worth pointing out that Varian didn’t go from sweet innocent angel to murderous vengeful villain in one fell swoop. Regardless of when with “Let Me Make You Proud Reprise” happens within the timeline, Varian still is trying non-violent means to achieve his goals. He’s still trying to get Rapunzel to his side, and he only keeps getting ever more desperate as his options are continuously closed off to him. 

And with regards to stealing the flower specifically, he was in the right. As with the given scenario above, the King was hording medicine from the public at large. That’s a clear abuse of power. Framing someone so they won’t speak out against you is also a clear abuse of power. And making “treason”, the highest crime in a land, (so bad that it was once thought to doom your mortal soul to darkest pits of hell) to non-violent crimes like stealing or disobeying an authoritarian is just barbaric. There’s a reason why the US’s legal definition of “treason” is so specific and narrow. Because dictators use it as a way of silencing any political revolt and free speech if not strictly defined. 

To make matter’s worse, Fredric doesn’t even have a legal claim to the flower. It was found outside of Corona's walls. He stole it same as Varian did, and with knowledge that doing so could harm others later on.    

Varain’s actions after stealing the flower are indeed horrible and I’m not defending them. But leading up to that point, King Frederic's actions are so, so much worse. He’s an absolute monarch. An authoritarian with unchecked power over people’s lives. He can kill people with but a word. He can ruin lives with simple inaction and neglect. He may not dirty his hands himself, like Varian, but he’s clearly been shown in canon to abuse to his power, rip families apart with unjust laws, and it’s implied that people have died by his orders. Everyone who knows him, even his family, fears him and the power he welds. So much so they can’t be honest with him, for they don’t know what he may do. 

What I’m getting at here is that Rapunzel, and by extension the show itself, shows a clear bias to Frederic over Varian. It’s an understandable bias on her part, but a bias nonetheless. Rather than owning up to all of his misdeeds, Fredric just gives a sob story about how his wife and daughter almost died. Rapunzel instantly forgives him for doing the very thing Varian tried to do, for no other reason then because he’s her father. When questioning why Varian would care about his own dad over that of the kingdom, she herself never bothers to question her own dad. She blindly accepts his laws as “good” and “right” despite the fact that he has given her little reason to trust him at this point. And indeed she seems perplexed and disturbed by the fact that Varian would be so concerned for his dad, despite the fact that saving Quirin is a good enough reason to steal the flower anyways. Saving one life is just as important as saving a kingdom, especially since doing so won’t hurt anyone other then a tyrant’s pride. 

I sincerely hope that for season 3 we’re building to some sort of comeuppance for Frederic.That he’s half-assed apology/confession to Rapunzel isn’t the end of his character arc. Because while Frederic is a compelling character with his grey morals and questionable motives, it’s important for a children’s show to challenge authority and those that wield power unjustly. Especially in today’s political climate when wannabe authoritarians the world over are trying to take over our democracies. And the main reason Varian is the most popular character in the show right now is because thus far he’s the only person to actually stand up to said authority and abuse, regardless of how extreme his methods of doing so would eventually become. 

#tangled #varian #king frederic #tts #tangled the series #rapunzel's tangled adventure #rta #tangle boi

[imaginaryfriendcomic]

a long, meta PSA

Hello, my good readers! Firstly, I’m very glad to see we’re almost reaching 1k followers, and I’m still very determined to finish the next page - I’m nearly done with the whole layout!

Though what I want to talk about today is something I’ve been thinking for a while. As many of you may know, Imaginary Friend was technically going to be a comic adaptation of the original fanfiction I posted a long time ago. Now, I’m not saying I’m going to change the entire plot, yet there’s something in there that’s actually been bothering me, now that I think of it: and that’s about Gaster being a dad before the Void. Please read the whole post before commenting or sending asks!

*SPOILERS FOR THE ORIGINAL STORY

TRIGGER WARNINGS - MENTIONS OF ABUSE AND NEGLECT

Even from the first 23 pages, you know that Gaster is drowning in his sorrows and regrets. He keeps saying how he failed at being the Royal Scientist, for not being able to free everyone, and at being a father to Sans and Papyrus. If anyone has gotten to the fanfiction already, it’s claimed that Gaster used to overwork himself and did not spend a lot of time with his sons, and that “he pushed them away.” I’ll be including some chapter pieces here to prove my points:

LIKE I SAID, I WAS THE ROYAL SCIENTIST. I MARRIED A BEAUTIFUL WOMAN AND HAD TWO CHILDREN. MY WIFE, UNFORTUNATELY, PASSED AWAY... THE ONLY GOOD THINGS I HAD IN MY LIFE THEN WERE SANS AND PAPYRUS. I HAVE DONE EVERYTHING TO GIVE THEM A GOOD LIFE, WHICH MADE ME WORK EVEN HARDER AFTER MY WIFE WAS GONE. BUT THEN  I STARTED BEING SO FOCUSED ON WORK THAT I DIDN'T REALLY GIVE THEM MUCH ATTENTION. I BARELY SPENT TIME WITH THEM. WHEN I WAS IN A BAD MOOD, I USUALLY TOLD THEM TO LEAVE ME ALONE... I WASN'T A GOOD FATHER.

(chapter 2)

He let his wife die; nothing he had done to cure her from her disease worked. He neglected Sans and Papyrus, barely spent time with them and... treated them like they were just a burden in his life, when they really weren't. He had failed at freeing monsters, he had broken everyone's trust. He had disappointed everyone. He had had one job, and he failed.

(chapter 7)

It’s even implied that Sans looked after Papyrus on his own, too, which is further confirmed in the sequel I made, You’re Home Now (which contains Grillby x Gaster, just warning you guys).

He was very proud of them, despite Sans being lazy... His elder child did a great job taking care of Papyrus when he was younger (...).

(chapter 1)

The little Sans was home (in their very, very old house, the one located in New Home), watching television with young Papyrus. It was already late, the babysitter hadn't been able to come over, leaving Sans the responsibility of taking care of himself and his little brother, which wasn't that bad. Despite being a kid, Sans was actually responsible enough for his father to trust him at this task, though Papyrus could give some hard work sometimes.

(You’re Home Now, chapter 2)

Maybe this hasn’t crossed in anyone’s minds - if they’ve already read the fic - and well, I’m unsure if I’m overthinking this since I didn’t get that much depth to the original story, but this is my work, after all. I wrote this more than 3 years ago, so I’m looking back at it with a more critical perspective. Thus, this aspect about Gaster’s parenting has been bothering me recently.

I’m aware that many children have gone through this; being forced to look after themselves, their siblings or even their own parents (the latter isn’t quite the case here but anyway), as the adults fail to do what they’re supposed to - of taking care of their family and providing them love, attention and everything else. The lack of any of these things has been normalized in many households, and most of the time kids don’t realize how harmful it might be to them, because their own feelings aren’t validated. Since they’re forced to take in the role of the responsible parent, the adult, they excuse and justify their parents’ misdeeds.

Surely, in the original Imaginary Friend, Gaster acknowledges he wasn’t the best dad, yet now that I come to read it again, it never feels like he’s truly called out for that. Alright, he’s already being punished by the loneliness and helplessness for decades inside the Void, and he does show genuine remorse for his actions. Regardless, I feel like I’ve made excuses for his failures at being a parent. I feel like I used the “but he didn’t mean to!” excuse that so many people adopt when we’re talking about abusive and neglectful parents. I used Frisk, a character who I headcanon to have been abused by their biological parents, to justify that Gaster wasn’t all that bad:

"Don't say that! I think they would be glad to see you again." Frisk assured him. "I mean, you deeply cared about them and did everything to offer them proper conditions and-"

YES, BUT... I HAVE NOT GIVEN THEM ENOUGH LOVE AND AFFECTION. He sighed sadly.

Frisk sighed too. They had a feeling that Sans and Papyrus didn't hate him. They just knew it, but Gaster didn't believe.

"But... they never gave up on you, right?" They asked.

(...)

"I would've really liked to have a father who would do everything to give me a good life."

Gaster, curious, looked at the child. WHAT DO YOU MEAN?

"Toriel is my mom now, and she's the best, but... I've never had a father that cared about me." Frisk admitted. "You know... before I fell into the Underground. My real parents weren't... great. They were very mean to me, specially my father."

(...)

I AM SORRY ABOUT YOUR PARENTS.

"It's okay. At least I found great friends and a fantastic mom." Frisk said, smiling, despite remembering their mean parents. "You are a way better father than my real one. You shouldn't say you're the worst."

Gaster didn't answer.

"You may have not spent much time with them, but I don't think Sans and Papyrus wouldn't be happy to see you." Frisk said.

BUT I MADE THEM FEEL LIKE THEY WERE ANNOYING ME... I SHOULD HAVE NEVER DONE THAT.

"I understand, but, just so you know... I think you already made it clear to them that you cared about them, which is why they were always there for you even if you distanced yourself."

(chapter 2)

Sans and Papyrus don’t hold grudges against their father, either, and yet, now that I realize it, the former presents the same “pushing away” behavior Gaster presumably adopted. In the very least, Sans is called out for it, but I never explicitly connected that to how his father treated them:

"SANS, DID YOU SLEEP WELL?" Papyrus asked.

"i'm okay, pap."

"BUT YOU LOOK AWFUL-"

"papyrus, i'm okay!" Sans interrupted, sounding annoyed.

Papyrus shrunk out of fear. He had never seen Sans in that state before. He knew something was up with him, but for some reason, he was afraid of asking Sans what was wrong. His brother sounded so grumpy, he felt like he would piss him off if he asked that at the time.

(chapter 6)

"DON'T YOU JUST LEAVE THE HOUSE LIKE THAT!" Papyrus said, somehow pissed, but concerned at the same time.

"l-leave me alone." Sans managed to escape, but Papyrus wouldn't let him go.

"I JUST WANT TO TALK TO YOU! PLEASE-"

Sans teleported himself, escaping Papyrus's grip. He groaned loudly.

"SANS, OH MY GOD! STOP RUNNING AWAY FROM ME!" Papyrus yelled.

Turned out that Sans didn't teleport far away. He arrived in the same street, a few meters ahead.

"WHY ARE YOU DOING THIS TO ME?!" Papyrus yelled.

"i don't want to talk, papyrus."

"BUT THAT DOESN'T MEAN YOU CAN JUST... TREAT ME LIKE GARBAGE!"

(chapter 9)

That’s NOT to say Gaster is evil. You could say that Gaster believes he was terrible because of his trauma from the Void. The dark dimension causes him to hallucinate things, alter his physical form and twist reality, and so that may be why Sans and Papyrus don’t hold anything against him. But the point is, I don’t feel like I’ve made that clear. And with Sans technically mirroring his past role model, I feel like the narrative swept Gaster’s bad parenting under the carpet.

This topic is very difficult to discuss, I’m very aware of that. I get that some abusers can make it different, they can change. However, that’s not what usually happens. What does happen is society underestimating and devaluating the effects of abuse on people, especially children and teenagers. Nobody tends to focus on the victims, and thus finds ways to justify the abuse. Like that, I feel like I contributed to that, too. That’s why I’m writing this post.

PLEASE NOTE: I’m very proud of having written Imaginary Friend, and I want to continue with the comic. However, I want to truly emphasize that there will be changes in the comic adaptation, and with this theme in mind, I’ll make sure I don’t unintentionally excuse bad parenting again. At the time I wrote the fic, I had no idea it might come off that way (which doesn’t mean I’m condemning myself for not noticing). I think a lot of other people haven’t had the same impression, either; yet now that I do, I want to change what this fic might have defended.

I’m very sorry for everyone who went through this situation in their childhoods, or might still be. It’s not your fault. Your parent(s)/guardian(s) should have been better, and that’ll never be on you. Maybe they “didn’t mean to”, but that doesn’t mean it’s not harmful. I wish you all the happiness and safety in the world. <3

Stay determined!

#author's posts #meta #abuse tw #neglect tw #abuse mention tw #long post #is this a callout post at myself? #maybe lmao #but still i felt the need to get this out of my chest #i might add this as a new blog page

[onepiecesmosthated]

Biggest Coal Getters At Christmas In One Piece

As you know from this blog, I rag on the most hated characters in One Piece. At at this merry Christmas time, I want to show you all the biggest coal getters in this series.

12.  Stelly

With being such an arrogant, self-important, entitled, and asshole brat, Sabo’s adoptive brother, Stelly, makes the first on the list on our naughty list. One has to feel sorry for the Gao kingdom for being ruled over such a spoiled king, who even thinks he can order Garp around because he’s originally from there.

11.  Wapol

 Another king on this list, but one who also is the president of his own toy company is Wapol. Like Stelly he was quite a horrible ruler when he was ruling Drum Kingdom, especially when he left the island to fend for itself when Blackbeard invaded and horded all the doctors so he could force people to pay high prices for them. Though he is currently living high now with his new kingdom gifted by the World Nobles, Santa still is going to leave a nice lump that fits his dark heart.

10. Judge

Just like with the earlier two entries, we have another asshole ruler and this one is the father of Strawhat member, Sanji. The ruler of the Germa 66, a seafaring kingdom that is notorious for conquering islands and being paid assassins, he is a social darwanist, who caused great abuse to Sanji throughout his childhood because he turned out normal. The only reason why he wanted Sanji back into his life was to cement an alliance with Big Mom by offering him as a groom for her daughter, Pudding, which turned out to be a trap because the Yonko planned to kill him and the other Vinsmokes off to get their technology. And at the wedding when the Big Mom Pirates’ true colors are showed, all that previous super macho bravado is melted away to reveal a sniveling coward who cries when someone puts him into the situation that he put others under. And for that the Germa clones will shoveling a lot of coal for a while.

9. Spandam

This guy is the poster child on why we should have anti-neoptism laws. A snively cowardly shit Spandam when he was head of the CP9 tortured Robin all the while she was under his captivity, while arrogantly believing his CP agents were untouchable. He also has little regard for human life when he accidentally triggered the buster call and didn’t care that his subordinates could die. He even called them needed sacrifices. He was also the reason why Tom, Iceburg and Franky’s mentor, was killed due to a frame up job he did in order to obtain the Pluton from him. It’s a bit karmic seeing him be forced to take orders from his former subordinate, Lucci, but even then the clumsy klutz should trip on his black pile of gifts he will get.

8. Hody Jones

Think Arlong, but with none of his few redeeming qualities. Although Hody can be said to be a product of his environment, he’s still a nasty racist shit, who should rot in the jail cell he was put in at the end of his starring arc. With his New Fishman Pirates, they planned on taking over the kingdom and go to Reverie where they planned to massarce everyone there. However, the worst thing he’s done is assassinate Queen Otohime, because she dared to try to aim to bring peace between humans and seafolk. If you think there can be a reason for his racism, then he would answer it himself: “nothing”. Nothing happened to him to make him hate humans personally he just grew up with the toxic belief that hating humans was justified. And for that Hody spends Christmas in a jail cell, while sharing it with the number of coals that can keep him and the other withered New Fishman Pirates company.

7. Mother Carmel

To the world (and to this day, Big Mom), Mother Carmel was a saintly figure who fostered peace between humans and giants plus opened up an orphanage for children of all races. However, underneath that facade lied a wicked slaver, who pretended to be a grandmotherly figure in order to sell children to the highest dollar. Her famed action of stopping the Elbaf crew from being executed was a staged event in order to gain the trust of the giants. Her most notable so-called prized asset was Charlotte Linlin (who would later become Big Mom), who to this day doesn’t know her foster mother never truly loved her and saw her as merchandise to be sold. Even though she’s a deceased character, she certainly deserves to have her stockings filled to the brim with stone, cold coal.

6. Blackbeard

Although he’s more of a love to hate example, we all know that Blackbeard deserves to be on this list. For one thing, if you want to know why the post-timeskip is chaotic as it is it’s thanks to this guy. He for years pretended to be a loyal member of Whitebeard’s crew and acted like one of the family knit setting. However, it’s all an at to get at the Yami Yami No Mi/Dark Dark Fruit. He killed one of his own brothers/crewmates, then went off to form his own crew where he fought Ace and got him handed over to the Marines, so that he could become a Warlord and get into Impel Down. There during the breakout he recruited level six members to his crew, then used them to kill his former captain and father figure Blackbeard. And postimeskip he has been shown to now be hunting down devil fruit users for his fellow crew. There is a reason why people say he’s the anti-Luffy and what a real non-romanticized pirate is like. So, I have a feeling Santa will be stopping by on Hive Island with some hefty packages that could fit his namesake.

5. Ceasar Clown

Although he’s shown as a butt monkey after his first appearance, the record of his misdeeds cannot be forgotten. On his island he kept children captive after a mole in the marines lied to their parents about them dying at sea, which he then proceeded to experiment on them with drugged candy which made them grow giant sized and shorten their live spans. All the while pretending he was actually curing them when he couldn’t give a shit. He also is notorious for making chemical weapons of mass destruction which is used by amoral individuals like the Beast Pirates. In other words, Santa strap this asshole to a big lump of coal and drown him.

4. Doflamingo

One of the most popular villians in the series is Donquixote Doflamingo, former Warlord, top broker, and King Of Dressrosa. Man, you could have a long list of all the shit he’s pulled throughout his career and life. On the outside he might look like a gaudy Elton John rip off, but on the inside bleeds one of the scariest and ruthless characters in the series. No wonder because he was born of the World Nobles, who are a sociopathic and psychotic bunch. From his take over to Dressrosa to funding Ceasar Clown’s research, he certainly can make you scared of the color pink. And that is why we have to heep this birds feathers with a black sheen.

3. Orochi

While Doffy is pretty to look at and is flamboyantly fun, Orochi just embodies “hate sink” stereotypes. He’s just made to be obvious that this guy is not going to be a good person. Spoilers ahead: I know he was influenced into becoming an asshole but he is still an asshole who sold out his country for his own benefit. Not to mention currently it was shown he was heavily implied to be the one who killed Suriyaki and lied to everyone about being named a successor with the help of that strange woman. His 20 years of terror have caused nothing but hurt to everyone under his rule as he causes a famine due to the occupying forces of the Beast Pirates. All of his because he believed he was entitled like his grandfather to be Shogun. He also wastes food, as his country is starving and feeds a whole village of hungry people failed “Smiles” so that they can quit crying about their dead loved ones. I know Santa would know of a way to get into this closed off country, so that he can deliver this shistain a coal that is as big as a mountain.

2. Kaido

Here is the man of thousand beasts and leader of the Beast pirates. Even though Blackbeard himself is no saint, he doesn’t seem to want to destroy the world like Kaido does. An unstoppable juggernaut, he sees suicide as a way to kill boredom and is often on his ass drunk. He’s ruled over Wano through Orochi for 2 decades, as he has decimated it into a famine wide place except the capitol where the rich and his toadie lives. He uses the land to function his own war effort and has caused many of the Wano people to go through great periods of grief. Like with Blackbeard, he’s an unromanticed version of what a pirate is really like. So, Kaido be prepared for Onigashima to reign coal like it’s no tomorrow.

1. World Nobles (Celestial Dragons)

By default, you know these shitty bastards would top the list. The biggest reason because of the fact that they are above the law and are allowed to do anything they like because they are so-called “gods”. They treat the general population like crap, while blatantly owning slaves when it was supposed to have been illegalized 2 centuries ago. They are also supported by a thing called heavenly tribute which country of the world government has to give continuously, lest they get kicked out and have no way of defending themselves from pirates or slave traffickers. So I can say the biggest coal getters go to these fat pigs in their towers. Better yet they should coal statues made in (dis)honor of them.

#hate sinks #assholes at christmas

[windschildfanfictionwriter]

The Post War Draco Arguement

It seems like everyone is weighing in on the idea of Draco Malfoy’s post book arc that apparently makes him a ‘good person’ because he ‘grew up’ and no longer tried to murder people or delight in their torture/death. 

Yeah. No. 

Harry, Ron and Hermione literally saved Draco’s life in the room of requirements and not even an hour later Draco is telling Death Eaters he is one of them in order to try to spare his own life. 

Draco didn’t become good. He just realized that he would go to jail and be punished for his misdeeds if he didn’t put on some good boy pants. He’s not pretending to be good, he is a coward who is too afraid to be the bad person that he was. 

There is nothing in the books, in all seven books, to suggest otherwise. There are moments when he is terrified, traumatized, unbearably scared of the negative consequences he has wreaked upon himself, but there was no point where he felt compassion for others or regret. There was no moment where he went to Ron and was like... hey bro, you know how I poisoned you? You know, almost murdering you? Like, I’m totes sorry about that. I regret not only trying to murder Albus Dumbledore, but all the terrible side accidents that happened because of it. That must have been really painful and horrible for you, choking and suffocating and all that. 

Hey, Katie Bell, you know that horrible curse I put on you? Yeah, my bad. Knocked you out for your last season of Quidditch and nearly murdered you too, and destroyed all semblance of joy for your graduating year, but uh... totally wasn’t aiming for you? 

Nope, no remorse or regret, just gonna cry like a little fucking bitch in the bathroom about MY problems. Totally points to redemption. You betcha. 

The fact that people treated Ron like he was being immature for holding a grudge against him? Made me fucking livid. 

No, no, no, we don’t forgive people for trying to murder us. That’s just not healthy. “Forgiveness is not for the perpetrator, it is for the victim.” Some people will say. “So that they themselves can move passed the past and live a healthier life.” Sorry, but there’s a hard pass on that. 

Things that can be forgiven with time? 

A bully. 

If Draco had only bullied them, then sure. You’re both adults now. Maybe they’ll never be friends, but some hurtful words and such can be forgiven. 

But Draco Malfoy demonstrated time again to go passed simple bullying. He’s demonstrated pleasure at the thought of someone else’s death, has shown that he himself would want to be the cause of it, he attempted to murder Dumbledore- in the process nearly killing two students, and showed no remorse what so ever for either events. For either person. 

Only for himself. 

Draco Malfoy is a coward. He should have gone to jail for attempted murder, assault, endangerment, AND for being a Death Eater. Say all you want about him being a ‘child.’ He was well passed childhood. He was a teenager who was one year away from being an adult in the eyes of the wizarding world. Young enough to be forgiven for mistakes (because everybody makes them) but not young enough to be forgiven for attempted murder. 

And before anyone comes up with any weak ass arguments about him having his parents held as hostages... are you out of your god damn mind? Draco was thrilled to be made a Death Eater. He practically glowed with the joy of it on the train ride. Your little head cannon is just that. An imaginary thing that doesn’t exist. No one was a hostage. 

No. Voldemort gave Draco a job he couldn’t possibly handle and sat back to watch the shit show unfold. Daddy was in jail and Mummy was off and making deals with Snape and her sister so they were no where near being held hostage by the dark lord. 

It was only when Draco realized how outclassed he was, how much of an idiot he was for thinking that he could do this, that his fear of not being able to complete the task (not the task itself, mind you) overwhelmed him and made him realize that his life was truly in danger.  

One of the failings of the books, I always thought, was allowing Draco Malfoy to (essentially) get away with everything. His family remained alive. He was safe. Free to get married and have kids, apparently. It was only the disdain of the the wizarding world he had to deal with and that seems to have been all but forgotten by the time the epilogue rolled around. 

While people like Tonks and Lupin, Sirius and Cedric, Fred and Colin and many more died... this motherfucker got to live. 

Its quite sickening. 

And then good people like Ron are just expected to shake his hand and let things just... be? Fuck that. Draco Malfoy deserved to be poisoned and cursed and dropped off the Astronomy Tower with the entirety of Hogwarts applauding his death before heading off to the Great Hall for tea. 

The trope of Draco Malfoy being ‘misunderstood’ is as unjustifiable as the one that states Ron Weasley is a bad friend. These tropes are born out of a problem with culture. The idea that the ‘bad boy’ no matter how terrible he is, no matter abusive or sickening his behavior can always be justified by a shitty passed or other excuses (Draco). On the other hand the idea that a genuinely good person who stands beside the hero is unforgivable for having moments of weakness, of being human, and who is not perfect is also apart of society. The sidekick who has one bad trait is considered to be unworthy while a bad guy is considered misunderstood for having one line in one book that wasn’t absolutely bad. 

Romance Novels are filled with Draco Malfoys. They glorify his type. My best friend (who adores the trash) went on an on about an assassin who kidnapped this woman against her will (but for her own good, apparently). This assassin forces her to stay on this island with him. Yet he is misunderstood. He was horribly abused as a child and had these malicious terrible things done so despite the fact that he is holding her against her will, he is the good guy. 

Another book summary from my bestie? This guy ignores this girls safe word and goes too far. Repeatedly. But no, its not his fault! Because he was raised this way. He’s a good guy. Really. 

Again and again and again she tells me about these romance novels and it truly sickens me. That woman are so into this concept. That the guy who is abusive and horrible and mentally fucked up is more desirable and interesting than the well rounded, genuinely good people in the world. 

She has never, not once, described a healthy relationship in the hundreds and hundreds of books she’s read. Its all equally sickening. 

Which is why people find Severus Snape to be good. It’s why people prefer the Draco Malfoy’s to the sweet Ronald Weasley’s. They have a fascination with the mentally fucked up. They find a thrill with unraveling the reasoning behind it and for trying to draw out the good in all that fucked up-ness. 

The Romance Genre is the highest grossing Genre in all of literature. More than Sci-Fi or fantasty or Young Adult. This Genre, primarily bought by woman, is filled to the brim with abusive, terrible behavior that is glorified and giggled over. 

Because its popular. 

Because it sells. 

That is why Draco Malfoy is popular even though he has no right to be. It is vicious and ugly and sickening, but true, none the less. People like abusive assholes and they’ll fall over themselves to give them excuses. 

#Anti-Draco #HarryPotter #DracoMalfoy #Bully 

[chatterbox-meta]

On Narrative Consequence

Or, a meta on how every single one of Katsuki Bakugou’s and Enji Todoroki’s misdeeds have directly or indirectly resulted in their misfortune.

Before I begin, I would like to say sorry for postponing other metas I’ve promised to write in favour of this meta. Well, I say meta, but this is more of a rant than anything. Namely, by writing this, I am mostly venting my frustration with a certain belief somewhat widespread in the MHA fandom - that Katsuki and Enji have never been properly punished for anything they did.

First, let’s examine what “proper punishment” even means. The answers probably vary from person to person, but the most consistent ones I’ve seen centered around legal punishment, verbal calling out and, sometimes, an “eye for an eye” type of retribution. I’ll get to the last two later, but the first one - legal punishment - is genuinely not something either Katsuki or Enji have gotten.

“But Chatterbox! That means the people who say they weren’t punished properly are actually right!” Well, yeah, if this was real life then legal punishment would be the only appropriate response for crimes like spousal and child abuse, as well as certain bullying tactics like suicide baiting.

However, My Hero Academia is not real life and Katsuki and Enji aren’t real people. They’re fictional characters within a narrative and that narrative has a way of dishing out its own punishment. Just because the two of them haven’t been sent to jail/juvie doesn’t mean they were immune to karmic narrative punishment. Such punishment is obviously not possible in real life since karma doesn’t exist, only direct action, but in a story like MHA, the author can write events to serve that purpose.

With that in mind and to put it bluntly, you’d have to ignore large chunks of canon to claim the two weren’t punished. In fact, many events in MHA are designed to hit Katsuki and Enji specifically where it will hurt them the most and in a way that will make them learn their lessons and retain them. Let’s go over the things that happen to them and what actions led to that.

Katsuki Bakugou starts off the series as a bully convinced he’s standing at the top and determined to keep our loveable protagonist Izuku down because, deep down, he (perhaps irrationally, at that point) believes Izuku has whatever it takes to surpass him and fears the failure and loss of identity that would mean for him. Of course, this merely explains his actions and doesn’t justify them, so what is his punishment?

Well, the punishment the narrative decides for him is making those fears come true.The entire story until about the end of S3 (so, for the first 120-ish chapters of the manga) is about Izuku being built up and Katsuki being torn down.

Sometimes this is done incidentally (the Sludge Villain case, which both shakes up Katsuki’s belief in himself as the strongest and leads to Izuku earning One For All, while also serving as karmic punishment for Katsuki going too far with his bullying earlier*), but most of the time it’s a direct result of his mistakes (his loss to Izuku in the Heroes vs Villains excercise/DvK1, him being unable to reach out to Shouto to bring out his full power like Izuku did at the Sports Festival, his temper tantrum attracting the League of Villains and costing him any respect he might have earned by winning, his attitude making him fail the provisional license exam while Izuku passed, etc.).

*(Obviously this only works as punishment from a narrative standpoint, anyone who says a real 15-year-old deserved to almost be murdered because they were a bully is, uh, not someone I’d want to associate myself with.)

I already went into depth about precisely what and how Katsuki loses over the course of the series in this very long character analysis, but the tl;dr version is that he goes from believing that he is the strongest and Izuku is the weakest to believing that he is the failure who caused All Might’s end and Izuku is the prodigy chosen to be All Might’s successor. Izuku keeps building up his self-esteem while Katsuki keeps losing it. In other words, his punishment for trying to tear down Izuku is being torn down himself.

Some would argue that this doesn’t count because Izuku didn’t tear him down personally and instead that this is just the natural and inevitable result of Izuku getting stronger and Katsuki having to face reality. Putting aside that a character like Izuku wouldn’t want to personally tear him down, here’s where we go back to the verbal calling out, the “eye for an eye” and the more “direct” punishments.

A shocking amount of people believe that Izuku has never called out Katsuki for his behavior, some even going so far as to say that Izuku doesn’t realize what Katsuki’s doing is wrong due to Stockholm Syndrome or something. This infuriates me because it is supposed Izuku Stans doing a disservice to Izuku’s character. While it’s true that Izuku doesn’t hate Katsuki himself (I go into detail about why here, along with the reason why he’d forgive him), but he absolutely hates a lot of his actions and can and will let him know that.

Even way back in S1, when he is still a meek terrified kid, he stands up to him. When Katsuki confronts him after the entrance exam and threatens him, Izuku doesn’t budge, he tells him that he’s going to UA and there’s nothing he can do about it, causing him to back off.

During DvK1, despite Katsuki acting more unhinged than usual and trying to either beat him up or provoke him into using OFA, Izuku looks him in the eye and tells him the insulting nickname he gave him is now the name of a hero. He even kind of taunts him by saying he has Katsuki’s weaknesses recorded in the notebook Katsuki burned and threw away!

And he keeps doing it! When they have to work together to fight All Might and Katsuki refuses to do so, even lashing out violently, Izuku yells at him right back and even punches him hard eventually. Granted, it was mostly because it looked like Katsuki would give up on the one thing Izuku admires about him instead of for revenge, but still.

Izuku accepts Katsuki’s challenge in DvK2 not just because he wants to give Katsuki a chance to let out his emotions and find answers, but also because he wants to air his grievences (what he really thought of Katsuki, how it felt to chase after him) and give Katsuki answers in the form of a resounding “I’ll surpass you” and an OFA powered punch to the face.

Another common claim is that the adults and kids around Katsuki never do anything about him. This may have been true in middle school, but UA? Aizawa restrains him and negates his Quirk the second he tries to attack Izuku during the Quirk Apprehension test and tells him to stop wasting his talent after DvK1. When Katsuki grabs an unconscious Shouto by the shirt after their match, Midnight knocks him out and then he’s chained and muzzled.** All Might spells out what he’s been doing wrong after DvK2.

**(Sidebar: it amuses me that this is called out as inhumane treatment and too harsh punishment, even though the adults had no way of knowing whether Katsuki would attack again or what it would take to calm him down, by the same people who claim Katsuki isn’t punished enough. Well, which is it?)

The adults absolutely intervene when he steps out of line. And even when they don’t, they tend to have a reason. All Might didn’t stop the Heroes vs Villains excercise because he knew that if he stepped in, Izuku wouldn’t feel like he’s proven anything, to himself or to Katsuki. He didn’t step in for Izuku’s sake, not Katsuki’s.

As for the End of Term Exam, Aizawa didn’t put Izuku on a team with Katsuki because he “wanted Izuku to get along with his abuser,” but because he knew that Izuku had great leadership and cooperation skills except when he’s with Katsuki and his inability to force difficult people to work with him would cost him in the field. Besides, neither Katsuki nor Izuku can afford to have bad blood between them in high-stakes situations. It might be harsh, but Aizawa was doing it for both of their sakes.

The only thing the adults could have done differently is come up with a more long-term solution to the problem, preferably by actually talking to the people involved, but this was aknowledged after the duo broke curfew to fight.

In conclusion, Katsuki has, in fact, absolutely been called out by the people around him and punished by the narrative thouroughly.

Phew, that got longer than I planned... Where was I? Ah, yes, Area Man Misplaced In The Role of Father.

Enji Todoroki spent his life desperately trying to reach All Might’s spot as number one hero. When he feared his own skills would never be enough, he hatched a plan to get into a Quirk Marriage and then make one of his offspring surpass All Might in his place. Why he thought that was a good idea, I don’t know, but it fits the psychology of the typical Stage Mom, living her, uh, I mean his dream vicariously through his child, Shouto.

In any case, in order to accomplish his goal, Enji was willing to use any means necessary, icluding brutal training of a toddler, physical violence against his wife whenever she tries to interfere and... whatever... happened to Touya. Nothing outside of that goal mattered to him, “unsuited” children like Natsuo and Fuyumi (who presumably only or mostly inherited Rei’s Quirk) were tossed aside and ignored.

So, how does the narrative punish this sorry excuse for a hero, father and husband? By giving him exactly what he wanted, the number one spot? Apparently so!

“But Chatterbox! Isn’t that Endeavor being rewarded by the narrative?” You would think so, but interpreting it that way is actually completely missing the point of Endeavor’s Arc! Because everytime I think of how it’s presented, I’m reminded of a line I might have heard in Disney’s Princess and the Frog: “Did you get what you wanted? S’ what you got what you need?”

After All Might’s retirement, the number one spot was left open for Endeavor to take his place. This is what he’d wanted for a long time and believed he would never get himself. But Endeavor didn’t earn that spot, he was given it, and he knows it. He may have taken his place, but he never truly surpassed All Might and, now that he’s out of commission, neither he nor Shouto (who doesn’t seem to care anyway) ever will.

In other words, every single one of his efforts, every horrible thing he’s done to his family up until that point... It was all for nothing. He may have been at least somewhat aware that what he was doing was indeed horrible but just surpressed that knowledge for the sake of achieving his goal, but now that his goal has amounted to nothing and he feels lost and aimless, he’s finally forced to reflect on his deeds.

But even asides from that, who is Endeavor, the hero with the most solved cases in history, the one who saved countless lives? Well, not much of a number one hero, even with his family situation not being public knowledge, it turns out. After Kamino, the people didn’t just need a hero who would defeat villains, but a hero who would reassure them that everything will be okay and discourage criminals by his mere presence. That he would uphold Peace. Endeavor’s victory never felt more hollow, because the people don’t need him, they need another All Might.

So, Endeavor approaches the man himself for advice. But Toshinori tells him he can’t be him, nor should he attemt to. The age of All Might is over and the public needs to accept that, if they want to prove to Shigaraki that they can go on without him. Toshinori thinks Endeavor should be his own hero, the kind of hero people like Hawks saw in him, the only one who wasn’t lured into complacency by All Might; the tenacious, dedicated and efficient powerhouse against whom villains wouldn’t dare stand against.

And yet, that, too, feels hollow. Because even if All Might and Hawks believe in Endeavor, even if the rest of society comes to believe Endeavor... What does any of that matter for Enji Todoroki? The man who ruined his family for the sake of his own ambitions? Enji now knows that he’ll probably never be a true hero, let alone number one, because of what he’s done, even if the entire thing remains a secret.

Still, he has no other choice. He’s number one, understanding for the first time the enourmous pressure and burden that comes with the position. And, of course, the villain attacks, leading to Enji getting his face torn open by High End, coincidentally (really, within the narrative, it’s not a coincidence at all) on the same side that Shouto got his burn scar. But that is fine, because for the first time he’s fighting not for the sake of his ambitions but for the society that needs a pillar, no matter how unstable or rotten it is beneath its shiny and sturdy marble surface.

For that reason, though this is never expicitly stated, he can’t even “properly” punish himself by going public with his crimes - imagine the utter trainwreck the new number one hero revealing himself to be a former abuser would be, in the wake of the chaos and uncertainty caused by All Might’s fall? When it comes to his family, atonement really is the only option at this point.

So Enji’s punishment is getting exactly what he wanted, at the cost of carrying the world on his shoulders knowing he’ll never be what it needs, getting disfigured and having to face his broken family. Speaking of, what about that family? Aren’t they letting him get off scot-free? Contrary to popular belief, no.

Natsuo doesn’t want to forgive him or even aknowledge his efforts to change and be the hero they can be proud of, he wants nothing to do with him. Shouto is willing to see those efforts and is curious to see what the results will be, he wants Enji to make good on his words, but he still agrees with Natsuo and doesn’t forgive him or want him in his life beyond the pragmatic uses of his experience as a pro. Above all else, he wants to carve an identity outside of his father’s former wishes and outside his hatred for him.

Fuyumi does forgive him unconditionally, but it has less to do with Enji genuinely earning her forgiveness and more to do with her desire for a happy, normal family. Rei also seemingly forgives him, but for her, it might simply be a desire to let go of the hatred that made her scald her child’s face. It would be so easy for her to simply blame all of it on Enji, but she can’t, not all of it.

And Enji himself certainly hasn’t forgiven anything, nor does he demand forgiveness from others and fully accepts the consequences of both his sins and his dream.

I don’t think Enji’s quite done paying his debt yet, there is still the issue with Touya and I bet the LoV would be salivating at the chance to expose him if they found out (in fact I hope that happens, not because I have a thirst for punishment but because I think it would be a fantastic plot), but so far, he definitely hasn’t gone unpunished.

Before I end this long-ass rant (holy shit, this has gotten way out of hand), I have one more thing to address: what is the purpose of a punishment? It’s to stop bad behavior and make the perpetrators realise what they’re doing is wrong. In that way, I believe the narrative punishment of Katsuki and Enji was successful.

So, what, exactly, would even be the point of “properly” punishing them further? Vindication? For whom, the characters or certain audience members?

Again, in real life, learning your lesson, feeling regret and trying to do better isn’t a get out of jail free card (though certain places do prioritize rehabilitation over punitive justice, finding that the former significantly lowers the rate of re-offending), but in fiction, priorities are different. It’s not about making things even (would anything ever make them even?) or treating characters “fairly” or teaching the audience basic morals, it’s about what would be the most interesting to read about.

Everyone’s opinions are different, but honestly?

The story of two boys growing past their relationship as a bully and a victim, past even the destructive rivalry of tearing each other down, and embracing the relationship of pushing each other past who they are now by borrowing each other’s best qualities?

And the story of a man who wants to be a father and a hero even though it might be impossible, of a family that might just one day find closure in the belief that all the years of suffering amounted to something in the end?

I’d take those over some sanctimonious, heavy-handed morality tale of an ao3 “fix fic” any day. Yes this entire rant is actually me being salty after seeing too many self-righteous “I’ll adress what Horikoshi won’t uwu” fic authors, fucking sue me.   

#my hero academia #bnha #bnha meta #katsuki bakugou #enji todoroki #chatterbox meta #first one who responds to this with 'so you think victims shouldn't want to punish their abusers???' owes me a drink #i'm just pissed off by ppl who think vindication is the only acceptable thing to want in these stories #and the general preachiness of fix fics #apologies for any offense though #i was feeling very spiteful

[shinneth]

Gem Ascension Tropes (Steven-specific: A - B)

Peridot-specific was actually the biggest list of tropes I had, so putting up the rest of these should be much less of a pain in the ass! Anyway, next up on the GA Trope list is our little protagonist-turned-deuteragonist-turned-co-protagonist, Steven himself.

Primary General Post ★ Full Article ★  Primary Peri Post

Steven Universe

A God I Am Not: His justification for not being able to heal (or revive) Pumpkin in Chapter 8 of Act III, despite knowing he has revived others with his powers in the past. In Pumpkin’s case, she is mutilated beyond repair.

A Mind Is a Terrible Thing to Read: When Steven journeys to the center of Peridot’s mind to repair the damage White Diamond inflicted on her, he ends up seeing clips of various memories and dreams and gets quite a variety of moments to see with his own eyes. Steven witnesses exactly how diabolical Peridot was as a Homeworld gem while also seeing her desire to settle down and have a loving family with him. Subverted in the sense that while seeing Peridot’s worst moments was hard for Steven to watch and he didn’t enjoy it at all, he also knows Peridot already feels great shame for her past misdeeds and is already well underway atoning for those times. Steven’s also aware ahead of time just how deeply Peridot loves him, as her Video Will in Act II went over that in great detail and informed Steven of the dream she’s had of the two being married and having a family.

Accidental Pervert: Near the end of Chapter 9 of Act III when Steven is consoling Peridot over the loss of Pumpkin, he reaches from behind to touch her forehead to express that Pumpkin will always be in her memories. He also says Pumpkin will live on in her heart, and on reflex his other hand covers the area where the heart would be on a human (but not Peridot, obviously) … and inadvertently gropes her in the process. 

Affectionate Nickname: Ste-man by Amethyst, Schtu-ball by Greg, Jam Bud by Connie, and Starlight by White Diamond.

While it isn’t exactly a “nickname”, Peridot considers Steven her “center of gravity”, which is a term she frequently uses for him across the series (though rarely openly calls him that until after they officially get together).

Agree to Disagree: Mostly with characters like Bismuth and Peridot, who tend to look down on Steven’s Thou Shalt Not Kill philosophy for absolutely any situation.

All-Loving Hero: Per canon, of course. For GA specifically (and especially the post-GA stories), he plays as a steady contrast to Peridot’s Pragmatic Hero. He comes really close to averting this trope in Chapters 4 and 6 of Act III as far as White Diamond goes, but Steven eventually rebounds from it. Although he’s notably very cross with White Diamond towards the end, she did kill off Pumpkin for no reason (and nearly killed his dad in the process), so it’s justified. Even then, before everyone leaves a defeated White Diamond to fend for herself on what remains of Homeworld, Steven honors her request for an Energy Donation to repair her many wounds despite agreeing with Peridot that doing so is a terrible idea. He still does it because him giving her a final chance at redemption won’t mean anything if she’s too banged up to survive Homeworld’s destruction. Even at that point, after everything that happened, Steven wants to believe White Diamond can turn herself around. She doesn’t.

Amicable Exes: With Connie, although they were never properly an official couple in the first place.

Angst Coma: Steven falls into this towards the end of Chapter 1 of Act II. Not only due to the trauma of Peridot being Left For Dead, but not wanting to watch the Video Will she made for him, as it’s too painful for him to bear. He sleeps for nearly 20 hours, only waking up towards the last quarter of Chapter 7 thanks to a group effort from all his friends. After hearing from their respective messages from Peridot how much Steven meant to her, Steven gets over himself and springs back into action.

Attack Reflector: This is mostly in play during the final chapter of Act I. The only real means of offense against the pallified Blue Diamond is for Steven to use his barrier (or shield) to bounce the attacks right back at her.

Aura Vision: Gains this power in the final chapter of Act II when he watches Peridot’s Video Will. Only he can see how Peridot inadvertently siphoned off something from her nearby friends to heal her throat well enough to finish her message to Steven. He later puts this ability to use tracking down Peridot, and this is not only how he figures out that Chartreuse Diamond is Peridot, but how he figures out what exactly White Diamond did to Peridot in Chapter 2 of Act III. By Chapter 7, this ability becomes immensely useful in locating White Diamond’s clones so that the Crystal Gems finally make their way past that stalemate by wiping them out.

Badass Pacifist: Per canon. Despite being pacifistic often to infuriating and unreasonable levels in GA, Steven doesn’t hesitate to participate in fights when his services are needed, actually contribute something to them, and look awesome doing it.

Bad Liar: Much like his Love Interest, Steven is notorious for his inability to tell a convincing lie. It’s only averted on one small occasion in Chapter 8 of Act II, and Steven owes a lot of his success to the unique circumstances at the time, no doubt.

Barrier Warrior: Per canon, Steven can create barriers around himself and others to protect from attacks or deflect them. He can even make the barriers spiked to further deter any opponent from messing with him.

Battle Couple: With Peridot.

Battle in the Center of the Mind: This happens (offscreen) when Steven’s Sanity Slippage becomes Blinded by Rage. The rage stems from the trauma of seeing Peridot’s Gory Discretion Shot so many times over that it makes half of his consciousness to throw away his morals and want to shatter White Diamond no matter what. But there remains a half of Steven who still remains firm on his pacifistic stance. It’s insinuated that it’s basically two Stevens duking it out in his mind. Peridot refrains from asking in Chapter 4 which side came out victorious, and in Chapter 6, Connie strongly believes his pacifism won out, but then Steven had his very brief stint of sharing Peridot’s Ax-Crazy nature shortly following this. By Chapter 8, Steven confirms that his pacifism did indeed win out in the end.

Be Yourself: When Steven asks Lapis how to act around Peridot now that he’s fully aware of how enamored she is with him in Chapter 7 of Act II, this is the advice Lapis gives him.

Befriending the Enemy: Per canon, this is how Steven would like to resolve all problems between the Crystal Gems and the Diamond Authority… but Blue Diamond is the only one Steven achieves this with, and Blue ends up dying shortly afterward. Yellow and White die due to circumstances beyond his control, and they die as enemies. This trope is frequently discussed in GA – mostly the risks Steven puts his friends through by being so insistent on this approach. With how things are in the post-GA environment, this trope will likely be in play to a lesser degree with all the remaining Homeworld gems.

Beware the Nice Ones: Per canon, but this trope is really only in play in Act III. Steven’s Sanity Slippage makes him a very unstable and dangerous individual. He’s completely out of control like a rabid animal when it first happens in Chapter 4. When Steven falls into it again in Chapter 6 over the mutual PTSD shared with Peridot, he’s much more in control of himself, resulting in a pretty disturbing O.O.C. is Serious Business moment (albeit a brief one).

Big “NO!”: His first reaction when Peridot fails to reunite with him and Garnet at the end of Act I and is doomed to be left behind at White Diamond’s mercy. This is also how he reacts when an alligator ambushes Peridot in This is Who I Am Chapter 2; Chapter 4 shows Steven doing this once again when 5XF traps him and Peridot in a temple chamber so she can escape via ward pad unhindered. 

Blinded by Rage: A side-effect of the Sanity Slippage brought about by being forced to watch Peridot’s Gory Discretion Shot on loop for a long period of time; it causes a Battle in the Center of the Mind for Steven. Half of him still clings to his pacifistic morals, but now the other half of him wants to abandon those morals and shatter White Diamond no matter what. On the outside, Peridot’s only seeing the raging Steven, but Steven himself isn’t acknowledging anything at all as his mind is so preoccupied in its civil war. 

It returns to a lesser degree by Chapter 6 of Act III, when he readily joins Ax-Crazy Peridot (who’s shifted into Chartreuse Diamond by this point) hacking away at (the presumed) White Diamond’s neck with a giant blade. He comes out of it more easily this time as a deadly attack is about to fire off in Alexandrite’s direction; he’s able to break out of that vicious cycle to warn the fusion. That doesn’t stop this from becoming something Steven is massively ashamed of later, though.

#gem ascension #gem ascension tropes #gem re:ascension #tv tropes #ga references #steven universe #stevidot #steven quartz universe #su fanfiction #su fanfic #peridot #su peridot #lapis lazuli #su lapis #bismuth #su bismuth #garnet #su garnet #pearl #su pearl #amethyst #su amethyst #connie maheswaran #su lion #su pumpkin #greg universe #pink diamond #white diamond #blue diamond #yellow diamond