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willowser · 5 months

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now i wake up by your side—

bakugou x f!reader

wc: 2.8k+

tags: u.a. college au, canon-compliant, reader has a telekinesis/telepathic quirk, references (and potential spoilers) for the current arc in the manga, angst, a lot of secret hidden feelies

tysm to @alrightberries for giving me the opportunity to bring this lil thought of yours to life 🥺 your patience and understanding during the time it took me to write this is so appreciated it, and tbh you're the reason i'm even still here right now LOL you're so sweet, and i hold your kindness so close to my heart. i wish i could convey how much it means to me. i hope i did this even a lil justice !! happy birthday dear !!!! 🥺🩷✨️

Sero dreams of watching the sunrise on top of the Roppongi Observatory.

It’s a beautiful sight, one you’ve never seen with your own eyes, but you soak in the warmth flushing across his cheeks and the anticipated break of morning through the clouds. When he takes in a hefty breath, you feel the spring chill sting inside his chest, crisp and clear, like it’s you breathing instead of him, and it’s almost comforting enough to lull you to sleep, too.

But a clay pot shattering against a nearby bench has your eyes springing open, ripped from the haven you’d been lost to.

You have to blink several times in order to fight through the exhaustion wearing you thin, but the evening returns to you in small, bleary doses. It’s the middle of the night—or at least it was when you’d first wandered out to the training field, and you can’t be sure how many hours have passed since then. Across the yard, you’ve successfully managed to carry four pots from the garden plot near the entrance all the way to your feet with your Quirk— but number five sits in pieces in the grass.

You’ll have to clean that up by morning or Eraser will make you run laps until you puke. Again.

Kirishima flits through your mind in a suit and tie: not as a Hero, but a spy of some kind, chasing down men with masks covering their faces and wielding a gun that looks odd in his hands, even in his own dream. Despite being back in the dorms, stories up and near the end of the hall, you can see it—hear him yelling out at the criminal to stop, feel the thud of the ground under his feet. His own determination blares through you like a freight train, as strong and damning as he is, and you fight to force yourself back inside your own shoes as you try to carry another pot.

Recovery Girl used to tell you that you did this to yourself: all your worry about losing sleep psyching yourself out of it completely, chasing it away before it even had the chance. When everyone is getting ready for bed, heading out of the common room and hitting the showers, you can feel that suspense building; what will come across tonight while everyone dreams? Fantasies? Or nightmares?

During the day it’s easier to drown out the foot-traffic of everyone’s thoughts—you do it without trying, now—but your brain needs rest, too. Letting go of control for even a second, just to get some shut eye is—

Something frightening is outlined in your peripheral vision, the dash of a pale shape you aren’t able to discern before it’s gone. The air turns metallic and stale and you can hear water sloshing, though you’re nowhere near the pools. All your blood rushes in your ears and your fingers curl, like you’re gripping your seat—gripping the edge of the couch in the common room, where you’d been sitting beside Mina when Kaminari put on that horror movie. The one with the—

“The hell are you doin’?”

Your eyes snap open for the hundredth time that night—show over, credits rolling—and it’s Bakugou. Standing only feet away from the new set of clay shards of your failure, tangible and real and staring at you with an intensity not even your dreams could mimic.

You blink, eyes stinging and heavy. You must look insane. “Oh, hey,” the voice that comes out of you is far-away, chartered off to distant lands, and he notices immediately, focus razor-sharp despite how late it is. “What did you say?”

Bakugou wrinkles his nose, like he’s offended at having to repeat himself. “I said, what the hell are you doin’? It’s nearly 2 in the morning and you’re out here throwin’ shit around in your fuckin’ pajamas.”

Almost on cue, the breeze brushes past your legs, chilly enough to have you shivering, and you peek down at them as if you don’t know what they look like. The sweater you’re wearing is from second year and the U.A. logo is half-worn off, but it’s the comfiest thing you own and if you’re going to be plagued all night by the forced intimacy of your classmates’ dreams—you at least want to be cozy.

When you look back up at him, Bakugou is pointedly looking away, taking interest in something other than your wimpy state of dress.

It dawns on you then that he’s out here, too, in sweats and a simple back sweatshirt, hair a messy, golden halo in the pale, buzzing field lights. If you didn’t know any better, you’d almost think his face was a little rosy, but—maybe you’re seeing things.

Still. Being out and away from everyone, alone with Bakugou, makes your stomach tighten horribly. Like you’ve done too many sit-ups.

You try to brush off your sudden bout of shyness, because you know he’ll clock that in no time, too. “Well, I could ask you the same thing.” At the raise of your eyebrows, he only tchs, and casts you a filthy look. “But I think maybe I’ll just mind my own business.”

The face he makes is so awful and hot-blooded that you laugh, truly and earnestly, enough that a headache pulses to life. You wince, and the stream of pain that shoots down the middle of your skull brings back that image of Kirishima’s action-thriller: blood and knives, the sound of skin on skin, a fist against cheekbones, the ugly snap of breaking—

“Oi.”

Bakugou is closer than before, when you’re grounded back inside yourself. At least no pots have been broken this time. Less to clean up.

“Sorry,” you shoot him an apologetic smile that you know he must hate. “It’s just so—” your hand feels like it’s made of lead, but you drag it up to massage slow circles into your temple, trying not to grit your teeth and worsen the pounding in your head. “So loud sometimes.”

He’s silent until the pain ebbs out, and when you can blink without flinching, you peek up to catch how intently he’s watching your face. In the night like this, his eyelashes seem darker, longer, a kind of haunting beauty you would dream about, if you could get some sleep.

Again, you think of Kaminari’s horror movie, legs pressed against Mina’s under the heavy comforter she’d brought down from her room. It’s warm, the kind of pink, fluffy thing you’d imagine a girl like her to have—but it didn’t stop you from shivering every time you chanced a glance at Bakugou and found him already staring back.

The heat in your cheeks spreads to the back of your neck, so immediate that you think you might start sweating. “Dreams and stuff,” you murmur, by way of an explanation, “nightmares, sometimes.”

Bakugou's frown deepens, the muscle in his jaw tightening once as he grits his teeth. “What, you can just…hear that shit all night?”

“Usually,” you shrug, “It just comes in, you know? And I—” you steal another glance at him, aware, then, of just how intrusive you might sound. The veil of privacy is thin between you and others, and they don't often like being reminded of that. “Not for you, though. I don't—I don't get anything from you.”

And it's true, frustratingly enough. Not that you are ever intentionally peeking into anyone's head, but things slip through, occasionally—sudden reactions, wild, loose trains of thought.

Bakugou's face twists, regardless, and you're reminded of all the times you've been forced to spar together, at Eraser's behest. One of the smartest in your class, quick on his feet and never without a plan; every time you've managed to get a hand on Bakugou, there's been nothing but a sea-shore calm.

It's hard to do and, at this point in your life, you've seen a thousand people try it—but he's the only one that's ever succeeded in keeping you at bay.

Nothing in his expression changes, but all your nerves spread to your voice until it shakes. “You're—I don't look in there, of course, but it's—you've always been…” Bakugou is terrible at taking compliments, you know that, almost as bad as you are at giving them. “Pretty, I guess.”

Awful, at giving them.

Embarrassment floods him, suddenly stained pink as he curls into himself. “Piss off,” he barks, and though he’s scowling at you in what must be disgust—you can’t help but to smile at how aggressively bashful he is.

You almost get the guts to make matters worse, just because you can. Admit how handsome you’ve come to find him, after the last few years, until his face is steaming in the sweet nighttime chill; the kind of intimacy you wouldn’t mind dreaming about again and again.

The absence of his thoughts are a comfort for your tired mind, has all the harsh edges of night fading into something a little easier to swallow, to breathe in. You know he does it on purpose as a strictly defensive move, but you almost want to thank him. For the quiet.

You don’t know if it’s from you or him, but when you reach a hand up to hover near his temple, the air buzzes between you, gently. Charged with that same thing that had you unable to look away from him in the common room only days ago. “In here, I mean,” you murmur, and the smile you pull on feels lame, but it’s as genuine as ever. “I don’t know, I don’t know how you do it. But it’s…nice.”

You’ve seen him die a thousand times.

Mostly in Midoriya’s dreams, sometimes in Eraser’s when he nods off during last period, but that horror—like many others, from that day—stains you all. When dinner is put away and showers are finished and the lights go out and the flood gates open, someone almost always relives the ugliness of it all; you’re more familiar with that moment than you are with any of your own.

Here and now, you close your eyes and see Jirou staring back at you, face beautiful and full of hope. You see Kirishima’s torn suit jacket and the blood on his cheek and the empty gun in his hand, the most dedicated secret agent. Aoyama is dreaming of his mother, something warm that makes you feel like you’re dazzling, too.

And yet—Bakugou is silent. Even right in front of you. Even after everything.

If anyone deserves the peace and quiet, you suppose it ought to be him.

“When’s the last time you got any sleep?”

You blink until his blurry figure is clear, and it’s like you can physically feel whatever energy you had left seeping from your body at the mere mention of sleep. “Maybe a morning or two ago,” you tell him truthfully, “I usually pass out after a few rounds of ‘throwin’ shit around’.”

Bakugou only stares at you as he digests the words, and once he’s gotten them down, he shakes his head before looking out over the mess you’ve made of the training field. With his head turned like this, you can take in the full weight of his scar—the one that’s wide and still baby-pink across his cheek.

You almost get the guts to tell him he’s handsome. Almost.

Frustration is evident on his face when he looks back at you, but his voice comes out softer than you expect, like he's struggling to get out any words at all. “Can’t keep doin’ this,” he chastises. “Can’t be a Hero if you’re half asleep all the time. Gotta figure this shit out.”

“I am,” you give a lazy wave to your pots, “What’s wrong with this solution?”

“It's ass.”

“Alright, you have any better ideas, pretty boy?”

He bristles, visibly enough to have you snickering, and—you’re not sure what you expect of him; to continue his griping or leave you to your own devices, building his walls up high as he always does. Ever the fighter, ever the protector; maybe it’s a good thing, you tell yourself, because you’re weak like this and one of you needs to be thinking straight.

Despite his flush, there’s a playfulness to his grouchy expression, his raspy tone—and it has you leaning too far into things you don’t know how to name.

You never know what to expect of him.

There’s the slightest brush of skin against the back of your hand, and when you drop your eyes to the slowly-dwindling space between you—the rough pads of his fingers are touching you, gently. Softly enough to be the breeze, if it weren’t so warm.

You’re afraid to look at him, suddenly, like it will break whatever spell the night is casting over both of you; instead you press your lips together to stop their wobbling and the smile fighting to give you away. You’re waiting for that sea-shore calm, that quiet comfort, whatever it is he’s trying to offer you, strangely enough, in this moment. When you turn your hand over to catch his, the air buzzes again and the blood rushes in your ears.

You focus and—all you can see is your own face staring back at you. In a flash, like he’s cycling through his cards in a hurry, trying to find the best one.

You, across the arena during the entrance exam. You, in the locker room before the Sport's Festival. You, sitting in the common room during Christmas. You, ruined with tears and your own blood and covered in grime, on the darkest day of your life.

You, now. On the field in the stale light, prettier than you think you must look, for being so exhausted, the lines of your smile deep as you grin up at him.

—And then there's nothing.

The absence of noise is louder than anything. A stark, white silence that cuts through; a different world trickling away. A single touch and a little focus is all it takes to take root inside someone’s head and that’s always felt like a weapon, but now it feels like coming inside from a snowstorm, relief shuddering down your spine. Everyone else's fears and nerves and heartaches dissolve until they’re only a bitter taste at the back of your throat. Something far, far behind you

There’s just Bakugou. A strong silence that feels impenetrable, invulnerable to the outside. The steady beat of his heart is comforting in a way you didn’t realize it would be, has that bloody, dead-eyed image of him shifting into something else: another moment in Midoriya’s memories, of his silhouette standing in the sun, tall and fierce and alive.

Returned. Here and now with you, after numerous, unforeseen turns of events. You wonder if the ease surrounding you is his own, something else he’s sharing—or if this is just how it feels to be with him after so long. Maybe in the past it was different—you know it was; during the entrance exam, during the Sport’s Festival—but now you feel more relaxed than you ever have. A reminder that, no matter how dark the nights get, the sun is only just beyond the horizon.

Returned, comforting and quiet.

(You won't know this until much later, but your hand will go slack in Katsuki's and his fingers will tighten around your own because he's not ready to let go yet. When your knees buckle, he'll already be there, awkwardly holding you up against his shoulder as his face flames and his eyes dart around the empty field, checking for any shitty snoops.

Ears is always up damn late, too, and there's a decent chance he'd get caught trying to haul you back to your room on the third fuckin’ floor, so there's really no better option than to gently lower you both to the grass. After a couple of minutes with no movement, the field lights will shut off and only the distant glow of the stars will remain.)

(You won't know this until much later, but Katsuki will arrange the both of you so that your head isn't slumped on the hard ground, but resting on the plush of his bicep, an arm around your shoulders so that the warmth can be shared between you both. His heart will pound hard enough in his chest to be worrisome, and every time you shuffle and scoot closer to him and nudge your nose into his sweater—Katsuki will fight to stay open and true, only honest with you in this wordless way.)

(You won't know this until the sun rises high behind your lids and your bones ache and he’s shown you things he could never say, but it's the best sleep you think you've ever gotten. With him, under the stars, surrounded by his calm and his constant.)

(You won't remember this but in your dream—your real dream, born from with solace Katsuki offers you—the morning will rise and settle in and he'll walk you back to your room despite the stares and in the elevator when you're alone, his lips will touch yours and you'll feel his heart in your chest and his nerves in your stomach and his fear and relief all in one.)

(And right away, when you wake up, you'll finally have a name for this thing that's been blooming between you both for as long as you can remember—and he will, too.)

#i was so nervous about getting the quirk right kahfkahf #and then i was so nervous about it being fluffy enough bc the first draft of this was too angsty ??#SO I REWROTE IT LOL #i hope this is okay !! 🥺#i love the idea of bakugou being able to express how he feels in emotion only #that the fear he doesn't know how to name or how to explain or understand is conveyed to you somehow #whenever he touches you #🥺#tysm for giving me the chance to write it !!!#literally no but seriously you're the only reason i haven't privated this blog again LMAOOO tysm 🥺#✿ willow writes #✿ one shot: bakugou

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cherrirui-official · 2 months

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I hope u guys don't mind me posting these au doodles while I work on things ahaha

I also gave JD slightly longer hair in these doodles as a funny haha but I don't think it's funny anymore he looks genuinely good with his hair like that ahahaha I hope you're not mad at me for changing his au design a bit

#first of all ahem DONT TAG THIS AS SHIP OR WHATEVER!!! ILL THROW ROCKS AT YOU!!!!! BITCH!!!!!!!#troIlcest (or whatever you call yourselves idk) DONT TOUCH my SHIT! Ty :] anyways...#For context I like to hc that when he was younger Bruce would always have JD brush his hair #and like... whenever lil Bruce was upset it would help calm him down i think ahhauysgjiodk do u guys see the vision??#and since it's my au i can make reality whatever i want it to be sooooo :]#I like to imagine that it still helps Bruce calm down even tho they're older now.. Big bro brushing his lil bros hair to soothe him UUGH #Let JD be a good older brother pleeease #also gave JD flowers in his hair too bc he deserves them me thinks... Now him and Bruce are matching!!!#i dont have any specific flowers in mind for the ones in their hair i just picked a color for the flowers that looked pretty and ran with i #also saying it again i love love LOOOOVE the crayon tool in mspaint using it to make gradients is so!!!! UUUGHUHHH!!!! /pos #the pattern on JD's jacket fur will never be consistent shhhhh #trolls #trolls band together #john dory trolls #trolls john dory #bruce trolls #trolls bruce #beach bros au #cherris canvas #I made that last image btw #everytime i saw that screenshot of jd it made me think of the spongebob scene where its a pov of flats waking up #and the first thing he sees is spongebob waiting for him with flowers in his hand and smiling

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bakudekublogblog · 3 months

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it never stops being funny to me that people are bkdk antis in the year 2024 like “katsuki bullied izuku!! how dare you ship izuku with him” ??? take it up with izuku he’s is the one pining his ass off for him. I can’t make izuku not yearn for katsuki ??? I’m sorry I have observational skills?? izuku is just like that you think I can stop him??

#bakudeku #bkdk #izuku thinks he’s so blessed to even have an almost normal convo with him and gets all misty eyed thinking about it #izuku stares at katsuki like he’s the light of his life his hero #izuku swoons into his arms and has a pure rage form for whenever something bad happens to him #kacchan v deku pt 2 was him being like I FUCKING LOVED YOU OKAY I ADORED YOU YOU SHINE SO BRIGHTLY I LOVED YOU #like he’s just in love with him he was his first love and then they got divorced #and then they’re slowly coming back together and izuku falls even harder this is simply the plot of the manga #also how dare you be like Stop Shipping and tag the ship like who… are yiu??#some raggedy ass bitch thinks they can tell me what to do with my precious little free time uhhh #maybe go outside and touch grass

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ikram1909 · 5 months

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Gavi and Rodri 😭😭💕💕💕💕

#my lovessss #I cant get over how he just held Gavi to his side like a literal child he's so small 😭#his toes barely touch the ground the entire time #please bring him home with you Pablito #we'll offer him a lifelong Spotify premium membership #and the chance to hug Gavi whenever he wants #fair offer if i do say so myself #pablo gavi #baby waby #Rodri #lamine yamal #nico williams #oihane hernandez #spain nt

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crybaby-bkg · 1 year

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Bakugou doesn’t understand your infatuation with sensory deprivation. To him, it sounds like torture, like he’s letting down too big of a guard, sounds like vulnerability he’s not too sure he wants to give up yet. And you don’t pressure him, don’t bring it up whenever you can, simply let him mull it over until he’s ready.

The night he tells you that he is, he doesn’t expect to be taken on such a boring ride. Sit up against the pillows, you tell him, straddling his naked thigh as he crosses his arms and pouts at you. Relax your body, you whisper as the blindfold goes over his eyes, his sight suddenly blackened, only the tiniest bit of color seeping in at the edges from the low lit lamp you’ve turned on. Listen to your senses, you mutter against his ear, chuckling when the feeling of your soft lips against his skin makes him jump.

It’s boring at first, until you give him the go to—touch yourself. He’s hesitant at first; he can’t see you, he can’t see himself, what if he misses his own dick when he goes to grab for it somehow? But as he settles, really settles, into the sheets beneath him—it all clicks.

The only sound in the room is your breathing and the soft thump of music you’ve been playing in the corner, a playlist you’ve both contributed to with sensual songs. He feels the silk pillows caressing the rippling muscles of his back, feel the soft and cool sheets heating beneath his calves. He smells the candle you’ve lit, something sweet with a hint of mint to it, wafting throughout the room, making his head fuzzy. He smacks his lips against each other, tastes your lip balm from half an hour earlier, wonders if he’s always been addicted to cherry.

And then—he gets it. He understands it all, and it’s both over and underwhelming. One hand fondles the weight of his balls, the other slowly stroking at his shaft all the while. He sucks in a heady breath when his cock is suddenly doused in cool lube, the slide smooth and wet as he groans at the instant gratification. His ears perk up when he hears your breathy chuckle before breaking off into a sultry little moan at the sight in front of you.

“Explore your whole body, baby.” You guide him, a voice, distant, but he follows the sound of you like a dog with a bone. Bakugou turns his head in your direction, mouth parting in a groan when he releases his balls to instead rub his hands over his chest. He plucks and pulls one of his nipples, back arching off the bed at the sensation, at the sound of you. He inches his hand up, tracing the veins in his neck before he reaches his mouth.

He sucks two fingers into his pouty mouth, doesn’t hesitate to slide his hand down until the spit from his digits leaves a cool track against his skin. He goes and goes until his fingers have reached just below his balls, massaging at his taint and released a groan so sinful, you think it’s a crime to have never have heard it before.

He’s a sight to see—all broad and strong and delicate and pretty. His cock and inner thighs glossy and wet, his chest reddened and his nipples perky, his face half covered while the lower half pants with every shaky breath, his legs and feet twitching with every twist of his hand around his tip.

“I’m, shit, I’m—holy fuckin’—“ Bakugou can’t even gather the words correctly when he cums. It’s an explosion of everything all at once, heightened, vulnerable and safe. It’s the most intense orgasm he thinks he’s ever experienced, and when he comes to, with the blindfold off and your pretty smiling face in view, he wonders why he ever took this long to try it.

#he’s an ass bc he’s so pissy about doing it even tho you never pressured him #and then absolutely loved every bit of it lmao #but he’s MY asshole 😌#wrote this at 2am hopefully it makes sense in the morning 🙏🏼#also he plays with his taint whenever he touches himself sorry i don’t make the rules #have a great day and start of a new week everyone!!#—new treat in the streets! 🍫#bakugou treats! 🍬

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lollobarcollomanonmollo · 5 months

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" the F in TERF stands for fascist!!"

Okay! Now define "fascist"

#I'll never understand people who say this stuff #No cause why are you calling FEMINISTS fascists??#radical feminism #radical feminists do interact #radical feminist safe #radical feminists do touch #radical feminists please interact #I just know that Mussolini turns in his grave whenever someone says this #Or wherever he's buried

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spearxwind · 7 months

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writing this apology months before it happens but i am so sorry for the person i am going to become eventually. i am getting into warhammer 40k

#ive not touched the lore yet but miguel gifted me so many minis to paint and im slowly picking it up... and i have a big lore book too #that i rly rly wanna get into when i can and actually like. fucking KNOW what him and the guys at the store talk about whenever we go there #like hello. i understand nothing thank you <3 #btw if anyone knows abt 40k he assigned me tyrannids. he just decided those guys were for me #and he was right they genuinely really slap. alien bug freaks that consume everything and mimic other beings hell yes #anyways. let this be a warning. a prophecy even. the second i get into it i will not know peace and i will become incomprehensible #thunderclap #also i might as well start tagging #40k

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sisterdivinium · 1 year

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Finding "the meaning" to a show that could have had up to five or seven seasons but was cancelled after the second is somewhat like trying to understand a novel composed of seventy chapters by having read only twenty — there is a whole wealth of information which we do not possess that could alter our reading of any given element or of the entire thing in itself.

Still, there are always patterns that weave a story into a cohesive unit and they can help us to better grope in darkness towards comprehension. One such pattern in Warrior Nun appears to be how the consequences to mistakes, "sins" or evil deeds committed by characters manifest.

Basic storytelling usually requires characters to act on something so that complications or resolutions may arise from their choices and move the plot forwards. In Warrior Nun, many of these actions are quite tragic in nature: Suzanne's arrogance and pride lead to the death of her Mother Superion; Vincent's allegiance to the higher power he believed Adriel to be inspired him to kill Shannon; Ava's flight from the Cat's Cradle ends up damning Lilith as she is mortally wounded and taken away by a tarask... All of these events have negative outcomes and heavy repercussions on all characters directly or indirectly involved. Something changes permanently because of them, be it in the world around them or within the characters themselves.

And yet, it would seem that all of these dark deeds not only move the story forwards but might also have overall positive results. We would have had no protagonist without Ava — and she would arguably never have received the halo to begin with had she not been murdered. What's more, on a personal scale, the horrifying crime she suffers is, in the end, the very thing that allows her a second chance in life, a new life.

An act of outside evil permits Ava to grow and develop, shows her a path she would not otherwise have found. Without her own season in some sort of hell, Lilith would not have been able to advance towards other ways of being and understanding beyond her very strict limitations. Vincent and Suzanne would not have embarked on their own journeys of enlightenment without having caused the pain they are responsible for.

Beatrice might have been paying for someone else's mistakes, but she, too, is given the chance to grow into herself through it. The afflictions that torment these characters advance the overall plot, but they also advance them, as individuals, as long as they are willing to learn and keep going despite the calamities large and small that they are faced with. Beatrice keeps going after parental rejection, Mary keeps going after losing Shannon, Jillian keeps going after losing her son (in part through her own actions, adding insult to injury)... Trouble and the adaptation that follows it, if one is open enough to learn from the experience, motivates the characters, propels them forward, teaches them.

The problem of evil has occupied the minds of many a thinker throughout the ages, given how the very existence of it, evil, might call into question that of God (a good, omniscient, omnipotent one, anyway). A common way of justifying suffering (and also God), then, is by claiming, as Saint Augustine, that "God judged it better to bring good out of evil than not to permit any evil to exist".

Now, it would be rather ridiculous to say of Warrior Nun that it follows in Leibniz's footsteps, also because this philosopher, expanding on the augustinian concept, attempted to defend the goodness of a real God with his "best of all possible worlds" while all we have is... Well, whatever/whoever Reya is.

But there seems to be an inclination towards some sort of optimism as a worldview nonetheless.

Betrayals reveal truth and grant knowledge (Vincent's culminates with the coming of Adriel, which allows us to know of the threat of a "Holy War" and thus prepare for it; Kristian's gives Jillian much needed insight, William's lights up the fuse for the fight to be taken more seriously...), crimes committed willingly or not open the way for Ava (Suzanne's killing of her Mother Superion causes the loss of the halo, which is transferred to Shannon, whose death opens the gates for Ava to walk through after being herself murdered by sister Frances)... The magnitude of these positive outcomes is perhaps not "balanced" when compared to the evil that brings them about, but there is still something to take out of the catastrophe.

However tragic the tones of a given event, the show itself appears to shun the predetermination that makes tragedy as a genre; if everything is connected, here it at least appears to not necessarily drag everyone into their horrible dooms.

What's more is that this lurking "optimism" matches really well with our own protagonist's personality.

And it makes perfect sense that Ava would do the best she could with whatever she is given.

Life for her, in the conditions she experienced after the accident, would have been unbearable without some sort of positive outlook on life. However deadpan, the joking and the "obscene gestures" and whatever other forms of goofing around beside Diego are a way of turning a portion of the situation in her own favour. Proverbial eggs have, after all, already been broken right and left — might as well make an omelette of whatever remains.

Humour is just another way of looking at the bright side of something, or, at the every least, of mitigating the utter horror it might bring. If the show allows for moments of lightness, if it lets us laugh, if it takes us through a perilous voyage which still bears ripe, succulent fruit instead of the rot of pessimism and its necessary contempt for humanity, it is because Ava herself sees things in this way. It isn't gratuitous or naïve in this case, but a true survival strategy, especially as it is confronted with the morbidity of Catholicism.

Here is a religion that soothes its faithful with the promise of reward in the afterlife — how else does one charge into battle against the unknown, risking one's own death along with that of one's sisters, without the balm of believing that we shall all meet again eventually, "in this life or the next"? How else does one come to terms with the ugliness and the pain of this existence if not by looking forward to a paradise perfect enough to make all trials and tribulations here worth it?

True nihilism would have annihilated Ava. Her present perspective is what avoided the abyss.

And there is nothing Panglossian to her attitude or what the show might imply by giving us her view on things. This isn't about "the best of all possible worlds", but of making the best of whatever situation we're in, of taking what we have and doing something with it, something good, something of ourselves. It isn't God making good out of evil, but our choices.

Killing innocent people and feeling no remorse will never be the best someone can aspire to do. Sister Frances, cardinal William, Adriel all learn this the hard way.

Those who do their best find that, somehow, they can move on from whatever it was that paralysed them. Ava, most of all, knows what it is to be stuck, frozen in place; she can never be the character who refuses to grow, even through pain, lest she condemns her spirit to the same fate her body is all too familiarised with. Those around her wise enough to let themselves be touched by her, by the dynamic power she carries, walk forth with her and live.

It says very little about "God" that Warrior Nun should adopt its heroine's views and seem "optimistic" as it progresses — but it speaks volumes about the values it presents for pondering, of the inspiration its protagonists provide, and of the multiple reasons why this is a story unlike most others.

#warrior nun #ava silva #you know it's actually very funny to type this as someone who is very schopenhaurian with hints of nietzsche #but i AM doing the best i can too :)#again i will reiterate that i don't think this apparent optimism has anything to do with the classic theodicy #if anything i see it more as a cry in favour of antitheism -- this is YOUR life fuck god #life is shitty so carve out your own makeshift paradise out of the wreck you are given #and don't make things harder for anyone else in the process if you can avoid it #(but that might just be the luciferian in me speaking lol)#anywho this post is a translation of one i wrote not too long ago in cryptic english and a ton of tags #so if it seems familiar that's why #also i do find it rather telling that whenever i try to delve into how the show structures things i talk about ava #i don't set out to analyse her -- but in analysing the show i must analyse her as well if by the edges #which again points to how finely woven she is to the fabric of the entire thing #remember how i said ava is a representation of free will?#well this whole bringing good out of evil thing also touches upon it #saint augustine maintains that it is precisely free will that allows us to do it -- to choose good #of course he means it in a sense of being free to pursue god rather than evil but you see the parallel still works #(this is the post i mentioned in the last reblog. figured i'd go ahead and throw it in the wild since there are more brewing)#analysis and similar #exercises in observation

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