echo-oaks

Latest Posts by echo-oaks

His beta designs are just him experimenting with styles as he grows up (credit to @cyanidas for the ideaaaa (๑ゝڡ◕๑))

From 11 y/o to 17/18 y/o

you elope with aizawa, partially because of his schedule and the need for you to legally be married in cade anything happens to him on the job, and he is content with the decision-

until years later he's at a friend's wedding, watching the couple do their first dance. the look in their eyes, the excitement and tradition: he feels like he robbed you of an experience

shaved him

day barely even started and I already had to hear "thank you for being our wives, sisters, aunts" and "keep being women and giving birth and being delicate unlike us men" as compliments for international women's day

i will go feral if i can find a well written fic for a trans masc reader in my fandoms.

let me have a bit of the spotlight.

Fallout 4: Where is the Lone Wanderer?*

*a vague conspiracy theory which doesn’t actually answer the question at hand. We all have our own ideas of how the lore should go, and I’m sure yours is very canon-compliant and valid, but this is mine and I have support for it. Looooongpost.

First off: What do we know about the canon Wanderer?

We know they activated Project Purity (or had a companion do it) without the FEV and were inducted into the Brotherhood. We know they’ve met with MacCready (you can’t finish the game if you don’t), and he has dialogue indicating they had further contact. They also took the Brotherhood’s side at Adams Air Force Base.

We don’t know what happened with The Replicated Man, but since the canon Wanderer appears to have good karma, and info from 4 implies Zimmer’s disappearance was more recent than ten years ago, it seems likely they took the boring ending, which secures their membership in the Railroad.

Why aren’t they in Fallout 4?

The Doylist answer is that they’re highly customizable, and so they have no canon appearance, personality, gender, etc. But in-universe? Something happened.

“Accepting outsiders like yourself has proven disastrous in the past.” - Kells

“I've seen other soldiers come and go. Some were brave, some were honest... hell, some were even downright heroic.” - Danse

“Every doctor I've talked to was worthless. [] I don't need them... I need someone like you.” - MacCready

When Duncan first got sick, “someone like you” would have meant the Wanderer. This suggests (to me) that they’re not in the Capital Wasteland anymore. But they’re certainly not in the Commonwealth either.

The weird thing is that the Lone Wanderer is all over this game - they’re the namesake for a male hairstyle, a perk, a DCR song, a motorcycle brand… and the codename of Deacon’s mission to save the Railroad from certain destruction by recruiting the Sole Survivor.

Someday We’ll Find It, the Deacon Connection

Oh yeah, I’m going here. Desdemona’s terminal entries confirm it was always Deacon’s plan to get you onboard and use you to destroy the Institute. There are Railroad lookout posts near 111/Sanctuary and Red Rocket, and of course he followed you in Goodneighbor, Diamond City, and Bunker Hill (at least). His court jester vibe hides it a bit, but he’s manipulating you more than he’s manipulating Desdemona in the intro scene. And do you notice he rarely gives you a firm verbal disapproval unless you’re hurting the Railroad?

What could have caused Deacon’s interest in you, unless he’s made the connection between you and the Lone Wanderer? He’ll vouch for you if you haven’t accomplished anything yet, or even if you’re a Brotherhood member. A Pip-Boyed stranger emerges from a vault in the middle of a crisis, gaining friends, skills, items, and special abilities at a suspicious rate? Probably with the same gender and playstyle as the previous one? Heck, when he first heard the rumors, he probably thought you WERE the Lone Wanderer.

There are other indications the Railroad has been in contact with them — Desdemona mentions the Capital Wasteland as their primary destination for synths, and Deacon references Harkness’s recall code. If you refuse to pick a codename, Desdemona even assigns you “Wanderer.”

So what happened, then?

I think the answer lies with the Brotherhood, specifically in Deacon’s hatred of them. Sure, ideology is enough to hate them for, but Deacon sure seems suspiciously happy if you nuke their base of operations. (Some of) his comments on that:

“The Brotherhood... well, I met them on an op in Capital Wasteland a few years back. But now with Elder Maxson... Let's just say, not a fan.”

“That bastard Maxson really screwed them up. The Brotherhood used to be the good guys. Well, goodish.”

[Who’s Elder Maxson?] “He’s a piece of work, is what he is.”

And on his time in the Capital:

“Did I ever tell you about the time I was in Capital Wasteland? Now there's a tale.”

“Capital Wasteland. Exports: purified water, some decent tech, oh, and an insane suicidal cult that worships radiation. Thanks, guys.”

“I miss Capital Wasteland. You can actually drink the water there.”

And a few lines I’ve decided (with no evidence) directly refer to LW:

“Last partner I had wound up going... well, a little insane. I think it was all my show tune medleys.”

[After Maxson orders you to hunt Danse down] “See? This is what the Brotherhood's really about.”

And my favorite: “I’ve been looking forward to kicking the Brotherhood’s teeth in. I owe them.” This line comes before Glory is killed, so he’s not referring to that. The Brotherhood only recently arrived in force in the Commonwealth. He’s talking about something that happened in the Capital Wasteland.

So Here’s What Might Have Happened:

In early 2286, Deacon moves to the Capitol Wasteland for awhile, probably to get a face change and lay low for a bit. He contacts the Lone Wanderer, who has barely heard from the Railroad in nine years. They begin to work together.

(In context, this journal entry looks like he’s somehow gathering intel to predict when Vault 111 will open, but I can’t think of a way for him to get that information or know why it’s important, so I’m not going to believe it just yet.)

The Wanderer is still a knight, maybe a paladin. Maxson has been elder for 2-3 years and is monitoring the Institute. Meanwhile, the Lone Wanderer and Deacon are setting up infrastructure to receive escaped synths.

And then the Brotherhood finds out about one of the safehouses. With their limited understanding, they believe that the Institute is holed up there and attack. The Wanderer intentionally throws the mission — maybe disobeys orders, maybe downs a vertibird or collapses a subway tunnel, or maybe even attacks their brothers to protect the synths.

And, well-

Either they were killed, or they escaped court martial and execution by a hair’s breadth and fled the Capital, leaving Deacon to believe Maxson had them killed.

There you have it. That’s why they aren’t in Brotherhood dialogue or records. Their accomplishments couldn’t be recognized because they’re a traitor. And that’s why it’s personal for Deacon.

Teacher Deku meets with Aizawa for Eri's progress report!

He learned a lot. Everything is GREAT. Totally fine.😀

My idea for erasermic month 2025 week 2. ( Slightly late but details were taking forever.)

Prompt: Avian

Aizawa "missionary, so I can watch the attitude drip from your eyes with every thrust" Shouta

You stare at the box.

You bite your lip, fidget your weight between your feet, and blink at the box. You had put the box on the table, but you’re not sure if that’s right – if that’s where it should go. If that’s where you want to do this. The bed would make much more sense; it’d save carrying all the unboxed contents then to the bed. But, as much sense as that makes, something about it just feels way too soon. Because what if – there was a chance you wouldn’t even like what was in the box. And then, dumping all that onto the bed, into your nest, with pre-heat simmering low in your belly – well. The whole reason you even had the box was to help with your heat. The very real possibility of starting off the week with a bad nest kept the box right on the table. Unopened. Still taped up. Discreet, but addressed to you. There was no mistake. The box was yours. Which, of course it was, you’d ordered the damn thing. Clicked on some ad on some website during a moment of weakness, of morbid curiosity. And then, as a joke (you’d told yourself, anyway), gone ahead and filled out the little questionnaire. Some were multiple choice, such as designated second sex, or what your preferred mate would be (which shouldn’t have been as hard as it was to fill out, but you’ve never really given it a whole lot of thought). Were someone ever actually interested in you, like seriously so, you wouldn’t let something like their second sex get in the way of a potential relationship. As it was, you’d selected Alpha, because that was just…natural. Easiest. And then there were the fill-in-the-blanks. Questions about what scents you enjoyed, and which you despised. In the end, it asked about your own scent, which felt a bit weird, considering such a thing shouldn’t matter. You were on a website for a company that supplied care packages to help alleviate the effects of going through a heat or rut alone. 

It wasn’t a dating site. You’d triple-checked. Right before saying fuck it, and jumping off the deep-end with a single, damning right-click. 

“Maybe the couch…?” You mutter to yourself, one arm curled almost protectively around your middle, propping up the elbow of your other arm, so that you can run a thumb along your bottom lip. In thought, in hesitation, in…anticipation. Whether you liked it or not, you were opening that box. There was no reason not to. Either it would achieve its intended purpose and provide some much deserved relief, considering the last few heats you’ve suffered through, or it’d all just end up in the trash. No big deal. You’ve survived all your other heats with minimal help, surrounded by nothing but your own scent, and maybe a t-shirt or two from those you could consider friends. So…maybe it was just that you kind of, really, wanted it to work. Would be a waste of money, otherwise. “Okay. Okay,” you drop your arms and nod to yourself, determined and courageous. The way your toes wiggle in your socks give away the nerves, though. “Couch it is.” Before you can sike yourself back out, you pick the box up and quickly shuffle on over to the sofa in the space you’d designated as your living room. Technically, it is also the dining room. And the office. And some extra storage space.

The bedroom, at least, is only a bedroom. One of the few little luxuries you manage to afford. 

You settle on the middle cushion, criss-cross applesauce, with the box a decent weight in your lap. You give the perimeter a tentative, cursory sniff, but only come back a little surprised at how well sealed the contents are. The only scent coming through thus far is the dull, familiar one of cardboard and packaging tape. And the slight tingle of neutralizer. Slowly, carefully, you start to pick and peel away at the tape. You could have, should have, grabbed a knife, or a pair of scissors, at the very least, but – if you got up to get them now, you might chicken out. So, bitten and blunt fingernails it is, until your fingertips are tacky and the top of the box is free. You don’t mean to, but you hold your breath. Your fingers curl around the lip of the lid, and while they work their way up and under, you sink the point of a fang down into your lip. A vein in your mouth pulses with the quickened beat of your heart. It’s so stupid, to get so worked up over something like this, but then – The lid is off of the box, and dropped down onto the cushion beside you. You still don’t breathe, but you do peer down into the package’s innards. You weren’t exactly sure what to expect other than fabric, so the sight of a striped sock with a kitty paw on it is…surprising, to say the least. Adorable, amusing, and – ah. It’s kind of hard to laugh without breathing, without inhaling, and the scent that smacks you right between the eyes does so with the force of a freight train. It sends a hard shiver from your head all the way down to your toes, and collects saliva on the center of your tongue. Fuck, fuck, holy fuck it’s good. It’s so good. It’s something floral and dark, with a smoothness to it; invigorating, yet all the while relaxing. Enticing in its coziness. You don’t realize you’ve closed your eyes until you’re blinking them back open. The base of your spine itches, and your thighs clench, and - and that sock is bunched up right beneath your nose. That should be gross, and it is, it is, but it could also be worse, because the sock seems clean, just heavily scented. And, it’s not like it doesn’t make sense for a sock to be in there. After all, ankle glands are a thing, and they work just as well as all the other glands. Still, it takes an embarrassing amount of effort to drop the sock, and start to sift through the rest of the contents. There’s a couple of shirts; a dark gray tank top and a low-cut black tee with long sleeves. Then there’s a pair of what could either be sweat pants or pajama pants, covered in…spiders. Itsy, bitsy, black spiders, with yellow eyes, and again, you can’t help but chuckle. Digging a little deeper, you find the other sock, a light gray scarf, and last, but definitely not least, a throw blanket. It keeps with the whole monochrome theme (excluding the socks), a soft gingham slashed through with a bright, baby blue. All in all, not bad. Not bad at all. 

The exact opposite of bad, actually. You’re only regret is having not been brave enough to just upturn the entire box onto your bed, because now you have to gather each and every item up in your arms, and make a happy, hasty retreat to your bedroom, which just seems way too far away with the way your body is now thrumming, blood silently screaming to nest, nest, nest! You manage though, because of course you do, and realistically, it’s not a far or hard walk at all.

Though, it is a little bit wet. Slimy and sticky and warm, and only getting warmer, down between your legs. You’re still in pre-heat, so nothing hurts – yet. You have plenty of time to build a nest and enjoy it, before you lose your mind to it all. To the desire, the hunger, the need, the ache; the loneliness, and now…the fantasy. “Thank you, kind, smelly stranger,” you whisper with a little laugh, just as your knees meet the mattress of your bed. There’s a fleeting flicker of guilt; it almost feels wrong to be doing this, using a stranger’s scent to get off for a whole week. But then, you realize, it’s really no different than watching porn. Whatever Alpha stuffed that box full of their belongings had done so willingly. Consentingly. Caringly. So, you let that feeling go as you set about pushing and shoving, folding and tucking, wrinkling and kneading everything into place, items both old and new. In the end, you make a haphazard circle, but the shape doesn’t matter nearly as much as the feel does. The smell.

And it’s only then you realize why that website might ask for your own scent. 

You’d left it blank. But, as you slowly sink down into all your hard work with a purr, you can’t deny it. You smell good together. You and this Alpha. So much so that you find yourself nosing even deeper into it, into your own pillow and a stranger’s shirt, nuzzling nose, cheek, neck. Your toes are wiggling again, stretching and flexing, curling in utter delight. When your hands start to move, it’s with minds of their own; one to smooth up under your shirt and along your chest, thumbing around a nipple, while the other slips straight down between slick thighs. Your scent is a bit of an…acquired taste. You don’t smell bad or anything, but depending on who you asked, opinions ranged from ‘household cleaner’ to ‘fancy dessert’. Personally, you always thought you drifted somewhere in the middle, like a lemon drop or something. But here and now? Together, you smell like lemon and vanilla, lavender and coffee – like tiramisu and a latte. You want to bite down on it, lap it up, ‘it’ being the stranger’s neck, an Alpha’s scent gland, your Alpha – at least, the Alpha that had anonymously decided to take care of you for the week.  Alas, your pillow will have to suffice. As will your fingers, until too soaked and too frustrated, you will have to trade for a shirt and a toy. There’s no neck, and there’s no knot, but still, still. While picturing a hundred different hot, beautiful ways this Alpha could look, could sound, could touch – call you ‘mine’… It’s, admittedly, the best heat you’ve ever had.

The teacher's lounge is blissfully quiet and seemingly empty when the door shuts and locks with a click behind you. There's no one sitting at the computers, the couches are unoccupied, and the coffee machine is still and cold. You'd come in search of a reprieve, and can't help but sigh and sag with relief upon finding it.

Sometimes the teacher's lounge is just as bad as anywhere else.

Just as bad as the classrooms, the cafeteria, the gymnasiums. Just as bad as the library, the courtyard, the hallways. Just as bad as the bathrooms.

You love your job, you really do.

But sometimes you wonder if you shouldn't have sough employment elsewhere. Maybe at a more normal highschool. Or, maybe even for a lower grade. Maybe one before quirks start manifesting in most children. Not that quirks are a problem.

It's just that, when combined with big dreams and budding hormones, it tends to be a bit...much.

You don't know how the rest of the staff does it.

Granted, almost every other staff member is also a Pro-Hero. Which isn't to say teaching is any easier for any of them, but they sure do seem to handle the stress of it a whole lot better than you can. Do. Ever will. And all you are is an assistant.

Then again, you are Aizawa's assistant.

And his class is...it's something else.

Which is why you've gone and run off to the teacher's lounge. You adore the kids, you really do! For the most part! As much as you can, anyways. Considering none of them are really yours and they're constantly making Aizawa's life, and subsequentially your life, something close to a living hell.

You've considered resigning. You know there's an ample amount of other schools that would probably happily scoop you up. And, maybe if it was earlier in the year, you would have. But, that was before...

Oh.

Well.

That was before you met the puffy, yellow, man-sized lump apparently hiding behind one of the couches. Aizawa.

Or, here, behind closed doors, Shouta.

Sometimes.

It's not a surprise to see him there.

Not in the lounge, or on the floor, with his favorite sleeping bag zipped all the way up to his heavy and slightly bruised eyes closed. He practically lives in the lounge; spends more time in here than the classroom or his own apartment. He's obviously squeezing a nap in, for as long and deep as he can. And you can tell he's asleep, really asleep, because his mouth is just slightly open.

After working with him for as long as you have, which really isn't long, but long enough -- you know that when he sleeps, he breathes in through his mouth and out through his nose. Like even when unconscious, he's subconsciously still trying to meditate. Trying to relax.

Trying to do the same thing you are.

It's precious.

And a little pathetic, but you know better than to ever admit that out loud.

You teeter on your feet for a second, while he continues to sleep and split his breathing. You think that maybe you should leave, that maybe you'll get lucky and find some other pocket of tranquility somewhere. You don't want to pop this one. But, he hasn't woken up yet, so you figure it's probably safe to stay. It's not like you're going to make a whole lot of noise, anyway -- sitting on the couch and filling out some forms. One part of your job is keeping track of each individual student's quirk record; obvious strengths, weaknesses, growths, injuries, incidents. It's exhausting work, but work better done by you, so that Shouta can actually work with those kids and their quirks.

When you pick a spot on a sofa, Shouta doesn't even twitch. And when you pluck the pen from behind your ear and start scrawling away, the sound of scratching ink is barely any louder than his own breathing. Feeling confident that you won't wake him up, you settle into your work.

Anyone else coming into the lounge is, sadly, out of your control.

You get through updating about three forms when the sound of shifting fabric snags your attention. You peer around the couch across from you, just far enough to see that yes, Shouta is still sleeping, he's just moved around a bit. You hold your breath, and watch as a wrinkle that formed in his nose slowly soothes itself away. The zipper of his sleeping bag now runs down the length of the front of his body, instead of the side. You reckon it's more comfortable that way, and you wonder if he's dreaming. And if so, what he's dreaming about.

It's a curiosity that's often hard to quell, since that's your thing after all. Your quirk. The reason you even landed the job that you did. You can see people's dreams, and then project them. Furthermore, you can sometimes even influence them, with a strong bond and some practice. You aren't anything close to a qualified therapist or counselor, but...heroes suffer nightmares. Every single one of them. And, the idea is that - the hope is that -- you can help them. With that. Their bad dreams. Their nightmares. Their night terrors. Prevent sleep paralysis and insomnia and panic attacks. You haven't tried yet, not with a single student, but you'd had to prove yourself to Principal Nezu during your interview. He'd been impressed and pleased.

And Shouta had been intrigued.

For now, you've just been working as an assistant, and building rapport with the students. After all, the stronger and healthier the bond, the more you'll be able to help. And you want to help, you do. Even if you don't necessarily...like using your quirk. It always feels like an invasion of privacy, even with blatant permission and consent. People can't help what they dream. Sometimes they want to know, and you have to figure out how to tell them. Sometimes you don't want to tell them. Sometimes they don't ask, and it's better that they forget, which they usually do.

You, on the other hand?

You never forget.

At least not quickly.

Not without a drink or two and a damn good distraction.

Does Shouta suffer nightmares? Surely he does. But, you hope that on the rare occasion he actually reaches REM, like he might be reaching now, that he doesn't. If he dreams at all, you hope it's a good dream. But, what would a good dream look like for him?

...cats, probably. Lots and lots of cats. And having a body that was more blood than caffeine. Or, maybe having the body of a cat. Maybe a good dream for Shouta involved some fur and a long tail and a good sunny spot to soak in. You laugh silently as you picture it. Yeah, you could see that.

i redownloaded this sims to make this

inspo from this pic

trans girls will be like "i'm not really that cute tbh" and send pics and she looks like an angel

CONFESSIONS OF A ROTTEN GIRL 🍅

seeing straight men be disgusted by booktok smut recommenders has actually radicalized me to the side of booktok smut recommenders. girls your taste may be atrocious but i will never disparage you for exposing mainstream discourse to the concept of soaking through your underwear. spent my whole life listening to men talk about penises it’s about time they get jumpscared by women talking about pussy in crude detail on social media. go forth and goon my warriors

deep rooted respect for women who openly get mad and are okay w being perceived as bitchy

i love my tavs but also i think they should kiss

Ishimondo yuri will be real in 24 hours

Kabosu did not deserve to have her image turned into cryptocurrency. She did not deserve to have the meme she was known for across the world to become a code word for a fascist coup.

Her name is Kabosu. Not Doge.

someone on twitter is trying to claim that use of an em-dash is an indication of AI-generated writing because it’s “relatively rare” for actual humans to use it. skill issue

Y’all my favorite headcanon that I saw is that Aizawa is quiet and barely talks when he’s in public, but when he’s at home he just goes to yap town w/ his husband :*)

principal aizawa

So so very happy with how this came out

Drawing based on my Vampire/Priest au

*+:｡.｡10:55

The mission had been rough—rougher than expected. I felt the sting of the wound on my head with every step, the dull ache settling behind my eyes like a storm waiting to break. But I kept my face neutral, shoulders steady as I approached the door. Aizawa didn’t need to worry. I had it under control.

Slipping my key into the lock, I took a deep breath, adjusting the hat I’d pulled low over my forehead. It wasn’t much, but it hid the worst of the damage. I could handle this. Aizawa didn’t need to know.

The door swung open before I could reach for the handle, and there he was—standing in the dimly lit entryway, his sharp gaze immediately sweeping over me. “You’re late.” His voice was calm, but I knew him too well. There was an edge of concern under the words.

“Sorry,” I said, forcing a small smile as I stepped inside. “Mission ran long.”

He sighed, the tension in his shoulders relaxing just slightly. “You should have called.” Then, without hesitation, he reached for me, his hand reaching for the hat upon my head, with the goal of taking it off—to complete his usual greeting, a soft kiss to the lips.

Panic shot through me.

I twisted away, stepping back just enough to make it seem natural, but the way his eyes narrowed told me I hadn’t been subtle enough. His fingers twitched at his sides, and for a second, he said nothing.

Then, quietly, “Take off the hat.”

I forced a chuckle, waving a hand dismissively. “It’s just part of the look. I thought I’d try something new—”

“Take. It. Off.”

A pause. His voice wasn’t sharp, wasn’t angry, but it was unwavering.

I swallowed. Maybe if I played it off, I could—

Aizawa was faster. Before I could step back again, his hand moved, quick and precise, fingers catching the brim of the hat. I barely had time to flinch before he pulled it off.

The room went silent.

I saw it in his face immediately—the way his expression shifted from suspicion to pure, unfiltered alarm. His jaw tightened, eyes going wide for just a fraction of a second before his brows furrowed in something like barely-contained panic.

“Shit,” he muttered under his breath, stepping closer.

I opened my mouth, scrambling for an excuse, but he was already reaching up, fingers ghosting over my forehead, barely touching the edge of the wound. His touch was careful, but even the lightest pressure made me wince. His sharp intake of breath didn’t go unnoticed.

“What the hell happened?” His voice was low, steady—but I knew him. He was freaking out.

“It’s nothing—”

“Nothing? You have a head injury, and you thought you could just walk in here and hide it?”

I tried for a sheepish smile, but it didn’t quite land. “Didn’t want you to worry.”

His eyes burned into mine, and for a long moment, he just stared. Then, without another word, he grabbed my wrist and pulled me toward the couch.

“Aizawa, I—”

“Sit.”

I sighed, sinking onto the cushions as he disappeared into the bathroom, only to return seconds later with a first aid kit in hand. He knelt in front of me, opening the box with quick, practiced movements. His hands were steady, but I could see the tension in them, the way his fingers curled a little too tight around the gauze.

He didn’t speak as he cleaned the wound, jaw set, shoulders stiff. But when he pressed a cool cloth against my skin, his fingers lingered, just for a moment, barely a brush, but enough to tell me everything he wasn’t saying.

When he finally spoke, his voice was softer, quieter.

“Don’t do that again.”

I swallowed, watching the way his eyes stayed locked on my wound, as if he could will it away just by looking at it.

“I won’t,” I murmured.

His shoulders loosened slightly, but the worry in his gaze didn’t fade. He finished wrapping my head with careful precision, his fingers lingering against my cheek for a second too long before he pulled away.

Then, finally, he exhaled, rubbing a hand down his face before leaning in. This time, I didn’t pull away when he pressed a featherlight kiss to my temple, just beside the bandage.

“You’re an idiot,” he muttered against my skin.

I huffed a quiet laugh. “Yeah, but I’m your idiot.”

His sigh was heavy, but there was something softer in it now. His hand found mine, fingers lacing together with just enough pressure to ground me.

“Damn right you are”

KISSES!! (Part 1)

Redraw of one of those kiss memes that were on deviant art back in the day. I drew THE ORIGINAL back in 2017. Yeah, this pairing has been around for 8+ years, OUGH. I’m happy to give it attention again and flesh them out, now that my art and writing have improved (writing still needs work but hey, baby steps).

I really wanted to update this and wow, the difference in style, THE IMPROVEMENT?? ;;;;;;;;

Hope you all like it too!

kissy kissy

A very flattering article-in-the-making about japan's #1 Olympic gymnast

What is a Hero’s Cape for?

This meta is in response to a comment by @k-isecchis​

I’d also like to point out the parallels between Eri and Shigaraki. Eri was left to suffer longer due to strategy. Something that always rubbed me the wrong way about that arc is that besides Mirio and Deku, everyone’s so desperately trying to save her because they knew that was Chisaki’s trump card. Eri’s power is as potentially as destructive as Shigaraki, but she was “lucky” Chisaki was making enough waves for the heroes to notice. 

Thank you for pointing out this excellent parallel. This opened my mind to the parallels between the war arc, and the overhaul arc. How both arcs are really about showcasing how massive the divide is between the ideals of hero society “saving people” and hero society’s pragmatic realization “defeating villains”. Once again let’s talk more about hero society underneath the cut.

Keep reading

these are way too much fun to do

Putting my drv3 ghost au here: victims

MIGHT be a bit ooc cause this is mostly self indulgent

(SPOOOOIIIILER WLERT FOR DRV3!!!!)