possibly one of the most poignant scenes of sanda is this one:
the moment where a 92yo man (who's undergone countless plastic surgeries to preserve the youthful appearance of a 20-something) approaches a 15yo girl (who has recently gone through puberty, resulting in a mature physical appearance), saying "let us talk as two adults".
it's just so sickeningly sad!
this anime truly has a Lot to say about the forced adultification of puberscent girls. me and ono aren't the same, to be fair, because she helplessly accepts what the society pushes onto her, while i as a kid was Very resistant to the idea of being seen as an adult (mainly in the realm of sexual availability) just because of how my body looked; but the circumstances are very similar.
you grow a pair of boobs, and suddenly your innocence isn't yours anymore.
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keep fantasizing about a scenario where i get to gently forcefem a cute femboy...
what if there's a sweet cis boy who likes to lean into his natural femininity and not conform to gender expectations, who has soft hair he doesn't cut often and big, brown, doe eyes, who's a bit chubby and a bit curvy as a result, who likes to wear spinny sun-skirts and frilly shirts, cat ears and thigh-high stockings, real lavenderboy darling. and he's into me, he thinks i'm cute and fun and hot, he'd love to get it on; but i turn him down gently — i'm a lesbian. his body is pretty, but i'm not into boys in my bed: i want a partner whom i can call my princess, my baby, my kitten. he's dejected — not pushy, just really pathetic — and i take pity on him. i tell him we can try, but only if i get to treat him like a girl the whole time, and if he promises to be nice and submissive. i can tell the idea is doing something for him, the way his pretty eyes light up when he says yes. they say yes, my pretty girlthing for the night.
i take them home, push them onto the bed, hitch their short skirt up — they're particularly shameless today, little slut in their tiny little skirt, out on display for everyone, but for use only by me — and i find cute panties under it. then i strip off their crop top, and find a bralette gently hugging their flat, tender chest. i tease them about being feminine down to their bones, to their lingerie — were they hoping a cute girl would notice and compliment them on it? it does look nice on them, by the way. they blush at my words, and then blush even harder when i undress myself and they see me wearing plain boxer shorts and no bra, my tits hanging freely. i ask them, isn't it cute how they're even more feminine than me? aren't they my sweet little femme pet? they nod enthusiastically, wordless and aroused and eager to submit. then i take off their stockings, because i want all of them naked and open to me, and i see that their legs are shaven smooth. they already look like a girl, i coo, they're adorable, they're so hot. they get me all riled up with their shy expressions and sharp sighs, with how they hide their face and shiver, i can't keep myself from having them, from devouring them.
i free them from their lingerie and touch them. i kiss them and make them moan, make them take my fingers in their mouth and suck on that, call them a good girl, watch them squirm, watch them get hard and wet. i won't touch them there though, not yet, i like to play with my food. i flick at their nipples, i pinch, make them whine; i tell them how sensitive their chest is — are they on estrogen, maybe? they shake their head no. do they want to be? they just shut their eyes closed and whine harder. it's alright, they're already such a pretty kitten for me, so soft, so responsive. they don't have to think about what they do or do not want — they can let all thoughts go, i'll take care of them, i'll make them feel good. i kiss their neck, leave hickeys there to mark them mine, to hear their sweet, pathetic sounds. i kiss their mouth, push my tongue down their throat until they choke, then praise them for doing so good. i touch their nipples and make them suck on mine, call them my babygirl, so eager to help me, to please me. by the time i get to rubbing between their legs, they're dripping wet and twitching, desperate to unravel for me. i tell them how beautiful their girlcock is, how slick they are, how cutely they buck their hips and blush for me and moan for me; i mount them, and guide them inside me. they cry out, twitch harder, get all adorable and helpless under me. i try to ride them, but they keep jerking their hips, they can't lie still, their breath is all broken and their expression is almost pained from all the stimulation, i can see they're dying for release. i tell them they can do it, they've been such a good girl for me, they're allowed, they're so obedient and deserve a reward, they can cum inside me — and they do, and they moan so loudly, they cry and tremble as i help them ride it out until they're limp and empty.
then i cuddle them, pet their hair, kiss their forehead, tell them they were great and adorable and i loved all of it. i ask them if they liked it, and they say yes, slow and fucked out, a little sleepy. i ask again if it was nice to finally have lesbian sex with another girl, and she says yes louder, hugs me tighter, buries her face. i ask her if she liked being a girl, my girl, and she cries, and i let her find comfort between my tits as i stroke her back.
next week, she wants to do it again, and of course i let her — but on one new condition: she needs to let me do her first estradiol shot. if we keep this up, the rules have to change, okay? she agrees so easily, almost like this is what she wanted all along. we do it again, and again, and again, like she's addicted to whatever i do to her; gradually, her skin gets softer and her breasts fuller, her nipples even more sensitive, and every time she cums her sperm is more and more watery, but her orgasms are more and more intense. she stops cutting her hair at all, starts going by a new name, starts calling herself my girlfriend. nearly every time we have sex, she kisses me and thanks me for fixing her, for shaping her to my needs. i say i'll do anything for my good girl, and fuck her until she forgets who she was before she turned into my sweet femme fucktoy, my beautiful girl.
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(prompted by thinking about what makes him such a compelling & interesting character, which is his godawful personality that's 80% neuroses by volume)
it is too late to love him. he has been deprived of love during his most formative, tender years, throughout his entire childhood, and that has left him with deep, irrevocable damage that no amount of post-factum love is going to fully fix. the most faithful friendship and the most gentle romance aren't going to make him stop being insufferable; it's too late.
but also, three million years into deep space, future so removed that not only humanity, but even traces of its existence may be long gone — at this kind of scale, everything is too late. too late to be human, to be alive, to want, to go home. it's too late, and yet lister keeps at it, citing "just for shits and giggles" as his reason, which might be weird liverpudlian slang for "it's pointless to hope, but i continue recklessly hoping anyway, because i'm desperate like that".
behold: a ficlet where enji todoroki gets told to fuck off and die (maybe not in those exact words, but that's how he feels)
technical info: G rated, gen, 1.3k words one-shot, 3rd person present tense narration, endeavor POV
vibes: endeavor is a horrible father; shoto & toya deathbed bonding; toya's presence is the elephant in the room
«On the second day, there came a word»
“You didn't have to come with me,” Endeavor says, as Shoto helps him out of the taxi.
“Your chair isn't powered, father,” he answers.
“Still, I would've… figured something out.” Asking someone from the agency to come cart him around would've been the less embarrassing option.
Shoto is silent for a moment, eyes downcast, seemingly shy in front of his father. Then, his expression shifts to something determined, eyes looking up — not even at Endeavor himself, but somewhere beyond, to the horizon. “I want to visit him, too,” Shoto states.
He can't argue with that. If the boy wishes to see his father humiliate himself again, that is his right, which Endeavor won't dare deny him. This is his duty as a penitent.
The day is bright and quiet as they roll towards the clinic's entrance, saying nothing more to each other.
The receptionist simply nods at them and waives them in, and Shoto greets her curtly, not even stopping. They go straight to the elevator, then the second floor, where a friendly male nurse meets them.
“Hello! It's so good that you two could make it today,” he clasps his hands smiles. “Please, follow me.”
“I must warn you,” he says, turning away and marching forward, “his answers today may be shorter and simpler than last time. His mental clarity hasn't declined, thankfully — this is simply a measure recommended by his doctors in order to conserve more of his energy. I hope you understand.”
“I understand, thank you,” Shoto replies from behind Endeavors back.
The nurse turns his head, shooting them a quick glance and a pitying smile. “It's enough that he has a chance to listen to what you've got to say, isn't it?”
“Yes,” Endeavor agrees.
He looks down, watching the floor tiles slide under his unmoving feet, until they reach the door. The heavy thing dampens strange sounds coming from the hospital room — something harsh, rhythmic, angry.
“What's all that noise?” Endeavor asks.
“Oh, that'd be the music that the patient requested. The doctors agreed that just the passive act of listening shouldn't strain him too much, once he's already awake, and some entertainment might lift his spirits a bit!” the nurse explains, apparently very pleased with the conditions his establishment offers.
Seeing how the visitors (or at least, the visitor, one whose purpose it is to be here) weren't satisfied with the explanation, he adds, “May I share something personal?”
“What is it?” Shoto says.
“This is the same music that my sister likes — she even helped me put the playlist together. When I was younger, she forced me to listen to this stuff, and I hated it, haha…! But now, these songs fill me with nostalgia… It's nice to be reminded of your family when you're hard at work, I think.”
“I agree,” Shoto replies, smile audible in his voice.
“Let us in,” Endeavor reminds them.
The door slowly slides open, blasting his eardrums with "music" way louder than he ever expected to hear inside a hospital. “Turn that off!” he demands.
“Of course, of course,” the nurse nods. “We wouldn't want anything to interfere with your conversation.” He hurries to the media player, which perches awkwardly on a table that wasn't there yesterday. Then, he steps back, standing ramrod straight next to the attending doctor, who watches the visitors like a hawk.
The ringing silence of this large, sterile room is very welcome. “Hello, son,” Endeavor begins.
The silence continues.
He breathes in, deep and slow, breathes out. He tries again. “Lay it all on me. I'm ready. Even if you have nothing to give me but hatred, I want your hatred.”
No answer still. Endeavor lifts his gaze to face the glass coffin housing the burnt skeleton — it looks nothing like his son, but exactly like the manifestation of all of his sins.
Shoto begins to say something, and Endeavor whips his head, desperate. “Is he even awake? Is Toya in there?”
“The vitals are in order. He should be conscious,” the doctor notes.
An inhuman creak comes from under the thick glass. “Sheesh,” the hoarse voice says.
“Toya!” Endeavor exclaims, filled with sharp, ugly relief. “Thank god. It's me — your father's here. Talk to me, please. Say anything.”
When a reply doesn't come immediately, Endeavor doesn't panic — he'll wait for hours, for days straight in order to hear from Toya again, one word at a time.
The singular word comes, “Leave.”
The air is punched out of Endeavor's lungs, along with a reply he didn't get to word. “Why?!”
“Father…” Shoto begins to speak, but Endeavor doesn't bother turning to face him. He stares down the glass and the near-corpse, waiting for the answers to his whole, pathetic life.
“You wanted me to see you! I'm here, I'm watching! I'm here, Toya, your Dad is here.” If Endeavor starts tearing up, he wouldn't know it.
The quiet stretches, and for a stupid, painful moment Endeavor is afraid that this is the last he'll ever hear of his eldest son.
“Please, try to avoid stressing him,” the nurse says, moving towards them, and Endeavor wishes he could do something, anything to stop him.
“Toya!”
“I wanted,” he finally continues. Everybody stops in their tracks, listening to the slow, imperious rattle. Every word, interspersed with heavy breathing and breathless waiting, is like a droplet of water torture on Endeavor's skull. “You saw. I burned bright!” Then, the indomitable, stubborn brat manages a whole sentence, just to leave no room for interpretation: “But I never said I wanted to watch you. I saw enough.“
While Toya's father is dumbfounded and betrayed, words echoing in his head, a stranger — the nurse — blocks his view. He looks rueful, but not the least bit sorry as he says, “It's really unfortunate that your visit has been cut short. Please, let me escort you back.“
“You can't just kick me out!”
“It is the patient's wish,” he explains.
“What about his family's wishes?”
The doctor raises his voice, strangely loud and low, emanating emotionless authority. “We are a hospital, not a prison. We aren't concerned with torturing, punishing, or forcing people we're responsible for. With end-of-life care, our main goal is to respect the patient's choices and to fulfill their wishes to the best of our ability, ensuring they're as comfortable as possible during their last days.” Then, as if this indignity wasn't enough, he locks eyes with Endeavor personally. “You were allowed to visit because he agreed to it.”
“I apologize for the inconvenience,” the nurse insists. “I realize that this must be disappointing.”
“What do you know!” Endeavor protests helplessly as his highschool boy starts wheeling him to the exit.
“"It's alright, I understand,” Shoto answers the nurse, in that polite, icy-cold voice of his he must've gotten from his mother. “Father, let us take our leave.”
Just as the door begins to open, Toya startles them. “Stay.”
Endeavor wishes he could turn around to look at him. “What do you mean?! What do you want?”
“You, leave. Shoto, stay.”
“Really?” he hears from behind his back, forced to listen as his children conspire, ignoring him. Shoto's tone isn't shocked — rather pleasantly surprised. “I... Thank you.”
Shoto steps away, and his father catches a glimpse of a smile before he disappears from view. The nurse overtakes the wheelchair's handles, saying, “I'll show you to the waiting room. It's rather comfortable there, and this shouldn't take long at all.” Enji has no fire left to argue.
Right before the door fully shuts, he overhears a question: “You want music?” He doesn't get to listen in to the answer, only the renewed muffled noise coming from the inside. If he strains, he can make out — or maybe just imagine — the voice of his youngest son, talking to his eldest.
The sounds grow fainter as he's taken down the corridor, until they disappear completely.
“He's a very nice boy,” the nurse comments cheerfully.
“He is,” Enji agrees, and tries to feel proud of him.
