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aetherin21 · 2 years

Text

An Image of my last spring

Pairing: Getou Suguru x Reader

Genre: Angst with comfort, small fluff

Notes: Reader is a sorcerer turned office worker just like Nanami :) if I ever see mistakes here I'll change and fix it in my Ao3. This has been in my drafts for like 3 weeks I think and I just wanna post it now before I forget hahaha also this is inspired by Dr. Park's words of Suguru being Satoru's last spring of youth and the Promotional art of the Season 2 of JJK :)

5:35 PM

February 3, 2017

Shibuya Station

Soulless is the sound of steady tapping that echoes through the air while the floor gently vibrates to where I currently stood. Its constant rhythm encloses the area in its own little bubble, creating an ecosystem far beyond any person's reach.

At the corner of my eye, I could see the sight of rushing bodies reaching the depths of where I hid as I waited patiently for my train to arrive. Like a glorified aquarium, splashes of muddy white, blues, browns and black mixes in with the current school of people. It's not hard to miss their colorful forms as they slowly turn into a raging tide of their own. Their gradual awakening signals the beginning of the evening rush hour. And soon, without a doubt I'll be caught by that wave of meat.

With that thought, being unable to escape from its nauseating grip could make me kneel and pray to no one in particular. Dragging my vessel to its epicenter, fully engulfed by the unpleasant sensation of rubbing flesh and hot breath fanning through the tiny bumps of exposed skin; consumed by its awful flow. It's much easier to swallow the idea of being executed in a horrific fashion than to be judged by their so-called righteous mallet and scornful eyes. Forever condemned by its world court and abandoned with no other island besides my own. Is what I initially thought anyway.

"Maybe I should have done some overtime again…" I mumble to myself.

Deciding to Ignore the countdown of my impending doom, I exhaled the bitterness within me. Fiddling at the small screen I held. Distracting myself had become a ritual of mine, a sort of coping habit that developed through the decade that was so unkind. Letting myself submerge to another aether, not allowing a single thought or emotion leak through the cracks of my stone shell. Pumping the veins etched in me with calm adrenaline as if I am in a state of a passing nirvana.

Funnily enough, it reminds me of that film Rocky. Particularly that famous scene where the protagonist trained intensely while the song 'Eye Of The Tiger' plays in the background. Capturing the essence of his perseverance, strength and hardwork. Just like him, I'll be entering my own very montage except the loud music blasting through my ears will astral project my soul to another dimension as my body turns into a human sandwich. Very dramatic. I know but I would rather meet my end in style than to... Huh — Weird. That last line sounds awfully too familiar. Ringing unusual bells in the depths of my mind.

Did I used to say that? It feels out of character. Out of place. It's too cool and somewhat edgy for someone like me to say. Yet it tasted a little foreign and familiar at the same time. Scratching my chin in place of a brain, I could only conclude I might have gotten it from someone else. But where exactly?

Think, think, think…It can't be from my coworkers nor from my family. They're all too normal and boring to say something like that. I don't have many friends to begin with either so that’s out of the question.

With how tingly my tongue is, the answer seems to be at the edge already. Maybe it came from an action movie that I had watched before? It is rather cliche in format. If I repeat it, will it come out?

To meet my end in style. To meet my end in style. To meet my end in —

Chanting it like a spell, I summoned what lies beyond those lines. But all too quickly, the grinning image of a boy flashed before my eyes. Both falling and burning way too fast as it reached the ends of my fingertips. Only its ashes remain before I could even hold it in the palm of my hands.

The lighthouse that often watches over me, sensed my growing sorrow within. Casting a stream of yellows beyond the horizon, it guides my sight towards the answers I seek. I remember where that line came from.

Satoru, the annoying gigantic furby, used to play good cop and bad cop with another boy his size. Both of them were enamored by western films they constantly watch a lot. Sometimes they would often repeat every written dialogue like some new gag. Meticulously pushing every button they can to see what tickles our funny bones. It was annoying to deal with but also endearing nonetheless.

How could I forget something like that?

Looking at the station clock, its hands seemed to move painfully slow. Taking lifetimes to reach the five thirty-eight mark. On the other hand, the esteemed crowd from earlier had displaced themselves where they were supposed to be. Leaving me lost and jaded at a memory that had long since faded.

Truthfully, I no longer have the courage and strength to pick every bit and piece that used to be a part of me. I let it all wash away from the lonely shore and let it erase what used to be who I am. Yet from time to time, a photo would emerge and greet me as I stood in the infinite sands alone. Images of old crammy classrooms, buildings and statues mock me in silence as I had forgotten everything. Only to remind me once again of what I used to cherish and the foolish thinking of everything lasting forever. That and also the free rides the assigned windows give.

Now, it makes me wonder if it was ever like that to that estranged boy in those photographs? The commute, I mean. I am curious to know; Was he able to dodge the mangy currents of limbs easily? His height seems to suggest so. Towering so much at such a young age. It gives this sense that he was unreachable, untouchable and unattainable especially to someone like me. The aura he gives off as he perches above exudes mystery, intimidation and a strange selfish holiness. I imagine being that tall has a lot of privileges. To be able to see the world that no mortal could have. Or just easily avoid any unwanted circumstance if he wished to. It's unfair, really. Both him and Satoru.

But God does not play favorites. In some way or another, in any shape or form it will come for you. To balance the rules of this reality, judgment will strike at any possibility. Cutting down both the fair and the unfair, continuously hunting down anyone it deems to be worthy of such. From the station platform where I stood to the streets of Shibuya, the supermarkets from the residential district and any place it wishes; there was no way to hide from it. Just like the sea of meat that ogles its new victim. But I guess he already knew that. Right?

Ah, since we're on that topic. What kind of sandwich would everyone be anyway? I just think it's funny since I am going to be one in a few minutes. I think, for one, I am probably like those cheap konbini ones that sometimes dupe you with no filling. Leaving you disappointed as you take your first and last bite. Why that of all things? Guess I am too small to even fill up the space, too insignificant but still ends up getting squished by the bread.

Shoko would probably be like those freshly homemade ones. The type that rejuvenates the soul as they take a mouthful. The feeling of home that dawns on the crevice of their bones while gnawing on the crunchy lettuce and juicy tomatoes. And once the last bite takes place a sudden realization of life struck. They jolt back from their wake and once again walk to another reprieve. Ah, I miss her. I wonder if she still has that bad habit of smoking.

Satoru, on the other hand, would be those luxury ones that cost a fortune but leave you with a thought, 'That's it?' A wasteful value or some popular commodity that's hard to reach. Beautiful, intricate and praised all while the dreaded guilt binds the person in an awkward greed as they throw money away for just a simple taste. Sprinkle in gold and baby blue, they'll feel they mattered. Even though it's just a sandwich. Although, to carry such high prestige, one could only be proud for there is no replica that can copy such material. Thus becoming the greatest snack of all. I can't believe this guy is the same age as me.

But the question is, what about him? The dark haired boy that lingers behind the shadow of the one and only Gojo Satoru.

I suppose with his size and sense of morals, he would be one of those premium fast food chicken sandwiches. Where the bun can't hold him in place cause all the limbs will spill out from the sides along with its special sauce, creating such a goopy mess on your hands as you eat. But due to being the cheaper alternative than Satoru, hands are more eager to devour what it has to offer. Blinding and burning everyone who tasted his tender meat. Along with myself. Ha! It suits that boy, right? Right…

Giggling to myself, these silly little ideas brought genuine joy to my lips. The foreign warmth that spreads through my cheeks as my eyes form into crescent moons. I can't help but think, how long has it been?

Too busy investing in drawing crude pictures of human comparison to wheat delicacies, I had failed to notice the shadow of the looming casket over my very being. The cries of its brakes scratching at the conch of my ear ripped me from la la land all too suddenly. As if it was demanding my attention like a dog and their favorite toy. Except, instead of such an adorable view, it's replaced by a pristine, well kept wagon that regurgitates passengers from its belly. Of course, everyone around me had waited in anticipation for this moment. Too eager to leave this dreadful place and confine themselves in the better space of their home. Except for me.

With the same sentiment, I too readied myself as the last person left the metal doors. Lowering my gaze and refusing to meet any watchful eyes, I let my legs move in autopilot. After all, the thing that I have dreaded since the very beginning is coming to a climax. I could only pretend to be a criminal waiting for the noose and prostrating myself to an ever exaggerated ruin. But amidst such a forlorn play, a scent had caught my foot mid step.

Candies, cigarettes, incense, and sandalwood.

Such an odd combination painted the air like a wretched canvas and brought cold sweat onto my skin. The colors of red, blue, violet and yellow blurs around my vision while accompanied by a distinct joyous laughter, seemingly mocking me in my wake. The faint words of goodbyes and farewells also catches my attention as I suffer from gut retching nauseousness.

As if I knew whose voices they were.

I covered my face with my own two hands as a hint of bile threatened the edge of my throat. Knocking me into a hunching posture, heaving in sudden agony. The raunchy taste of sharp yet tangy acid covered my palette in a short amount of time that it had me in tears. It did not help that I could feel onlookers watch with both worry and annoyance at my blocking form towards their so-called freedom.

Forced to wave a feign OK, I unwillingly apologized for the mishap I had caused and stepped away momentarily from the line. Letting myself recuperate and expel the visceral sensation from my body with much cleaner air. Although, I can’t help a part of me be annoyed as well. Does this person not have etiquette at all?

Bugged by my consciousness, unable to let it go. I searched for the origin of such a revolting smell. Looking left to right not moving from my spot. Hoping to give a piece of my mind to their disturbing work of art. An artwork that for some reason I couldn't help but chase in strange yearning. But of course, with my luck, there was no one attached to its disembodied stench. The culprit had already fled the scene of the crime. Leaving me, the victim, vexed and perplexed.

But based on the contents of the stupid fragrance, that person probably had an ingenious idea to spray such a strong perfume to get rid of the cigarette and incense attached to their person. Still, regardless of reason, my head lingers in the direction to wherever it may have come from. Even foolishly imprinting it in my lungs like a masochist. After all, it's absurd for that boy to —

“Be here with you?”

April fools is still two months from now. I am not sure if I know anyone who celebrates such a childish event other than Satoru. I doubt he’ll come for me in advance either. Our relationship hasn't been the best in these god awful years. The last notable conversation we both had was around December.

Surely this is just a small bout of insanity. A figment of my wild imagination conjured from my exhaustion. After all, weeks of overtime can do wonders to the brain. It explains my sudden obsession with sandwich analogies and weird feelings of extreme melancholy. Or…Wait. Don’t tell me the strange smell came from a curse? Was I afflicted by it?

The more the people, the more negative emotions spill out. This platform is a perfect den to give birth to such abominable creatures. Especially with the amount of impoverished salarymen and women who often take this train, spilling their unwanted frustration and bitterness onto the floor tiles. That must be it.

Confronting the glass window of the train, I braced myself for the sudden encounter. Clutching my sling bag close, a small cursed tool can be found deep in its pockets. Carefully tucked away for emergencies just like this.

Thankfully, it's been drilled into my subconsciousness on procedures regarding random contacts: First, always confirm the target. Second, never forget to put a curtain. Third, exorcise it with caution. If worse comes to show, then there's the fourth option, run away and call for the real professionals. Whatever this creature is, even at my grade, I can handle it. Is what I believe.

Yet, it seems nothing can prepare me for the familiar silhouette staring back at me.

Slightly obscured by the reflection of sandwiched passengers, there he stood in his full glory. Hair tied up in a neat knot with only a few stubborn clumps falling above his eyes. Ears pierced by deep black gems that glimmer under the artificial lights. Soft lips, ever so curtly forming into a thin smile as his obsidian eyes contorted into a tender gaze. Seemingly admiring the reflection of the both of us finally beside each other. He didn’t change at all. Still the same as I remembered.

“It's been a while hasn’t it?”

Beep

I knew from the bottom of my heart that this isn’t an amalgamation of people’s negative emotions. As foolish as it sounds even with Ms. Tsukumo’s explanation about curses and sorcerers, I knew with one look this is mine. I am cursed and this is my haunted house. Because here you are with me. Alone. Together on this platform, purposely making me miss my train home.

“You never said goodbye.”

Humming a low playful tune, he linked his slender finger gently with the small of mine as the subtle wind blew over us. Just with that small gesture, the orchestra nestled within me didn’t know what sheet to read. Too confused about what to play in front of its single audience. So Instead, to appease the lone watcher, it chooses to perform all of it at once. Anger, joy, sadness and everything in between. What a laughable performance.

“I guess, I owe you an overdue apology.”

The drumstick hits the surface harder than it should, resonating through every crevice of my flesh with a loud bang. My head sharply turned to his direction, controlled by the awful strike. His nonchalant and unremorseful response baffled my consciousness. “Guess!? Am I a joke to you? Is that the only reason why you’re here? To give me pity?”

Ten years, that’s how long since I’ve last seen his face. And all he could do is mock me with his boyish smile while giggling at my sudden outburst. How cruel can he be?

Filled with distrust, my body flinched as I watched his hand delicately tuck a piece of hair behind my ear. His eyes still filled with never ending adoration even as my body betrayed him. “So this is what you look like after ten years.” he said as he now traced my cheek, holding me in the palm of his hand as if time never separated us. "You haven't changed at all. Still very pretty."

I hate this. I hate the feeling of such soft bass melting my skin into nothing but putty. Smoothing the creases of my face as I plead for more. How even such a simple yet cliche string of words dulls my senses and becomes high just from its mere echoes. Furious, I wish I could be at this moment but furious I was not. “You're insufferable, you know that?”

Chasing foolishly his warmth, my head leaned into his touch. Too starved from his affection. All while the course of the symphony in my heart changes its tune to match the sudden drops of tears from my very own lashes. "And I hate you." I said to him bitterly.

Unfazed by those petty words, he only laughed again but this time more softly. “I know and you still love me for it.”

With a small step, the boy hovered his immense stature over me with ease. Casting a long shadow on my form as if it was a cage I can’t escape from. I already know what he’s about to do so I only stood patiently like a good girl, ready for him to consume.

“I miss you.” He prayed on my forehead. “I really miss you.” He whispered next, on top of my nose. “I really did.” He continued to edge at the corner of my lips, drinking my silent cries away. “And I still do now.” He said as he finally took my lips with his own.

There we mended and molded back to each other's heated embrace. Hands desperately closing the space till there was none as we spoke in a language we both knew how to communicate.

Ever so gentle that he is, his tongue asks for my permission as we move further than just a simple dance of mouth. The wet sensation that swipes at the entrance had me reeling through my core as I let him do as he pleases. Basking in the warmth of him, the boy smiled as he conquered me. He knew I was easily intoxicated, how easily I get addicted and he knew the power he has over me. A special privilege only he could have. A privilege of having me.

However I am not the only one. The way his hand desperately moves over from my front and on to my back, rubbing at whatever clothed flesh he can latch on too. Dying for more skinship. Even the way his breath hitch and moan vibrated through my being, I could tell he too is drunk from this public display of debauchery.

We were both hungry and that's the truth. But not in the sense of lust or desire but rather a deep yearning of forgiveness and loss of affection. Even our fervent moans turn to songs of devotion under the cathedral of us. My cries are the wine that cleanses his soul and his touch is the communion that renews my heart. Of course, such intensity always has an end. Too much and one could have drowned at the pits of insanity.

So the second our lungs sync in need of oxygen, we parted our ways. Yet both our eyes still linger where our lips were once connected. Shamelessly wanting more than just a kiss but too embarrassed to share another. Instead with a compromise, our foreheads remained pressed together in content.

“Wow, public indecency? Really? You’re better than this.” The boy scolded mischievously, voice dripping in sweet childish passion. Very romantic.

Rolling my eyes, I broke from the intimacy. Just to slap his shoulder in retaliation. Knowing full well what his sense of humor is like, I laughed at his stupidity. “You’re the one who started it!” But even so, my cheeks couldn’t help turn into cherries as we continued our banter just like old times.

“Ow! Now, you're hitting me? That’s assault!” He whined, deliberately rubbing the harsh contact for emphasis. “I don't remember you being this mean!” Even adding a sprinkle of a pout to top off his shenanigans. Not gonna lie, it was cute to look at. But I won't let myself be swayed by his charming looks. So with gritted teeth, I said whole heartedly in jest. “I wish I could hit you more, you dumbass!”

After hearing that the plastered smile on his face seemed to grow playfully. My words had lit a fire within him. Laying down the school bag he carried on the ground, he spread his arms and puffed his chest for me to see. Apprehensive by his actions, I took a small step back and waited for his next move. Unsure what his true motives are. “Alright. I’ll let you. If you kiss the wound after.” He said jokingly.

Ah, I forgot how horny teenagers were…

Exhaling between my palms, a part of me wished to scream in silent frustration but that would honor him a win in this childish endeavor. Rather turning the tides to my favor, what better way to do than just simply comply to his own whims.

Winding my arm as far back as I can, there I summoned all the strength this body could muster at the edge of my fists. Fair and square I punched him straight in the face. Landing a mark on his apples while his pair of peaches lay splat on the floor as a look of utter shock adorned his sharp features. Of course, never in a million years the boy would think I could pull such a punch. After all, that wasn’t my forte to begin with. Jokes on him though, that was me from before and not the me of now.

Before I could let him say a word, I crouched down to his level and left a tender kiss on his wound. Licking it for good measure. “Two could play that game.” I whispered, leaving a gentle blow to his now reddened ear.

Putting a small distance, I observed my precious win. His face all heated up like a boiling kettle. It was his turn to cover his face. Gaze unable to straighten, looking anywhere else but me. It's such a delicious sight seeing him come undone by just mere strength alone. “Wh– when did you learn how to hit like that?” Oh, was that a stutter?

A new sense of pride swells within as this is the first time I had an upper hand on him. Pursing my lips in feign innocence, I batted my lashes as cutely as I could. My head rested on the palm of my hand as a finger tapped in thought. “Who knows? It's been ten years since the last time we saw each other. A lot could happen.”

“That’s fair.” He sighed.

Rosy lips forming a thin line, he shuffled on the floor. Finding a more comfortable position sitting crisscrossed in front of me. Mimicking my earlier pose, his hand rested on his palm as well. Contemplating something within him as a tiny glint nestled its way to his marbles. Suddenly staring intensely at my figure, I blinked twice to decipher his actions. I presume it's another challenge? Or perhaps sulking under the weight of my victory?

Yet a minute has passed by and no signs of unusual movement can be seen. Only continuing his unwavering gaze at my form. Still, I won’t back down for the next fight. That is, until a loud horn and the sound of grinding wheels distract me from my spot.

The next train had rudely arrived and it announced itself proudly in front of us, lowering my guard completely. To the scheming boy, this was his perfect opportunity. It was natural after all, when one sees an opening one would attack mercilessly. And that’s what he did. Stealing a small peck from my lips and holding two peace signs in front of my face. My eyes could only dilate from his actions as the grin grew as large as the half moon. “Gotcha. I win!” he said proudly.

Too dumbfounded, I ended up bursting from laughter. Nodding my head I unanimously agreed to his victory and accepted my own defeat like a proper adult I am. “What do you want as a reward?” I asked, adoring his boyish facade that seemed to light up from something so trivial. “I’ve been giving a lot of kisses lately, I think it lost its value.”

Humming in thought, the boy turned his head towards the train. Inspecting the unusual empty shell as if searching his deep darkest desire in its exterior. The bangs that covered his eyes gently sway from his movements as the glowing light from the fluorescent light cascades his porcelain skin. Framing his youth in a portrait that won't last. “Tell me a story then.” He said, looking back at me with the answer he had found. My palms could only turn to puddles as I anticipated his next words, a strange nervousness washed over me.

“I want to hear everything that happened to you when we were apart.”

“Okay.”

Is what I said as his hands now intertwined with mine while we sat properly on the platform bench. Our surroundings have long been abandoned ever since I missed my last train. I am not sure how many more passed by but there was no next wave of crowd that came from the entrance and exits. The whole area felt like it was our own little domain. Our own little ecosystem.

“Where do you want me to start?” I asked timidly. Knowing where all this was going. I am not a fool. It had already gnawed at the back of my head since the scent of his wafted through the air.

“How about when you left the technical school?” he asked curiously.

“Alright.” I said.

The moment I opened my mouth, stories flowed into the space we occupied. Transforming the scenery into a dream-like state found in one of those shoujo mangas. Blabbering this and that, and that and this. The text bubbles were empty yet its meaningful conversations reside in its containers for only our ears to hear. As pages turned to the next, our expressions filled each panel with comical laughter, shock, anger and tears. Together we both laid each other bare as our bodies mimed the years of what could have been.

A part of me wishes this moment could last forever. But I knew that was impossible. God never plays favorites. All I could do is make the most of what was given. Savoring the comfort that is him. An image of my last spring.

So I paused my words mid sentence, my body moved closer to his. This time it's my turn to trap him in my own little cage. Kissing his lips with the same intensity as the scorching sun. Biting, marking and clawing my way through a never ending longing, wishing more than I should. As words that are never spoken but only lingering between us leaves my mouth, I pray to his exposed skin: cheeks, ears, neck, wrist and palms all my shameless I love yous.

With the wit of a hawk and sight of an owl, The boy had already noticed my silent fears dressed in growing affection. Manifesting them into words, he could only ask softly. “Tell me. Why won’t you say my name?”

Frozen in place, I searched through his eyes what he had just said. As it sinks in, my brows furrowed, hoping for him to not inquire further. Yet what reflected back was his own silent plea. You are so cruel, you know that.

“I know.” he leaned in to whisper while his sharp nose nestled under my jaw. Always the mind reader this guy. “But I want to hear it from your lips.”

With such a request, I bowed my head in utter humiliation. Unable to look him in the eye. My lips quiver as I silently confess my sins to him. “If I say it, I feel like you’re gonna disappear again.”

A faint touch raised my head to meet with him once more. The quiet desperation and the childish eagerness from earlier had disappeared. This time our kiss felt much slower and much sweeter. “Please look at me.” He begged.

Yet I still refuse.

As the stubborn man that he is, he continued haunting my lips. Tender touches became pleading ghosts and the blowing air cursed my trembling. “I need to hear it.”

I could only peek from my lashes while my mouth shivers from the eerie peck that landed ever so lightly. Constantly being tempted like this just to adhere to his whims, I couldn’t help counting each one as he tried to make me submit.

One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six.

And at the seventh kiss, he deepened it.

My mind instantly went blank with the constant edging and the sudden ferocity of the kiss. All sense of control washes away, unable to restrain myself any further. I moaned his name in finality. The twist, the turn and the tap of each syllable at the chambers of my mouth felt freeing. I couldn’t hold back the tears that ran through my skin. Bawling like a lost child in front him. But he only embraced me in his arms, gently rocking us back and forth as I repeatedly called him over and over again.

“Suguru. Suguru. Suguru.”

“I am still here.” he said, breaking the evil spell that tormented me for such a long time. Catching all the photographs scattered in the ocean. One by one giving them back to me. It hurts. It hurts so much.

“Why did you leave me?”

“Why didn’t you say goodbye?”

“Why only Shoko and Satoru? Why not me?”

“Why didn’t you take me with you?”

Questions after questions flowed, aching for answers that I already knew but I wish I could hear from his own lips too. Punching him over and over his chest, I can’t seem to hate him. All I can do is accept what he has given. You’re so selfish. So unfair.

Grabbing the next hit, he forced me to look him in the eye. The image that greeted me isn't the boy I once knew. Replaced by a man sculpted in righteous reverie, cloth cut from the edges of apathy. This man’s eyes are filled with never ending desires that seem to want to drown me in it. A strange thirst and hunger different from a beast, that no flesh and water can calm its currents.

This is a Suguru who I don’t know of. The Suguru I feared the most. The Suguru that I wish would turn back as I reached to him in my youth. But nonetheless the Suguru who I still ache for.

“I didn’t regret it. Only you.” he desperately professed as his fingers twitched at my skin. Seemingly wishing to touch more with the him of now and not the one from yesteryears. “I love you.” he said as he smiled from the bottom of his heart. “I still do and will continue to do so.”

“Suguru.” Was all I could say. Not knowing what else to confess.

I had been afraid to see the twenty-seven year old Geto Suguru till now. Too scared to confront the feelings that scattered on the lonely shore. Too scared that I would fall together with him too. I am too scared that my love is so deep that it will swallow everything in its path. But you’ve always known that, right? Of course you do. Cause you feel the same way too.

Rubbing my eyes, tears still continued to fall. My snot also boldly joined along my skin. Mixing in with the currents under my lashes. It's so embarrassing to cry like this in front of Suguru but I can’t help it. Everything is too overwhelming and all I want is to be pampered in his loving arms. “Once again, you’re so insufferable and I love you so much.”

Caressing my cheeks, he wiped my tears gently with his sleeves, even roughly getting rid of the sticky mucus that spilled out. He teased my whining. “You’ve only realized it now? You’re such a slow poke.”

Ten years ago, he knew I would follow him to the ends of the earth. He knew we’ll both crash and burn. He knew it will be till death do us part. “But I didn’t want that to happen.” He said. “That would be too cruel even for me.”

“You already are cruel, stupid.” Still sniffing away the sobs, I couldn’t help but retaliate the way I know how.

“Oh? Says the girl, who’ll literally die for me.”

“Says the guy who already did, Dumbass.”

Mouth forming into a thin line, Suguru sighed in defeat. “Touché.”

Giggling childishly, even at that age he’s still the Suguru I love. The way his handsome face stayed the same, only this time more mature. His same old earrings are still there hanging tightly too and so are his stubborn bangs. Even when clothed in those sacred robes, it's undeniable that he’s still him. “My tall and very adorable dumbass.”

“Your tall and very adorable dumbass.” He lovingly repeated back.

Really, this is such a mess of a reunion. But I wouldn’t have it any other way.

Beep

Jolting back from my seat, I woke up from the sound of train doors signaling its final call for passengers. Hurriedly, my body moved towards it. Hoping to finally leave this place. The smell of sandalwood that once surrounded me fades gently through the air along with the cold harsh winter. In the next month spring will come and the Sakura trees will finally bloom.

You really did meet your end in style. Fading like the last snow of winter.

Farewell my beloved Suguru, I love you and happy birthday.

#jujutsu kaisen x reader #jujutsu kaisen fanfic #getou x you #getou suguru x reader #getou suguru x y/n #getou suguru x you #geto suguru #jjk x you #jjk x y/n #jjk x reader #jjk angst #I love my baby girl so much that I write fics for him for the nth time #I should be writing a band au for Choso or F1 au for the whole jjk but urghhh #baby girl ur too much :(((

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chroniclesofadeadgirl · 6 months

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I find it disgusting that being racist, homophobic, misogynistic, a pedophile, an completely fucking asshole is being normalized. I know i normally post about movies but i wanted to talk about this.

Being a pedophile or racist or misogynistic or a homophobe or a completely fucking jackass is now deemed as "cool" or "edgy". This generation is doomed. These teens consider being a nice person (man) as "gay", so being disrespectful is manly? How does that even make sense..

If you scroll on instagram, you can see some posts about gR4pe awareness or even a child dancing, you open the comments and see thousands of disgusting people, on gR4pe posts there are comments like "link", "she probably liked it", "only one side of the story??", "What was she wearing", etc. And gR4pe is not justifiably by what the victim was wearing cause i even heard babies getting SAed, its disgusting, Its horrific, Its disappointing, its sickening, its nauseating, its foul, its gross, its angering.

These are comments under a rape awareness post where the victim was 16, she was wearing a thong underneath so the judge dismissed it by saying "its her fault", its sickening..some of them are from a post about junko furuta.

#rape #awarness

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fanficlibraryposts · 3 years

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Larry Stylinson(1D) Fic Recs

sleeping on our problems by falsegoodnight

I’m in love with you, Louis thinks. He feels empty, weighed down by his sadness and the loss of Harry inside him just moments ago before his knot finally went down. There’s moments where he’s sure Harry feels the same. Like now, when he’s gazing down at Louis with so much adoration and tenderness. It’s like they’re both on the cusp of something more, but neither of them ever say a word. His confession is on the tip of his tongue ready to slide out like honey, and yet he remains silent. They both do, looking at each other and recognizing the reluctance mirrored in each other’s eyes. It’s then that Louis realizes they’re both scared.

Or Louis sleeps with Harry and they have more than just catching feelings to worry about.

*A/B/O au, so soft and fluffy with just a dash of angst*

Foolishly, Completely Falling by dea_liberty

"Now that he’s actually gone and done it, there seems to be no way of going back - no rinse and repeat, no ctrl+alt+del, no abort button, no help to be had. He’s fallen into a black hole and he cannot seem to find a way out. The black hole is also known as Tumblr. More specifically, it’s known as Tumblr’s Larry Stylinson tag."

OR: The one where Louis becomes a Larry shipper by accident.

Put It All On Me by LoadedGunn

"Yeah, yeah, give it to me, that's it, spread your legs a bit, there you go."

The camera follows Louis as he does. Maybe if the modelling thing doesn't work out, he could try the porn industry. Then again, he's a bit too stocky to be twinky and a bit too twinky to be anything else. He likes that about himself, though. Well, directors and photographers like that about him. He could pull off pretty and edgy, could do GQ in the morning and a perfume commercial in the afternoon. Right now he thinks he could pull off anything, because it's Harry fucking Styles directing him.

Or, a Top Model AU where Louis is accidentally there to make friends, not become Britain's Next Top Model. (Also Zayn is the supermodel host.)

Promises We Made by thekindofworld

Its been five years since Harry and Louis broke up; they were seventeen and nineteen and it was messy to say the least. Cue Louis, who is worked off his feet making clothes for celebrities, Harry dropping his debut album, Niall who likes to avoid his insecurities by dragging Louis on Holiday, Zayn and Perrie as Louis' right hand stylists, and Liam who wishes Harry would just tell him about his ex-boyfriends before he contacts them about working for him.

Its either going to be a disaster, or the perfect timing they've all been waiting for.

*I’ve been very into fashion au lately*

but me, i’m not a gamble by orphan_account

A Posh & Becks AU in which Harry is a star on the stage and Louis is a star on the pitch, but they're both inexplicably terrible at articulating their feelings. In the end, it only takes a season's worth of failed matchmaking schemes, platonic dinner dates, road trip holidays, and one very convenient David Beckham cameo for them to figure it all out. And if Niall knew all along? Well, he at least has the decency not to be too smug about it.

Boys Fall From the Sky by fookinloosah

Superheroes. America is full of them — complete with masks, nauseating pseudonyms, and neon spandex suits. There’s none of that nonsense in Britain, thank you very much…until Harry Styles’ X Factor audition takes an unexpected turn, and Britain’s first hero is born.

Also featuring Louis as a man of many masks, Zayn the rebel comic artist, Liam as Britain’s counter-attack to Justin Bieber, and Niall the trusty guitarist.

*I adore this fic, one my all time favorites*

The Last Something That Anything by jaded25

"You know my heart - so tell me honestly, did you ever really want this? So I’ll sing this song for every word that comes out wrong But I’ll be okay – is that what you want me to say?"

In the end, it's neither the fame or the pressure, nor Management or the constant hiding and denying that tears them apart. Or maybe it's a sum of all and so much more on top. In the end, it's Harry.

When Harry leaves the band - leaves Louis - to pursue his dreams of a solo career, he breaks much more than just One Direction. It's a gamble and a new start for each of the boys but while Harry walked away smiling, finally having got everything he apparently dreamt of, Louis is left to pick the pieces up.

Some hearts don't break even, some are simply shattered. So can you really learn to un-love someone?

*So deliciously angsty*

no pressure, no diamonds by karamelised

A life of crime means there is no nine to five, no white picket fence and definitely no happily ever after. In a life where lying gets you everywhere and stealing things becomes a sport, there is no place for romantic endings. Louis knows this, and so does Harry. Problem is, they're both wrong.

Louis is a thief, Harry a grifter. They are thrown together for a huge diamond heist in Paris, where their past soon catches up to them.

Blood Right by Evina1234

“Is that-him?” someone next to Louis asks. “Who else would dress in red if not for him today?” Beside Louis, Lady Camellia had her eyes locked on the one in red garbs, as same as many around them. Clearly this must be intended, or why dress in such a way today at first place? “My... He looks dashing." the first one licks her lips, eyes darkening in a laced lust. "Who would've known? Thought he'd be in chains, stuck in a dark dungeon." The other scoffs. “Have you been under a rock? He's the most privileged Lycan alive. The King's ward, some go so far as to call him his consort. It’s all hushed, but I have my sources.” she reveals like a dirty secret. In a world where the Vampires have taken over, Humans are just pawns in blood farms, Warlocks are extinct while the King has Lycans under his thumb - eliminating the threat of the lethal bite. The world is falling apart. Louis, nephew to the malistic Vampire King, lives away from it all in blessed ignorance until he gets dragged into the chessboard that traps him in front of a green eyed Prince who is bound to a miserable fate. Or where Louis wants to save Harold, the Prince of Lycans, when Louis' allies want him DEAD

*super intense, vampire au with political intrigue mixed in*

the one that leads me on through by colourexplosion

Louis was certain that he was done with his tenuous connection with fellow skater, Harry Styles. But then, you know, the universe throws a wrench in all that when Simon takes Harry on for the next season.

Or, an AU in which the members of one direction are actually figure skaters.

Disclaimer: The fanfiction above were not written by me for I am not nearly as creative. However, I am an avid reader and movie buff so these are some of my favorite fanfiction within the fandom. I politely ask that you read the tags attached the fanfiction beforehand so that you know what you are getting yourself into, there may be crossovers. If you don’t like it then don’t read it. In addition, I ask that there be no bashing, the fics are based on my preferences and what I like. Lastly, if there are any specific genre or fandom of fics you want me to get into let me know through my ask box.

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girl001 · 2 years

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so this would be like my 3rd or 4th studio album and everyones least favorite thus far upon intial release, but its one of those albums thats actually really fucking good its just like an entirely different genre than the artists music up until that point. it would be like breakcore edm hyperpop experimental noise music with all my previous albums being well received indie folk/alt rock. its titled “basically i am here (the mouth that runs the mouse it hides the dowsing rod that writhes inside blasphemy plastomy call me (222)-333-4444/do not message that number ive been getting dead animals left on my porch for weeks since i contacted them and i see no explanation other than ive been hexed/cursed/ marked in some way or another by a viscious cult)” its not a very long album but its described as impactful, unexpected, nauseating, and unpredictable. band name is unicorn. a deluxe version of the album is released featuring a lil texas remix, doja cat remix, kero kero bonito remix, and 4 unheard reject songs from the initial release. everyone is shocked and confused as to how i got any of these artists to colab with me. songs would inevitably end up in some edgy tv show probably one of those dark modern remakes of something old and beloved and then the tiktokification would go into full swing (tiktokification began at the release of the deluxe album because of the doja cat remix). i open for lady gaga with songs off this album. my day one stans are furious at my changes. they feel im dishonoring my original feelings behind my other albums. like ive sold out. and to an extent theyre right but i also really did just want to make a different kind of music. really everyone should’ve seen it coming because my previous music was always a little unique and off.

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skloomdumpster · 3 years

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Can we talk about the cinnamontography of Fate please

Anooon! What's up with anons spoiling me lately to hear my bafoon takes? Anyway, obligatory disclaimer that I'm REALLY bad with cinematography and it took me three years of movie school to understand what I should've learned in the first semester :)) Read this bs at your own risk >:)

Unlike costume design and plot where I had this huuuge huge rant, I think I cam summarize my feelings here as "not interesting enough". As far as my understanding goes cinematography is how you place your camera, or rather, your characters/world before your lenses and what you're trying to communicate with that.

Fate feels pretty standard and generic regarding this. I think they have only a handful of beautiful shots and that actually communicate something deeper than just simple back and forth, and they also have a handful of disgusting shots that make me, a self declared stupid individual on this matter, look at it like ??? the FUCK.

I don't have long coherent thoughts, so I'll just paste here the pretty and the ugly ones and ramble a bit:

The Pretty Ones

1x01 - The Specialist's training grounds:

I really adore this entire sequence. Camera wise its very purposeful and beautiful. It shows us how the training grounds integrate with the school and I like that it shows all of them actually exercising in different ways, having their own matches and going off on their own. I can really get a feel of how Silva commandeers and oversees their training. Also really adore the rhythm on how they cut between wide shots, to full shots, then medium shots then a back and forth between medium shots and close ups. It makes the scene feel dynamic, the close ups are used to convey familiarity between Sky/Riven and it just flows very quickly, despite being a long sequence.

1x01 - Bloom's face off with her parents:

I think this is a GREAT example of good cinematography in the show, because I fucking hate this scene. Bloom's anger feels real and this is largely because of the framing in this. B starts telling the story to Aisha and we cut to a super close up, we're in Bloom's mental state. We don't know yet what is happening. I like that we zoom out to set the scene, but not enough to remove us from Bloom's deep concentration. Then the harsh cut to Mike removing her door, medium shot, very jarring with what we were just watching, which makes sense because it takes Bloom by surprise! This entire scene has amazing face acting, both Bloom and Vanessa's actresses are talented enough to show their emotions on their faces and they edited with all the audio overlapping, so when B is speaking it's Vanessa we're seeing and vice versa. It's just a little bit more spicy than the average of the show which is to show us the character that is speaking and then so forth and I think it really adds here! Also adore that the camera stays in the hallway when Bloom enters her bedroom, showing us the day turning to night, instead of just harshly cutting to a dark scene! I like the camera, the audience, entering her room slowly, we're prying those memories out of her! Just overall beautiful framing and acting here.

1x01 - Bloom watching her parents:

This fucking scene. Okay this is NOT the greatest example, I think of all the ones mentioned so far is one of the worst. But it does have some pretty cool ideas: Bloom standing outside her family home, having her parents appear very tiny first and hammer in that she's an outside, she's looking at this life through a window. When her parents say "we love you" and we don't see their face, we only see Bloom's in a medium close up, giving in to a full body shoulder, hanging up and choking down the tears. Standing there gazing out to this life where she doesn't belong anymore, where she's just been told she doesn't belong. All while not moving the camera, all in Bloom's face and body acting!! Beautiful. Really beautiful, a trust vote for the audience. Bad point of the scene: giving us the inside of the house, especially showing Vanessa's burn marks up close. If they hadn't been cowards and given her actual full body burns, then we could've done this entire shot far away and outside the place and it would've been 10/10. It's a 7/10 as it stands.

1x02 Saul and Farah walking together: beaaautiful shot, so haunting, so in synch. Oof

1x 02 - The girls find the Burned One's destruction: this shot right here and how haunting it is! How the camera makes it look like this large battle field, when it's actually just five fallen people and probably no distance at all! Literally going over the girl's head! Making them smaller in comparison to the stretch of destruction they just walked in. Pretty!!

FINALLY, the prettiest shot in the entire show:

1x05 - Terra and Riven talk

The DISTANCE between them, the fixed camera, the awkwardness. Riven fully emotionally open and disarmed, legs open, chest open, hands out. Terra holding herself tight, hands clasped, legs shut, arms squeezed in, looking away. A literal friendly battle going on as their background!! God, I don't think i've seen a shot that wordlessly communicates so much so easily in a WHILE. This is the fucking highlight of the entire show, I'm not taking criticism on this one.

The Ugly Ones

Okay this post is pretty damn long, so I'm just going to include two scenes. But there are plenty more :))

1x05 - Sky facing off Silva

This scene is a "framing mistakes 101" . Sky is not the illuminated one, he's not the one who should be under the light. He's metaphorically the one in the dark! And yes, words could be said about this actually meaning Sky is innocent vs Silva's not, but I think it would be much more meaningful if we went with the different approach. Also, in this scene they overuse super close ups so much, it gets boring to watch, none of their facial expressions are groundbreaking and telling us anything new. In the two previous scenes with Bloom's close ups, Bloom snarled and nearly jumped her mom and the other one she was literally in pain while pretending not to be. There are so many things being said through her face. In here Sky is just confused and we know this by the plain dialogue, why do I have to keep seeing his face and then Silva when he speaks and then Sky- It's just boring.

1x04 - Sky and Riven's face off.

There IS such a thing as trying too hard. This scene tries so badly to be edgy and artsy, to be creative! All it manages it's to be nauseating to watch, difficult to comprehend and poorly executed. These two are best friends fighting over something that's been brimming since the pilot of the show, implicitly since before s1 starts. Riven straight up says more than one deep insecurity of his. And YET we have this weird stiff camera, a whole half a yard between them, zero emotional impact. Riven goes on to throw on Sky's face that he's a hypocrite and nothing NOTHING lands! We're so caught up with the camera twirling around that all the emotional punches fly out of the window.

#fate the winx saga #mymeta #answered

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grandhotelabyss · 3 years

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I first listened to Chapo Trap House out of curiosity at the height of the debate over its white male “toxicity” etc., a debate that now seems quaint given the spate of imitative “based” socialists, and a debate that seemed ironic even at the time since the Chapo cast member most hostile to the prevailing sentimental identity politics was neither male nor white. I understood what they were on that first listen, when I heard them mock the Cheesecake Factory. Then I knew I was in Mencken-land, where the booboisie out in cow country need to be corralled by the metropolitan smart set—an aesthetic critique in the guise of a political one.

The identitarians hostile to the Chapo style picked up, rightly enough, on this aesthetic rivalry between wings of the broad white middle class as irrelevant to liberation struggles conceived in race and gender terms; the titular borrowing of “black and brown” transgression for this edgy white comedy does suggest as much. For earlier instances of this same conflict, Ellen Willis's early essay on consumerism objects cogently to this strain of leftism, even as her intellectual transparency later allowed her openly to defend empire:

As expounded by many leftist thinkers, notably Marcuse, this theory maintains that consumers are psychically manipulated by the mass media to crave more and more consumer goods, and thus power an economy that depends on constantly expanding sales. The theory is said to be particularly applicable to women, for women do most of the actual buying, their consumption is often directly related to their oppression (e.g. makeup, soap flakes), and they are a special target of advertisers. According to this view, the society defines women as consumers, and the purpose of the prevailing media image of women as passive sexual objects is to sell products. It follows that the beneficiaries of this depreciation of women are not men but the corporate power structure.

Although the consumerism theory has, in recent years, taken on the invulnerability of religious dogma, like most dogmas its basic function is to defend the interests of its adherents—in this case, the class, sexual and racial privileges of Movement people.

Between Chapo’s hauteur and Willis’s bellicosity there is, I think, little to choose from. I reject the frame of the debate. Willis is right about the intelligentsia’s horror at social mobility and bourgeois insurgency, but wrong that this hostility is simplistically gender-, sexuality-, and race-based, as if James Baldwin, Gore Vidal, and Susan Sontag weren’t also Mencken’s heirs, as if anti-populism's biggest living target isn’t, for example, Joe Rogan. (One is struck again and again by the sheer, staggering falseness of identity politics.) And the Chapo crew are right, I guess, about the Cheesecake Factory—I don’t actually mind the food (I recommend the chicken marsala); it’s the décor I find a bit nauseating—but so what? Your Flaubertian revulsion at petit-bourgeois bêtise is politically irrelevant, and it’s even outdated aesthetics, exposed and contested by Flaubert's chief heir at the high tide of modernism: Ulysses is Madame Bovary turned inside out, the petit bourgeois as epic hero and modern saint.

Yet we can push the hero and saint thesis too far. Ulysses strongly implies that Bloom molested his daughter; his seemingly progressive identity as the “new womanly man,” a gentle onanist practically incapable of genital sex, is informed by Joyce’s reading of Weininger, for whom Jews and women were the same. That Joyce was Bloom much as Flaubert was Emma—an identity finding its formal antithesis in the texts’ impenetrability to the then-prevailing popular literacy, such that neither Emma nor Bloom could quite read the novels of which they’re the stars—doesn’t settle the question. Perhaps it can’t be settled, and we just want incompatible pleasures. We can't even decide among ourselves what is a luxury and what a necessity. (I suspect, however, that breadlines are, as the poet said, really not a vibe.)

I do like Adorno’s denunciations of “so-called entertainment,” yet his alternative wasn't just “high art,” it was avant-garde art in particular, whatever would abrade the public's eyes and ears, Beckett and 12-tone music, a position anticipating and influencing the atmosphere of so many small presses and little magazines and a longstanding wing of literary discussion online, critics who treat “translated literature” as if it were a genre, miserabilist late modernism, dour German tirades without paragraph breaks. A recent article laments that we live in two Americas, one that watches Succession and one that watches WWE Raw. Upon seeing this, I confess I immediately thought, “America should read a fucking book.” Even going back to the Bible would be fine.

The Bible. Shakespeare. Austen. Dickens. If I say, “Read Saul Bellow! Read Iris Murdoch!” it’s to name authors from well into the 20th century who rejected poptimism and avant-gardism at once, authors for whom there seemed no real conflict between reaching a popular audience and staying true to the highest literary values. We are only in Grand Hotel Abyss temporarily, as long we remain The True Mainstream in Exile. We dream, however, of having it all. Tomorrow the world.

#leftism #communism #marxism #consumerism #chapo trap house #ellen willis #james joyce #aesthetics

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thattimdrakeguy · 4 years

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It’s never good to be unhealthily obsessed, or unhealthily emotionally attached to something.

Especially when it turns you into a bully.

Weirdest and most agitating part of the fandom is those type of fans that act like they’re helping their fav run for office or some thing.

Not literaly speaking--

But they’ll find an obscure panel that‘s a little edgy just cuz of the era or that artist maybe, and act like it defines them. Sometimes just a character looking mad, cuz well, they’re mad, as people real life and fiction do, and they use to act like a character is bad and every thing else around them is wrong-- despite being an outlier-- cuz they don’t care.

Yet if their own fav did a bad thing, they’d be doing some mental gymnastics or just plain ignore it.

I mostly see this on twitter, and it‘s insanely baffling that people just-- let it happen.

It‘s the kind of fandom stuff that numbs my mind. Like-- can we not just read some fiction without acting like every thing is a big deal? Damian tried to kill Tim once or twice, and I’ve never freaking cared. I used to even like Damian a lot, maybe that‘s why it never bothered me, but I just stopped liking him because I think he’s a really badly written character. Same with Steph.

But on mainly twitter, they read one bad comic, treat it like truth, and go delusional about some thing being inaccurate in it. they’ll even attack people over it and gaslight them, often in groups.

that is so unhealthy. In a social environment way, and just as a person. that should never be your natural response.

Only times I ever get annoyed at a bad action is when the writing ignores how bad it is to play dumb with it, or is maybe just bad written in-general. Damian’s early time I don’t really care that much, cause you’re supposed to know it‘s bad and nothing more usually, they show you why he’s like that and that‘s enough (although written horrendously inconsistently), while nowadays they’ll barely address it some times, let him get away with it, or remind you of his backstory so much it just feels like they’re really tryna make you feel bad you forget it. to another standard I don’t like Jason beating up Tim, because I just view that as out of character for him, and I honestly prefer anti-hero with an antagonistic relationship to the Bat-Fam Jason, because that‘s how he was built up in utrh, and New 52 just basically ignored the concept of character development being done well, and more or less had people forgive him even if it‘s incredibly unnatural.

Main reason why I don’t like Steph, isn’t because she does bad things, but because she at least roughly gets away with it when she really shouldn’t. She’ll get told off, maybe, but it never feels appropriate. Steph emotionally and briefly physically abuses Tim in an arc-- yet it‘s never really talked about. When she makes an apology to Tim, it‘s when she finds out his identity, and it‘s about only the concept of her wanting to know. Nothing actually about all the abusive behaviors she demonstrated. If anything it feels like she gets rewarded because she gets told Tim's identity and is suddenly, very randomly, unless something in another series, gets allowed access to the Batcave. (I’m also just not a fan of loud mouths that just back talk all the time.)

and that‘s just to explain my logic, because I feel like that‘d do better at explaining why this bizarre slander-esque crap over fictional characters confuses me so much. Because who actually cares a character did a bad thing as long as it‘s written well when you think about it?

the characters are the characters. they are here for our enjoyment. Sometimes characters do bad things, sometimes that’s all they do. It‘s all for the endgame of getting us something that we can hopefully get enjoyment out of (of course we don’t always enjoy something, but usually that‘s still the goal). I just don’t understand why people allow themselves to get so wrapped up in it, that they actually become unhealthy. Unhealthy to be around as well, cuz they tend to group and repeat the same crap. It can’t be healthy to be obsessed with a character that you’d do that .

How do people seem to despise so much of their own favs? Having to deny or deflect any bad behavior from a fictional character in even just a casual context that typically, as far as I’ve seen, not that harsh even to warrant it, feels so-- icky. It is fine to like a character that does bad things. to be so obsessed with a character that you treat them like they’re nearly flawless as you gaslight other people and group bully them for not liking them-- its just a bit weird, it‘s insanely toxic. the characters are here for us to enjoy. If you don’t actually enjoy them so much that you ignore so much of them-- then why are they who you chose to like?

that sudden almost unexplained unhealthily and emotional attachment I feel like is a really bad habit of fandoms. It‘s not behavior that should be encouraged, but more often than not they subtly have been. People wanna be accepted, and joining in on it and spreading so much random propaganda (on a freaking fictional character) is nauseating, but they feel apart of something so of course they do.

they’ll go out of their way to find a panel, often out of context just to make a character they don’t like look bad, and shame people that like that character, at least in some fashion. While often taking panels that make their fav look good to share like it‘s a benign political campaign.

Why is that even a thing people do? It‘s so obsessive and toxic, as well as just making people feel miserable over getting gaslit so much.

Somehow managing to make enjoying something, go too far.

the group aspect is especially annoying, cuz they enjoy gaslighting and bullying people in a group, because it‘ll make em seem more right. I’ve heard about people leaving the fandom because of it. No longer able to enjoy what they did, because they keep being harassed over it. Once seen them even make fun of someone that called them a bully seemingly. Either showing they’re that oblivious, or just that much of a jerk.

If you ever do any thing like that I really feel like you need to get out of the fandom, because it‘s never good to have your own instincts telling yourself to be nasty. Just come back at a better time when you’re better. It‘s fine to admit faults and get better. It‘s honestly a fine thing. We can’t improve ourselves otherwise.

I don’t feel like bizarre propaganda and libel on, may I repeat, fictional characters, is what a fandom’s suppose to be. It certainly at least shouldn’t be.

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archived-brokentoys · 4 years

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@damagedsmile said:

I stopped watching a couple episodes into season2. Everything interesting in the first season was missing & reality suddenly didn't matter. Nothing was even slightly believable. It wasn't even cartoonish, it was just childish. The characters started to grate on my nerves & any development they had was just forgotten about. I didn't even get to the queerbaiting but oh boy reading about it was nauseating enough. You're really not missing out on much. Just my opinion.

Yeah, because I heard that initially they wanted the show to feel like a realistic crime show. But for whatever reason, after the first season, they gave up on it and just went all out. Many people actually praise the show for this because they feel it’s the only adaptation that feels like an actual comic book. But... eeeh? I hope I don’t sound like a debbie-downer to my followers or that I sound edgy because I often times criticize childish/cartoonish writing. It’s NOT AT ALL that I don’t like humor or all that. In fact, I actually really enjoy the 1966 show, and I’ll read comics set in its verse. It’s fun! But like? There’s a difference between a whole show’s setting being fun, or something that feels like it’s supposed to be taken seriously... but then being ridiculous at the same time. (Or you know, how much I praise Frank’s Ed, but then go to expess how I hate that Ed’s character is now just a comic relief. Because in ‘66, Frank’s Ed fit right in, everyone was wacky. But turning Ed into a comic relief in these grim stories just feel like an insult to his character. ANYWAY, I’m getting off-topic again.) But in my own personal tastes, I’d rather something be... a little grounded in reality? That’s why I tend to flock to comic book heroes such as Batm*n or Daredev!l, because they tend to be more realistic with characters who don’t have powers or doesn’t feature many characters with superpowers.

And as I’ve said, the scene where the girl tells Ed she doesn’t mind him being a murderer just feels... unrealistically sappy? Like, I ship Ed with many people here despite him being a murderer. But it’s just that Ed telling her that he killed his last girlfriend and she being like “I don’t mind!” feels like writing out of Twilight-like novel, y’know?

That being said, to anyone who follows me that DOES enjoy G0tham? Power to you! I don’t mind at all, and I don’t mind writing with G0tham verse muses! 💚 However? Because of my own tastes, I just... don’t like the sound of it, so I probably won’t be watching it nor will my portrayal take any inspiration from the show.

#damagedsmile #GENERAL: OOC

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nbapprentice · 4 years

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Can I just rant about Castlevania and Warren Ellis for a moment? S1 and S2 I adored, despite all its problems, and then S3 came around and - ugh. There is nothing worse seeing a WHITE man decide "Oh, hey, let's make S3 dark and edgy", then proceed to 1) shoehorn in a shitty POC face-heel-turn, turn out to be traitorous and murderous (1/?)

2) glorify and show the damn generals being "kickass" by abusing and stockholm syndrome'ing another character while the fandom praises him for Lenore's power move - never mind how traumatising and problematic the whole thing was on so many levels; and 3) yeet the entire, well-established Castlevania storyline for the sake of representation. I've just taken to pretending S3 doesn't exist, and it doesn't surprise me Ellis has been outed as a creep. Ick.

season 2 already had a problem with brutalizing hector and isaac and you know. you would’ve thought “hey, maybe they’ll see all the criticism about it and tone that shit down” but noooooooooooo warren ellis was like GOD i hate minorities and made the worst possible season 3 he could come up with.

the fact that ppl interpret lenore as a Bad Bitch >:) is nauseating.

“yeet the entire, well-established Castlevania storyline for the sake of representation“ i dont understand what you mean w this though. are you mad there’s poc in the show that didn’t exist in the games or. either way, i wouldnt even call it representation when its just a racist nightmare. should’ve just stuck to the main trio having adventures without trying to get #deep

castlevania has always been about Halloween Spookies and trying to make it Gritty Realistic Spooky was suuuuuuuuuch a terrible fucking move

#asks #Anonymous

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today-only-happens-once · 6 years

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Strength from Which to Speak

Title: Strength from Which to Speak

Word Count: 4412

Summary: for @justisaisfine’s Sanders Bro AU. “Maybe he should have said more about why he was coming, instead of just texting Roman to ask if he could swing by. But it just hadn’t seemed like the kind of thing a person should bring up over text.” Or, Remy LaBlanche finds himself looking to Roman Sanders for some advice on a really important question. Genderfluid!Remy, Sleepxiety, Platonic Roman/Sleep, familial LAMP/CALM.

Warnings: cursing, violence, injury, abuse, trauma, hospitals, threats (kind of?), mention of nightmares, anxiety, crying, nausea mention. Please let me know if I forgot any.

A/N: So I wrote another fic for the Sanders Bro AU because I still have no chill about it. Huge, huge shout-out to Isa for putting up with all my questions. This is me playing in their ‘verse and is more… speculative than the other fic I wrote, but flashback scenes are based on asks and Isa’s responses to them. First time writing Sleep. Relatedly, this was my first time writing a genderfluid character. I hope it’s okay! Edited by yours truly so all mistakes are mine. Oof. Don’t know for sure how to feel about this one. Thanks again for letting me mess around in your AU, Isa!

Tags: @creativenostalgiastuff, @helloisthisusernametaken, @ren-allen, @quoth-the-sparrow, @princelogical, @random-pianist, @ravenclawicecream, @erlenmeyertrash, @milomeepit, @at-least-seven-pretty-potatoes, @rileyfirstname, @pinkeasteregg, @sassy-in-glasses, @vigilantvirgil, @generalfandomfabulousness, @lacrimosathedark, @thepoolofthedead, @monikastec, @heir-of-the-founders, @yourworstnightmare999, @artistictaurean, @kanejandkruge, @cdragontogacotar, @damienswifeolicitydallysgirl, @angst-patton, @savingshae, @noneed4thistbh, @awesomelissawho, @unikornavenger, @bopthesnoz, @spiralofsilencetheory, @finger-gunsss, @crownswriter123, @swlotakulady34, @gaylotusthatexists, @analogical-mess

…

Present.

Remy LaBlanche releases a breath and rakes a hand through his hair as he stands on the front stoop of the familiar house. He checks his phone. Six minutes early.

He slips his hands into the pocket of his dark jeans and glances up. The sky is painted with layers of darkening gray, promising rain to come. Remy just hopes it’s not an omen. Birds returning from the winter—it’s still early spring—chitter happily to one another as they fly overhead. A cool breeze tugs at the very ends of his hair, pulling the strands back into his face.

He thinks, for a moment, that it makes him look like his boyfriend.

The thought of Virgil reminds him why he’s here. He pulls his hands out of his pockets and wipes the nervous sweat on the denim before he knocks. His fist lingers up by the door, then drops to his side lamely.

Remy has always considered himself someone well-acquainted with the feeling of “nervous”. His first concert with Eye of the Storm? He’d been nervous. The first time he came out as genderfluid—any every single time after that? Nervous. The first time Remy left home, the first time he’d told Virgil he loved him, their first kiss…

“Nervous” had come to be an oxymoron in its comforting familiarity. Except that standing here, on the front stoop of a familiar place, Remy feels a different kind of nervous. One that makes his fingers twitch and his stomach tug into vaguely nauseating knots, no matter how many times he’s told himself that there is no reason to be this—

The door swings open, interrupting his thoughts.

“Hey,” Roman Sanders greets.

His hair is slightly mussed, and his white t-shirt and dark jeans signals that it’s an off day for the actor. Remy doesn’t need to look at him long to recognize the barely hidden worry. It had relaxed over recent years, but it was a familiar look on the oldest Sanders brother. When Remy first met him, Roman had worn his worry—locked behind a bravado—more than Virgil wore his patched hoodie.

“Hey.” Remy rubs the back of his neck. Guilt mixes with the nervousness and sits awkwardly in his stomach. Maybe he should have said more about why he was coming, instead of just texting Roman to ask if he could swing by. But it just hadn’t seemed like the kind of thing a person should bring up over text.

“Uh, come in,” Roman says, stepping to the side. Remy releases a slow breath as he steps over the threshold.

…

Eleven years ago.

Remy has the soles of his shoes pressed up against the amp, his back slouched against the wall. His jacket is discarded on the floor beside the guitar case. The other kid—Virgil, Remy remembers—strums a chord, pauses, changes the fingering on the instrument’s neck, then strums again.

Remy watches him over the top of his sunglasses. This was the second day in a row he’d found the other boy hiding behind boxes, amps, and instrument cases in a spare room of the recording studio. He remembers sheepishly the wide, startled stare Virgil had given him when he’d yelled “Gurl!” upon first hearing him play. But what could he say? Virgil had talent, and Remy definitely hadn’t been expecting to hear it from someone hiding in a spare room.

Virgil seems to notice Remy staring at him and ducks his head a little. He plays a small guitar riff that catches Remy’s ear, his lips quirking slightly. “Here,” he says, taking a long sip of his iced coffee before setting the cup to the side and grabbing a spare guitar. “Play that again.”

The other boy glances up at him through long, purple bangs in surprise before he looks back down at his guitar and plays it again. Remy improvises a couple of chords underneath it. It sounds… really good, if Remy’s being honest. It’s somehow melodic and edgy. The two sounds fit together seamlessly. Virgil keeps playing and Remy matches him chord for chord, until eventually they both let one sustain and fade into silence.

“Well shit,” Remy says after a beat. “That wasn’t half bad.” He wonders why his heart flips a little at the small smile that pulls at Virgil’s lips. It makes him smile a little too.

“Virgil?” The voice from the doorway isn’t one that Remy recognizes.

He cranes his neck over the top of the boxes they’ve effectively hidden behind and sees a man with a curly flop of light brown hair and a red-and-brown letterman jacket with an R on the left. He looks older than both of them, but younger still than most of the people Remy had seen working in the building.

Virgil swivels around and looks at him expectantly. The other man jerks his head over his shoulder. “You ready?” His gaze falls onto Remy, his eyebrows raising slightly in surprise. The young man’s gaze flickers over Remy’s face for a moment like he’s searching for something. Then he smiles a little, his eyes softening. Whatever he’d been worried about, he didn’t seem to find it. “Hey. I’m Roman.”

“Remy,” he replies. He sees Virgil—who has busied himself by locking the guitar back into its case—glance quickly at him.

“I hate to tear ya away, Virgil,” Roman says apologetically. “But we gotta make sure our brothers haven’t burnt down the house making dinner.”

“Logan wouldn’t let that happen,” Virgil replies, his voice quiet but his eyes sparking with amusement. He jumps to his feet. He glances back again at Remy, who shoots him a finger gun.

“Same time tomorrow?” he asks, wondering if he sounds as hopeful as he suddenly feels.

Virgil looks at him for a moment, and Remy can’t quite read his expression before he nods. When he and Roman disappear back down the hallway, Remy sighs and leans his head back against the wall.

…

Present.

Remy follows Roman through the entryway, smiling faintly as they pass pictures hanging on the walls. There’s one of the four of them taken last year: Roman, Patton, Logan, and Virgil. Another one of Logan at his undergraduate graduation, accepting his diploma. Another one is of a younger Virgil and Patton mid-laugh while Patton holds a ukulele. Another is clearly of Eye of the Storm during one of their concerts. Virgil has his eyes closed, his lips against the mic. The stage light form a halo around him, and slightly behind him Remy sees himself. Even back then, he looks absolutely smitten as he watches Virgil sing.

Remy hasn’t even realized that he stopped walking until Roman stops mid-stride and glances back at him. He walks back to stand beside Remy, following his gaze to the picture.

“That was your first big concert,” Roman explains. “I’ve always been proud of my brothers, but… seeing Virgil up there on stage in front of hundreds of people?” Roman shakes his head, a small smile on his lips. “He looked so happy, y’know? And he deserves that.”

“You all do,” Remy replies, looking at Roman out of the corner of his eye. He steps past the eldest Sanders, crossing into the living room. “But, uh… while we’re on the subject…”

Roman arcs an eyebrow and follows him. “We’re on the subject?”

Remy rakes his fingers through his hair again. He feels restless all of the sudden, barely able to stop himself from bouncing on the balls of his feet against the hardwood floors. “I… wanted to talk to you about Virgil.” The second the words are out of his mouth, Remy wants to take them back as Roman’s eyes flood with worry.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing! Nothing.” Remy holds up his hands. “It’s more, um…” He blows out a breath. Just spit it out, LaBlanche. But the words lodge in his throat instead.

Roman is looking at him with a mix of concern and uneasiness. He crosses his arms over his chest. “It doesn’t seem like nothing, Remy.”

Remy leans against the arm of the couch, his fingers digging into the fabric. He stares at Roman’s tattoo on his forearm. “I wanted... I want to ask Virgil to marry me.” His gaze flickers up to meet the eldest Sanders brother’s gaze. “But… not until I know what you think.”

…

Ten years ago.

The hospital smells a little too much of Febreze, as if they’re trying to mask the sharp sting of bleach and antiseptic. The bright fluorescent lights reflect glaringly against the blue and white linoleum tiled floor. Remy stares, unseeing, at the pattern between their shoes. Their hands are clasped in front of them as if it will stop the shaking.

They just try to breathe.

They distantly hear a nurse and doctor chatting indiscernibly as the two pass through the small waiting room. It’s almost empty at this hour. Remy doesn’t know exactly what time it is, but it was a little past midnight when they’d called for the ambulance and that was… two hours ago? Four? Six minutes? Remy doesn’t have a clue.

They blow out a shaking breath and presses their fingertips against their burning eyes.

Remy almost thinks that they could handle it if it was just the bruises. The split slip, the swelling eye, the shoe prints against his ribs. Remy thinks maybe they could handle that. But the lack of bruising on Virgil’s fists—he didn’t even try to fight back—the complete emptiness in his thousand yard stare… he wouldn’t even look at them…

Remy’s head jerks up instinctually as they hear the automatic door swish open. Roman is wearing sweatpants and a baggy t-shirt and Remy suddenly feels like they might just burst into tears. They’re on their feet as Roman makes a beeline for them and the words start pouring out their mouth before they’ve even really processed them.

“Roman. Thank God.” Their voice wavers and they swallow hard. “I’m sorry, I didn’t know what else to do. He-he won’t look at me, and I’ve tried everything and you always know what to do, especially with V, and I just… I just… I’ve never seen him like this before, and… and…”

They’re babbling—they know it—but they think that if they stop talking then they won’t be able to speak at all past the lump hardening in their throat.

“Remy,” Roman says, his voice sounding incredibly soft all of a sudden. “Rem, you gotta breathe.”

Remy shakes their head quickly. “I don’t know how to reach him.” Their voice breaks towards the end.

It’s not until they feels a firm grip on their shoulders that they realize they’ve closed their eyes. When they open them, there’s something grounding in Roman’s firm gaze that is boring into them. “It’ll be okay,” Roman tells them, still impossibly calm. “We’ll get him to come back to us.”

Remy nods absently and leads Roman back to Virgil’s room. A nurse is talking idly to Virgil whose gaze looks miles away, unfocused on the plain light blue sheet covering his feet. Remy is distantly aware of Roman asking the nurse some questions, of a doctor that politely breezes between the two in the doorway to discuss some things with the nurse and check Virgil over. Remy isn’t really listening, leaning instead against the entryway and staring helplessly at their boyfriend sitting on the bed.

Virgil’s crumpled form in the alleyway is seared permanently behind Remy’s eyelids. Eye of the Storm had had a concert earlier tonight—a small venue, a hole-in-the-wall, really—and a few minutes after their last set, Remy had realized that Virgil was nowhere to be found. When they’d asked one of the bouncers, he’d told them he thought he saw Virgil step out the back door. Remy figured Virgil had stepped out to get some air and calm down a little from the rush of nervous energy that performing always gave him. He’d probably be back in a minute or two, and Remy hadn’t wanted to overwhelm him if he needed a minute to himself.

But that minute turned into fifteen. And Remy couldn’t quite help the pit in their stomach. And they figured that at least checking in on him wouldn’t hurt.

They should have checked sooner.

“If you both could give us a minute to check over Virgil here and step out into the hall, we can let you know when it’s clear to come back.”

Remy had nearly tripped in their rush to Virgil when they’d realized that he was the motionless heap under the streetlight. They’d called his name, their heart lodged in their throat. There hadn’t been a response. It wasn’t until Remy had gotten close enough to touch their boyfriend that they’d had confirmation that he was breathing. Shallow, with a pained hitch every now and then.

Remy had said his name again. Virgil had blinked slowly. Sluggishly. He wouldn’t look at Remy.

“Of course, doctor. Do whatever you need to. We’ll just be right outside.”

Remy had tried everything. Saying his name. Squeezing his hand. Tapping his cheek. Cracking a stupid joke. Cupping his face. Kissing the top of his head and trying not to think about why his hair reeked of copper…

“C’mon.”

Someone did that to him. In the back of their mind, Remy had that knowledge simmering just beneath the overwhelming worry. Someone put their hands on Virgil and inflicted pain. Intentionally. Their hands curl into fists in their pockets for a moment.

“Remy?” Roman steps in front of him into their direct line of sight. “You with me?”

“Hm? Oh. Yeah, sorry.”

“Come on.”

They reluctantly follow Roman out the door into the hallway. They glance at the cock on the wall as they push through the double-doors back towards the waiting room. It’s nearly three in the morning. Weird. They don’t feel that tired.

Roman, on the other hand, evidently does. He makes his way to the small table towards the back of the room and tugs a Styrofoam cup off the top of the stack and tests the weight of the coffee container before pouring the cup about half-full. Remy watches him, and then the question is tumbling past their lips before they can think to stop it.

“How did you do it?”

Roman looks startled at the question, freezing for a moment with his hand partially outstretched towards the small basket of coffee creamers. The eldest Sanders glances over his shoulder back towards them. “How did I do what?”

Remy thinks about how starkly the dark bruises and angry red blood had looked against Virgil’s pale face under the dull glow of the yellow streetlight. The sudden rush of helplessness threatens to choke their throat.

“All those times…years ago, how did you come home and see them like that?” They pull their hands out of their pockets even though they’re shaking for a different reason now. Their jaw clenches. “All I want to do is go out there and find them and beat them up.”

Roman goes perfectly still. He turns to face Remy, forgetting the coffee entirely. His eyes are a little wide. “I know it’s not fair, but that’s—there’s nothing you can do, Remy.” And that’s…well, that’s not what Remy had been expecting. Roman doesn’t even seem… angry. “You just have to let it go.”

“Let it go?” Remy demands incredulously.

“Yes,” he insists and it brings Remy up short. Because there’s something haunted in Roman’s eyes. A distant echo of the look in Virgil’s when they’d found him in the alley earlier tonight.

“I…” Remy starts, but the words die on their tongue.

The ghosts behind Roman’s gaze gives way to a weighted resignation. It occurs to Remy very suddenly that Roman had only been fifteen when they’d left home. He’d been a child, too.

“All you can do,” Roman tells him, “is be there for Virgil. Patch him up. Help him feel safe. That’s it, Rem. Let everything else go.”

…

Present.

Roman blinks at him. “Oh.”

Remy barely hears the one word response over the pounding of his heart in his ears. He swallows hard. His grip curls even more against the fabric on the arm of the couch. “Yeah.” He doesn’t know what Roman’s expression is. He thinks he’s afraid to know.

“You know,” Roman says, “Virgil is capable of making his own decisions.”

“Right. Of course,” Remy replies quickly. He shoves his hands into the pockets of his jacket. They’re shaking a little, and the last thing he wants is for Roman to see just how afraid he is of Roman’s answer. “But… Look, Virgil thinks the absolute world of you, Logan, and Patton. We both do.” His gaze flickers back up. He’s surprised as the softness in Roman’s gaze as he meets it.

“Flattery will get you everywhere,” Roman jokes lightly, but Remy shakes his head.

“I’m serious,” he insists. “At every point, long before I even met Virge, it’s been you three that have looked out for him. And… and you’ve always tried to make choices with his best interest at heart.”

“Rem—”

“So it’s not so much that I’m… I dunno. Asking permission.” Remy takes a breath. “I actually want to know if you think it’s… a good idea or not. Because I don’t… want to mess things up.”

God, he’s not used to feeling this vulnerable around people that weren’t Virgil. He finds himself babbling to fill the silence, as if the more he talks the more he can delay Roman’s judgement.

“And I mean, I want what’s best for Virgil. More than anything, I just… I want him to be happy. And-and I want to be someone who can make him happy, y’know? I love him. I really, really do. I just, I want to know that other people who have his best interest in mind also thinks that it’s a good idea to get married because… because I guess I’m kind of biased, so maybe I’m not really thinking of his best interest?”

“Remy.”

When did he start pacing? He’s walking away from Roman towards the fireplace. “I mean, my parents were divorced. You know that, I don’t know why I’m telling you that. I guess just… I was always kind of skeptical about marriage because of it, but I know that I don’t want anyone else but Virgil. But if neither of us exactly have a strong example of marriage in our lives, is marriage even the best idea?” He sighs, then turns on his heels and looks back at Roman. “Remember when Virge first told you that we were officially dating? Do you remember what you texted me?”

Roman opens his mouth but Remy can tell that he doesn’t remember, exactly, and pushes on. He keeps pacing. “You texted me, ‘keep him happy, okay? Please.’ And I told you I’d do my absolute best. I… I don’t want him to be unhappy. He’s had enough of that in his life. And God, Roman, you’ve given everything to fix that.” He waves a hand in Roman’s direction from across the room. Roman looks taken aback.

Remy swallows past the lump in his throat. He stops walking suddenly, standing in the middle of the living room and looking at Roman.

“So I guess I’m asking for brutal honesty. Do you think it’d be a mistake to ask Virge to marry me?”

…

Nine years ago.

“Remy. I need you to listen to me very carefully.”

They’re standing outside the apartment building at some time past four in the morning. The late fall air is bitingly cold, especially this late at night. Remy tucks her nose into her scarf and shoves her hands deeper into the pockets of her leather jacket. Roman rakes a hand back through his hair. He’s still jittery, and Remy can practically see the thoughts racing through his head at a hundred miles per hour.

Virgil and Patton had finally fallen asleep leaned against one another on the couch at somewhere around two in the morning. For a while, Remy had wondered if any of them were going to sleep that night. She still remembered the blind panic in Virgil’s eyes when she’d first arrived after telling him to turn on the news. The way his hand had fisted in her shirt, the sound his breath had made wheezing in and out of his lungs. Roman had arrived the next morning with Patton—Logan a few hours later—his jaw clenched and his eyes somehow both terrified and determined.

Much like they still look now.

Roman runs a hand over his mouth, looking out across the empty street. “You three going to Europe is the best way to get Virgil out of dodge.” Roman swallows. “Thomas is right. Virge is the only one at risk of getting taken back, and he’ll be safer if he’s abroad.”

Remy nods her understanding. Roman whirls suddenly. There’s something unsettling and raw just beneath the surface of his dark eyes. “You have to keep him safe.”

“I will,” she says without hesitation.

“I mean that,” Roman says, steel charged through his voice. “My brothers and I… we would do anything to make sure Virgil is safe. And right now… right now, that means sending him where our parents can’t get to him.”

Remy doesn’t know what to say. She nods quietly.

“We’re doing this to keep him safe,” Roman repeats, as if he’s trying to convince himself of the fact as much as Remy. “But Virgil… I need to know that someone has his back, Remy. I need to know that someone is going to be out there protecting my little brother because if something happens, I… I won’t be able to be there.”

In the past two days, Remy had seen a lot of unsettling things. Virgil trembling in her arms in the throes of a panic attack. The barely-noticeable tremor in Logan’s voice when he told his brothers that he’d prepared for this. Patton’s unusual, quiet distance and the way he’d tense any time one of his brothers so much as walked out of his line of sight. But through it all, Roman had managed to keep it together. Aside from the occasional flicker of… of something, a shadow, that Remy couldn’t quite figure out… Roman had dove head-first into damage control and problem-solving as if it was second nature.

But now. Standing out here without the close, watchful eye of his younger brothers tracking his every move and clinging to his every word like it’s a lifeline… Roman seems just as scared as the rest of them.

“We’ll keep him safe, Roman.”

“I’m counting on it. Because if you don’t, and he gets hurt…” Roman squeezes his eyes shut for a moment and takes a breath. “I honestly don’t know what I’d do at this point. I really don’t.”

…

Present.

There’s a weight to the moment of silence that follows Remy’s words. He looks at his Chuck Taylors against the light hardwood floor, at the late morning sun filtering in through the blinds at the far window leaving strips of light against the couch on the opposite wall. His gaze flits back up to Roman, who’s looking at him steadily with an expression Remy can’t quite decipher.

Roman slips his hands into his pockets. “For a long time, the four of us were all we had,” he begins, carefully. Remy feels suddenly rooted to the spot. “My brothers were my whole world. We built our lives with and around one another. Letting people into that life always felt like a risk. And it always… took time to let people in. That was especially true for V.”

Remy nods quietly, glancing down. He remembers those first days, weeks, months of hanging out with Virgil. How they’d mostly consisted of one-sided conversations and jam sessions until slowly, Virgil started to crack jokes back at him, or laugh, or answer a question with more than a monosyllabic response.

“And I think because of that, we’ve always been… protective of him. You know that,” Roman says, waving a hand. “I know you know that. But… I want you to know that Virgil has never let just anyone in. You were probably the first. And that says something: something about you, and about how he feels about you.”

Remy glances back up. There’s something impossibly soft about the way Roman is looking at him right now.

“And I see how you are around one another,” Roman continues. “The way he gravitates towards you, even in crowds. The way you seem to know just the right thing to say to ease that tension in his shoulders. The way you look at him when he sings on stage, and the way he looks at you when he isn’t sure about something. I know it was you who first really pushed him to pursue the band.”

Remy lifts a shoulder, trying to not let his hope lift with it just yet. “It was his idea.”

“But you were there to actually get him to pursue that dream.” Roman sighs, his lips pressing into a grim line. “And I know that you’ve been there for all the ugly, too. The panic attacks and the nightmares and the flashbacks.”

Remy nods slightly. He doesn’t know what to say. Virgil had needed him during those times. He wouldn’t have thought to do anything else.

Roman takes a step forward and Remy holds his breath. Here it comes.

“I have done my best to always be there for my brothers. That won’t change. But I know that I’m not the only one they can rely on anymore. At every step, Virgil has chosen you and leaned on you and you have been there, Remy. You bring out the best in one another. He’s good for you, and you’re good for him.” Roman’s gaze is as gentle as it is unwavering. “It’s ultimately up to Virgil, but you both have my support.”

Remy swallows past the lump in his throat and nods. “I… thank you, Roman.”

Roman smiles at him—warm and twinkling with pride—and pulls Remy into a sudden hug. Remy hugs him back, releasing a slow, steadying breath even as his heart is flipping in his chest. When Roman pulls back, he’s beaming.

“So,” he asks, “have you picked out a ring yet?”

#sanders sides #sanders sides fanfiction #sleepxiety #romantic sleepxiety #remy sanders #sanders bro au #tw cursing #tw violence #tw trauma #tw abuse #tw hospitals #please heed warnings #not just in the tags but at the top too #sflkjsfkljsdklfj i hope this is okay #*covers my eyes and presses post*

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