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limbus-limousine · 10 months ago

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Keep saying this but I loooove how relationships are talked about and portrayed in Demian (1919). Like. To an insane degree that I can barely put into words. It bothers me how overlooked it is sometimes? People always have a tendency to shove fictional relationships into very cramped, defined little boxes and then fight over the plastic label.

The way relationships are seen in Demian is one of the main reasons why I hold this book so close to my heart, because it was the first time I saw my thoughts put into words that I could analyze and study. That and the whole premise of how growing up in a religiously oppressive environment disguised with love and purity will inevitably affect how you process your feelings toward others... Makes me relate to Sinclair a lot. And it feels like a gross oversimplification to restrict his feelings as platonic or romantic.

I've talked about how I see Demian and Eva as extremely related entities before, how they are essentially the same. But I think their distinction as physical characters is very useful for the storytelling and symbolism. As I see it, Demian (the book) is all about love. It's not just about finding love in someone else but also finding love in yourself, in what you do and where you are in your life. This might be more of a personal interpretation, but to me, Eva represents a very, very specific feeling, in a way it's a culmination, a point where you finally stop to think and say to yourself "maybe I am okay. This is what okay feels like to me". Freudian influence aside... The motherly themes hit me really hard for this very reason:

When I read how Sinclair slowly fell out with his family, it spoke of a very specific experience. A very specific realization. "This deal isn't that of a bad friendship or acquaintance. I won't have a second chance. Simply because of how I was born, where I was born, there are human experiences that I'll never be able to know, and I am powerless to change that", you cannot choose your family, your mother, right? It's what you get, and you see around you what could've been but never was, and it makes you feel weak.

That's why Frau Eva is such an important figure. Because that is when Sinclair finds his family again, in a way. Why should blood matter so much? Sure, there's a biological connection, it's also been studied that romantic relationships reach their "high" during their earlier days due to hormones and neurotransmitters, right, "love at first sight", but those will eventually cease production as all does. It is your choice to nurture that relationship and to cherish it, to keep and to care for it. Blood does not matter, home is a person and it's right next to me, right now. I think that is what Frau Eva is, as a whole. And allowing that feeling to coexist with the platonic and the romantic is very important as I see it. One of the main problems of this motherly dynamic is the power difference, what makes Sinclair struggle in his childhood is the constant sensation of being watched, of being subjected to severe judgement. Frau Eva is supposed to remove that factor, she listens and she welcomes any thought or idea, there isn't fear of rejection or punishment, that's what makes it feel "like home". That was, kind of, the last step to reach the fulfillment Sinclair needed. I see Eva as the "destination" of this whole thing.

And Demian, he is the journey. One of the biggest mistakes one can make is to dismiss the process and work that goes into an achievement, because it is important. There is no Eva without Demian, they are intrinsic by nature. And journey is something that never leaves you. Even when Sinclair reaches his destination, he never stops caring about Demian. He visits Eva and he visits Demian, even if he has to walk through horrible weather, he speaks of his dreams to them, and he sits at the table and eats with them. Because during your journey you gain so many things you never expected, and at the end of the road, they become part of your fulfillment and needs as much as the main achievement is.

What Sinclair obtains from Demian and Eva, and everything in between them, is a unique relationship, deeply fulfilling, trusting, reassuring, a place where you know you can come to, even when you're at your lowest. Eva capitalizes on the genuine care, nurturing qualities, but Demian, too is a mentor, although I find falconer to be a better comparison. He helps the sparrowhawk grow its clipped wings, but in turn, he shall not stop it from flying, only the bird itself can choose to return the falconer's affections. But at the end of the day, all the falconer wishes for is to see him take flight. Sinclair obtains everything: friendship, camaraderie, acceptance, relief of a deep rooted guilt, no judgement for his human desires, the care and trust he lost from his mother, and something to look forward to after waking up in the mornings.

At the end of the book, Sinclair is separated from both of them, as I've said, they are intrinsic. But of course, they don't fully leave. As I see it, the kiss being from Eva means that your achievement is and will always be a sweet thought. Something you hold dear, that you can think of to comfort yourself. But Demian is there to deliver it and to fix Sinclair's wounds because journey is experience. It is what strengthens you and gives you the tools to face future endeavors. And it feels safe... You are finally safe within yourself.

But what about the scary factor, though? Because that is present too in both Demian and Eva (which I happen to really enjoy, as well). As always, I think it's a balance. It's good to know fear, it's a human emotion like any other. But the fear that radiates from them is more... Animal-like. The fear Sinclair once felt was a deep rooted terror that was born from something divine. You're being watched. You're being judged. You're wrong. You're a sinner. That's scary. Because it's telling you that the danger comes from yourself. When you see a beast staring into you, you don't feel self conscious, you don't feel repulsed, you feel the most natural shape that fear has. Beautiful things are scary. A snake can be scary. The stars can be scary. But it's not their fault, and it's not your fault either, it's just how it's meant to be. Because all feelings —love, anger, fear, sadness— and more, they are all important, they are all natural. But natural feelings can be beautiful. Artificial feelings make you fear something you've never witnessed, they make your stomach churn at the thought of yourself and they make you cry for something you haven't done. And most people around you live holding onto relationships that are, fundamentally, held by artificial feelings.

That is... Most of what I interpret from this book. And, god. It feels more like the book read me and not the other way around. I think I've truly found a bigger respite in art thanks to this novel. I have wanted to see the same beauty in the naturally grotesque... Learn about myself until rotting, flesh, maggots become just as beautiful and full of meaning as spring rivers and flowering plains, and for anger and fear to turn into something I can love and cherish like I do my inner child. Although they, too, have surely grown up.

That's it. I wanna play toysssss

#rambling #demian (1919)#I FUCKING LOVE THID BOOK!!!! FUCL????!!!!!!#Ramble ramble ramble again because i thought about them for a bit too long again #I hope you guys know that i have this wall of text as a constant inner monologue whenever i draw #anything demian (1919) related #including limbus fanart #(all my limbusclair fanart has references from my fucke up mind)#have a wonderful day hesse fandom

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horde-princess · 1 year ago

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Nimona's origin story - or lack of one - is so important to me. like first she lies to you, then there's a weird metaphor that may or may not have anything to do with her, then finally at the very end there's a real flashback which clarifies. almost nothing?? EXCEPT perhaps it leads you away from the possibility that she's being possessed. personally my thinking is that she was born as a "regular" shapeshifter and became this colossal monster after she was "lab-modified." but i can't say that with any confidence, maybe the monster was part of her all along and the trauma just brought it out. maybe nimona herself doesn't know.

as frustrating as it felt to read at times, the ambiguity is the whole point. it's a commentary on how society (specifically christianity) will look at something it doesn't understand and try to stuff it into boxes it just doesn't fit in.

the whole "gloreth's beast" metaphor is so insane to me because it confuses you as the reader and makes you wonder if maybe nimona IS actually this satanic creature, or possessed by him. despite all your good intentions and your fondness for nimona as a character, there's a part of you which wonders if it might be true, because the author himself is implying it to you. it's only at the end that nate hints otherwise but still he leaves it up to the audience to wrestle with their own interpretation of what they've just read. i don't think i figured it out until the part where it says nimona's parents believed a monster had taken the place of their daughter.. i was like oohhhh i see what you did there

i've heard it said that nimona is a commentary on how society views lgbt+ people as a threat and i do think that sums it up nicely but. it's a story about how religion views queer people as a threat, how conservative christians stay in power by labeling us as the enemy, and how they get us to internalize this queerphobia so that we lose the will to rebel against them. it's about how oppressors have no say in how people take their stolen freedom back.

ITS ABOUT bipolar disorder and mental illness!!!! and the prejudice & discrimination & outcasting this community endures, which intersects uniquely with queerphobia and is still used today to characterize being gay and trans as mental disorders, as if that somehow justifies the hatred in their minds.

it's about addressing the fear & confusion surrounding the existence of queer people - "are they born this way? are they possessed by satan? are they mentally ill? are they a product of childhood trauma?" and Nimona is essentially like, sure. all of the above. or none of them. who cares? i'm here and i'm a human being - you don't have to understand me to treat me like one.

idk how/if the nimona movie plans to handle the ambiguity of her origin but its so so important i hope they're able to honor the spirit of it 😭🙏

#im sorry i just did a 2nd read-thru to prepare for the movie in june and i have THINGS to SAY #nimona

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isalisewrites · 2 months ago

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TERRIBLE, BUT GREAT - CHAPTER FORTY

SUMMARY:

“Harry Potter.” The cold burrowed into his flesh, the scent of cloying death and molding earth clogged his senses.

“The Boy Who Lived.”

A strange sense of loss and disappointment rose within him. That brilliant, yet cruel boy could’ve been so much more if he’d not stepped down this bloodied path.

Terrible, but great. He pitied this creature.

“Come to die.”

Harry Potter faced the flash of green light with the bravery of a Gryffindor and the broken heart of a Hufflepuff.

---

When Death gives Harry a third option, one that can save everyone he ever cared about, he takes it unflinchingly. Even when that means doing the impossible: falling in love with the enemy, Tom Riddle.

---

FORTY EXCERPT:

As much as the day had been stressful, the ill ease of giving Harry his gift in front of others disappeared. When Tina and Harry separated, Tom pulled the box from the pocket of his trousers and wordlessly handed it to Harry. For a moment, Harry stared at it in pure shock. He met Tom’s gaze with wonder in his eyes.

“You… got me a Christmas gift?”

“It is customary between friends, is it not?”

“Yeah,” breathed Harry. He accepted the gift with trembling fingers. Tom sat statuesque as he watched Harry pull the ribbon on the box and lift the lid. Harry gasped softly. “Tom? What…”

“I thought a backup pair would be useful to you,” said Tom in a low voice.

“But how’d you know my script?” asked Harry, lifting the pair of spectacles out of the box and admiring them. His lips pressed together; they trembled. The glasses were a similar style of his current pair, though Tom hadn’t been able to find an exact match.

“I didn’t know, but they’re enchanted to match what you need, especially should your eyesight deteriorate further,” said Tom. He pointed to the frames that would be hidden behind Harry’s ears. “The frames have runes etched in them for scratch and cracking protection. They’re also water repellent.”

Harry lifted the glasses and looked at the edges. He smiled softly and the light in his eyes was tender. He brushed a finger against the runes.

“They also have other protections,” murmured Tom. The warmth in his chest built. “They’ll never fall off. You’ll never lose them and you’ll never be blinded in a duel. They’ll deflect any spell that would target your eyes. ”

“Tom, that was so thoughtful of you,” said Tina.

He flushed. “It’s not much,” Tom said. “The frames are inexpensive.”

“I believe she meant the magic you put into it,” said Newt.

“It’s not much—”

“Thank you,” whispered Harry. “No one’s ever—I mean, this is great—like really great. Thank you.”

Tom swallowed. He inclined his head. “You’re welcome.”

Harry carefully, reverently set the spectacles aside and pulled out a tiny box from his pocket. He tapped his wand on it and it expanded, becoming a medium sized gift box. He handed it to Tom with a little smile, a hint of mischief dancing in his eyes.

“Happy Christmas, Tom,” said Harry. The mischief never faded.

He better not have charmed this with something…

Tom pulled open the ribbon and lifted the lid. There were four products in the box, three jars and one bag of butterscotch candy. He remembered my favorite… Tom lifted one of the jars; the label read, ‘Skin Care for the Aging Witch.’ The other two bottles were a moisturizer and a lavender hand lotion.

“I thought this would help you age better,” said Harry, grinning at him with a twinkle in his eyes. He winked at Tom. “Since you really ought to start this kind of stuff young or you won’t age well.”

You little minx.

Tom whipped out his wand. Newt and Tina blinked in shock. Harry let out a squeal of laughter and bolted away, but didn’t get far—Tom darted after him. He threw a tickling spell at Harry; it struck him in the side and Harry collapsed into peals of laughter. Tom tackled him to the floor, wrestling Harry beneath himself, holding both of his wrists down above his head with one hand and tickling him in the side with the other.

“Tom—no, don’t!” Harry dissolved into further giggles. “It’s just a joke—”

“Oh, I’m more than aware,” said Tom, merciless in his relentless attack; Harry wheezed for breath, squirming beneath him, eyes alight with mirth. “If it weren’t, I’d have sent a stinging hex instead, you menace.”

Harry gasped through his laughter, twisting and writhing on the floor. His cheeks were flushed dark; his chest heaved with his deep breaths. Harry’s eyes sparkled behind his glasses.

Tom’s breath disappeared from his lungs; heat flared up in his chest.

He stopped abruptly.

Harry looked vibrant, even magical and something about him made every particle in Tom’s body alight with a life of its own. Warmth filled the corners. It was suddenly too hot now—much too hot.. He needed to go outside and jump into a pile of snow.

Tom quickly got off Harry and offered him a hand, pulling Harry up to stand.

“Do you hate it?” asked Harry.

“Of course not.” Tom sniffed. “You bought me excellent products and I’ll put them to good use.”

And you remembered I liked butterscotch.

Harry smiled brightly.

And shrieked when Tom threw another tickling charm at him for good measure.

This only sent the hellions into an all out war against Harry and Tom, though they quickly fell to their combined power of tickling charms—and, all the while, the adults laughed at their antics.

It wasn’t as bad as Tom thought it’d be.

#harry potter #tom riddle #tomarry #hp #hp fanfic #hp fanfiction #fanfic #fanfiction #harry potter/tom riddle #terrible but great #mywriting #isa's writing #soulseeker

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ktempestbradford · 6 months ago

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Jumping off of what I said in this post about having to dismantle certain toxic ideas about myself, I realized that folks might not know how deeply not being a straight, white, cishet, able-bodied, Christianized male (aka the Dominant Paradigm) in the West messes you up mentally. It's a huge mental health problem that isn't always addressed.

When I started up my latest round of therapy I began to acquire labels for some of the ways I acted or reacted to situations. One day in session I was like: Was that a trauma response? It was, wasn't it? And my therapist confirmed. What confused me is that I didn't think I'd experienced trauma.

The idea I had of trauma was some Major Incident in which something Very Bad had happened to me or near me. Or it was about being in abusive situations, usually at home. The kind of ways trauma is depicted in the media.

Then I came across a Twitter thread in which the person said that everyone needs therapy, especially marginalized people, because the way Western society works, anyone who is not the Dominant Paradigm or doesn't hew closely to it is constantly being harmed by society.

Are you BIPOC? Racism is almost everywhere, and where it is, it's constant. It's also not always KKK-level in your face racism; it's more often wave after wave of microagressions on top of whatever challenging condition you're in due to historical racism. In other words: Chronic.

Are you neurodiverse? Good luck not being overstimulated by allegedly benign activities like going to the grocery store. Good luck not being criticized on a daily basis because you can't act "normal". Try holding down a job that expects you to sit at a desk for 8 hours yet you can't even sit in a quiet environment because the asshole CEO read that open office plans make employees more productive.

Are you anywhere under the LGBTQIA+ umbrella? Welcome to the constant barrage of invasive questions from strangers, invasive laws, invasive religiosity... Once again, an allegedly benign activity (going to the bathroom in public) can be a damn crucible if you don't look like the "right" kind of woman or man. Have fun navigating the medical system when you want affirming health care.

I could go on. Disabled people, poor or working class people, fat people, any people who have been historically marginalized and oppressed all experience this. It is trauma. It is harm. It does affect us. But it's Chronic and Systemic. That's the crux.

Because we have to keep on going even with all this. It's every day and it's not easy to escape. So we "deal with it." Some of us have good coping strategies and or supportive family (bio or found) and that really helps. It doesn't alleviate the overall problem. Thus, we all need therapy (so the OP of that Twitter thread concluded).

I don't know that we ALL need it. And I for sure know that some mental health practitioners and therapy frameworks are quite harmful to marginalized people. I'm very lucky in that I have a great therapist and the treatment I'm getting is informed by my identity and background, not ignorant of it. Not everyone has that or has access to it.

What I do know is that we all need Community. True community offers true support, which is necessary for healing.

We also all need to know that our mental health struggles and our trauma are real and valid, even if they don't look or manifest the way we've been conditioned to recognize them. Don't let anyone invalidate your experience or mental health struggles because you don't fit into a specific, wrongly-labeled box.

And don't let anyone tell you that this society isn't out here traumatizing you, because it is. Society doesn't need to be this way. But here in The (European Colonizer Created) West, that's what those with more power have chosen for the rest of us. And it sucks.

I have nothing but hugs and empathy for all the other people out there experiencing this. The only piece of advice I have is: Find community, hold on tight to each other, be that oasis of Okay that others need and they'll be that same oasis for you. <3

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a-small-batch-of-dragons · 4 months ago

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Hero

found u on AO3 and loved u immediately, your writing style is incredible and i’ve binged all your stories :) crack request popped into my mind the other day and i thought i’d share—> the pinocchio phenomenon about “my nose will grow” (i’m sure you’re familiar) except for its the sides (prob logan bc experiment) trying it on janus- “janus will be summoned” or something to that effect idk ily please never stop writing <3 – bumblebea2712

Okay, so I've been thinking about something for a while. In your fic, Silver Box, where Roman has that box labeled 'Ego' with all the positive reinforcement in it? What if one of the things that gets whispered from it is when c!Thomas told Roman "you're my hero"? Like, especially with the angst from POF/SvS Redux. Thinking about how Roman misinterpret Janus' nod as 'Thomas is lying' when he actually meant that Thomas was still the truth when calling Roman his hero again. I wanna see Janus trying to correct him and be like "that nod meant he was telling the truth, he still thinks of you as his hero, he still cares about you", etc. Just some Roman, Janus, and c!Thomas angst all bundled up with hurt/comfort. I have THOUGHTS, and so I wanted to share :3 – oatmeal-stans-the-trash-rat

If you're up to requests rn, could we have a Sanders Sides fic where Thomas himself is actually present maybe? – anon

Hey, would you be interested in perhaps writing a story where Logan assumes Roman is stupid because he isn’t articulate, and one day Roman has enough and is trying so hard to explain to Logan why he’s wrong but he doesn’t know the right way to phrase things so he just ends up getting more and more upset while Logan isn’t listening? – anon

Hey! I love your work (I’m definitely a Roman angst enjoyer 😅, but all of it’s good!!). If you’re open to requests, I was thinking about the control that Patton has over Roman because like,, a prince fights for honor. For good. And who decides what those concepts mean? Patton does. In some way, he controls Roman’s narrative. Anyways, h/c with Roman and potentially protective Remus. Thank you for considering!! – anon

Read on Ao3

Warnings: self esteem issues, self doubt, slightly unsympathetic logan and patton

Pairings: gen

Word Count: 5984

"What honor is there that I can find now? What—how do I know what is right anymore? I've been behind a sword for so long, I fear…I fear I'm forgetting who I am without it." His breath comes out shakier. "And I fear…if I were to ever try to explain this to someone who wasn't you, my words would come out so clumsy they would impale me on their rusted edges." "There is nothing wrong with the way you speak, Roman. Nothing at all." "If only it were something that would be listened to."

Thomas sighs, scrubbing a hand over his face. "Okay, I think—is that all we're gonna be able to get done today?"

"I have no qualms about continuing, but I do not think it would be productive."

"I'm not gonna sit here and listen to you go around in circles again and again," Virgil groans, long ago giving up the pretense of standing and paying attention, his forehead pressed against the stairs railing, "just call it here and let us go."

"Now, kiddo, that's not a very sporting attitude!" Patton puts his hands on his hips. "If Thomas thinks we're all involved in this discussion, then there's no point if trying to discount your own importance."

"I'm not discounting my own importance, I'm questioning my relevance." He glares through a gap in the bars at Logan. "This whole thing isn't gonna make me think it's not worth being cautious about, no matter how much L tries to talk me out of it. I'm Anxiety. Literally it's my job to be irrational sometimes. By definition—"

"But we've previously established that you do have some semblance of logical reasoning at points, and this could very well be one of those points—"

"Okay." Thomas cuts Logan off with a wave of his hand. "I think—yeah, I think we're done. I'm sorry, Logan, but I don't—we're kind of at an impasse."

"Here's an idea." Virgil's hand flops lazily up in a parody of raising his hand. "Why don't we ask someone whose literal job it is to come up with ideas?"

Logan's nose wrinkles momentarily and he sighs. "I do not see the value in asking either Roman or Remus to weigh in on this discussion when it has nothing to do with them."

"Uh-huh, so you wanna try to do the create-an-idea thing without the Sides whose job it is to do that?"

"We are all capable of coming up with ideas, Virgil, Roman and Remus simply represent Thomas's Creativity."

"Oh, yeah?" Virgil heaves himself up onto an elbow. "When's the last time you came up with an idea for an experiment on your own?"

"Preposterous. I'm perfectly capable of coming up with my own experiments."

"Do it. Right now."

"We are in the middle of discussing—"

"No, no," Thomas says, "please, I could use a break from thinking about this."

Logan's mouth works for a second. "Very well. Let's see…ah. A spin on the Pinocchio paradox."

"The what?"

"The Pinocchio paradox. A simple thought experiment on what would happen if the character, Pinocchio, uttered the words: 'My nose will grow now.' An interesting thought, given that—"

"That his nose grows when he lies and if it does grow then he told the truth which means it wouldn't grow which means he lies, sure, sure, sure, what does that have to do with anything?"

Logan adjusts his ties and raises a finger. "Janus will now appear."

Everyone in the room pauses, listening for the telltale whoosh of a Side appearing. Which it does, a few seconds later, and Logan gets cuffed on the shoulder.

"What was that for?"

"I'm not an experiment," Janus says, a bit too amused to be an indictment, "and am perfectly capable of showing up to slap you for being an idiot."

"See? Experiment successful."

"That's not—okay." Thomas pinches the bridge of his nose. "Janus, while you're here, you might as well weigh in on this."

'"Being arbitrarily asked to choose a side with little to no context as to what the options are? My favorite." He claps his hands a few times. "What am I choosing between?"

"Would it be better if I responded to this email now, saying that I'm not available for a call for the rest of the day, or should I wait and just call back tomorrow when I am free?"

"Ooh, what an interesting dilemma. How badly will your life be impacted by a negative outcome to this call?"

"Don't fucking start with me, J," Virgil warns, studiously ignoring Patton's language, "I know you've been listening this whole time."

"Oh, you're no fun." Virgil tips him a lazy two-fingered salute and he sighs. "Very well. Thomas, do you want to respond to this now?"

Thomas frowns. "What? Isn't that what you all are here for?"

"We can manifest different parts of you trying to figure something out, but that doesn't mean you don't have your own thoughts about it that aren't us. What do you want to do?"

"This line of questioning is pointless. Thomas has established that he doesn't know what he wants and he's asked us—well, I suppose that now includes you—what to do."

Janus slides his gaze to Logan, eyes narrowing slightly. "That's awfully presumptuous of you, Logan."

"Thomas? Is that an inaccurate conclusion?"

"…I mean, not really."

Logan gestures at him. "See? There you are. Now, either we are agreeing to call the meeting here and simply wait until tomorrow, or we are going to rehash the same arguments from the past hour and quite frankly, I think there is a better use of our time."

"Why are the twins not here?"

"Excuse me?"

"The twins. The ones who are good at coming up with solutions to problems." Janus glances around. "They seem conspicuously absent from this meeting where we are trying to come up with a solution to something."

"That's what I was saying."

Logan sighs, removing his glasses to pinch the bridge of his nose. "Alright, if you insist. I do not see what sort of valuable insight they will be able to give us, but if you all want to hear what they have to say, then I suppose I cannot object."

Thomas smiles and reaches out to summon Creativity. A moment later, Roman appears in front of the TV, wincing.

"Thomas?"

"Hey, Roman, we, uh, we were hoping you could help us out."

Roman rubs the back of his neck, glancing around the room. "Uh, sure. What, uh, what with?"

"Thomas is struggling to choose between responding to a missed phone call and voicemail with either an email today apologizing and explaining his availability tomorrow, or simply calling back tomorrow when he is immediately available," Logan says smoothly. "Which option do you think is preferable?"

Roman just blinks at him for a long second. When Logan raises his eyebrows expectantly, his shoulders hunch a little and he curls in on himself. "I, um, I don't know."

"Just as I suspected. Very well, thank you Roman, you may go."

"Wait, what?"

"Whoa, whoa, whoa," Virgil says, sitting up, "that's not fair, he's been here, what, all of two seconds?"

"Yes, and has just admitted that he doesn't have an answer to us, which is not a productive way to continue this conversation, therefore he can go."

"Wait, Logan—" Thomas holds his hand out, silently asking Roman to stay, "can't we just—how's he gonna be able to actually give his opinion if he doesn't have time to make one?"

"Roman, are the facts I've given to you unclear?"

"Huh? N-no—"

"Do you believe you have a firm enough grasp of the situation to form a conclusion?"

"I mean, yeah, I get it, but—"

"And you still don't know what option you prefer?"

Roman's quiet for a moment, his outstretched hand slowly returning to his side. "…no."

Logan nods. "Settled, then."

"Come on, Logan," Janus says, frowning a little now, "just because you didn't want him here doesn't mean you can throw him away as soon as he's said one thing that vaguely aligns with what you wanted."

"First off, that's an incredible level of irony coming from you—" both Janus and Roman flinch— "and secondly, Roman, would you like to be part of this meeting?"

They all turn to look at Roman, who shuffles under their gazes. He keeps flicking his eyes up to Thomas, then to Patton, then to Janus, before staring back down at his hands. The buzzing of the fridge becomes oppressive. He winces and rubs the back of his neck again.

"Roman?"

"…not really."

"Then it's settled, then. Thank you for your input."

Roman glances once more at Thomas with something almost like longing before he sinks out again. Virgil, who'd been watching him closely, turns to frown at Logan. Logan adjusts his tie.

"If that's all, then, Thomas, would you still like to end the meeting here?"

"Yeah, let's…let's call it."

"Very well. I shall be available if you need me further." He sinks out.

Patton sinks out next, giving Thomas a quick thumbs-up before disappearing. Janus exchanges a brief look with Virgil before he's vanishing too, leaving just the two of them alone in the living room. Thomas puts his hands on his hips, staring at the spot where Roman was.

"So that was weird, right?"

"Yeah." Virgil grunts as he sits up, hands balled up in the pocket of his hoodie. "That…I've never seen them…do that before."

"Did Roman and Logan have a fight or something?"

"I don't think so? I mean, I've seen them argue about stuff, but they always do that and it didn't seem like it was any more, like, intense than usual, so I don't…I don't know why that happened." He shuffles. "I've also never seen Logan be that…short with Roman before."

"Yeah, like, he was here for literally, like—"

"Like two seconds—"

"And then Logan was telling him to go again. And did you notice how he kept looking—"

"At you?"

"At me, yeah, did—did I do something?"

"What? Shit, no, Thomas, I don't think that's it. I think—" he sighs— "look, he's not gonna be happy I'm telling you this, but Princey's been going through some stuff lately and I'm not sure exactly what it is but I know it's been weighing on him a lot."

Thomas frowns. "How so?"

"Well, let me put it this way: have you been daydreaming a lot more lately?"

He thinks. "Uh, yeah, I mean, I guess so, but I haven't been doing that much recently, which kind of makes sense, I guess?"

"Yeah, well, that's Princey in the Imagination." Thomas nods and Virgil gives him a pointed look. "I'm telling you that Princey's been going into the Imagination more."

"Yeah, that's—isn't that what he does?"

Virgil scrubs a hand over his face. "Yeah, it is, but not like this. Normally when he goes in, he's doing it to come up with ideas or work something out, or…something. But recently…"

"But recently that doesn't feel like what he's doing," Thomas finishes, chewing on his lip, "yeah, actually, now that you mention it, it does kind of feel…different. Like—like they're…"

"Comfort," Virgil finishes quietly when he can't quite put his finger on it, "it feels like a comfort."

"Roman's going into the Imagination to comfort himself?" Virgil shrugs. "Why?"

"Like I said, he's going through some stuff. It's not—I'm not all up on how the Imagination translates to whatever your daydreams end up being, but I don't think—Princey's not even telling us what he gets up to in there."

Thomas sucks in a breath. If there's one thing he's learned after listening to them talk about whatever goes on in the Mindscape when they're not with him, it's that Roman loves to regale them with tales of his adventures in the Imagination, even if it comes at the expense of whatever else they're doing. To hear that Roman's been going off more than usual and he isn't telling them about it? Worrying, to say the least.

"When did this start?"

Virgil blows out a breath. "After the wedding."

"Shit, that's…probably not good."

"Yeah."

They both stare at the black TV. A bit of dust gets caught in a gust from the vent and sticks to the corner.

"…he's my hero," Thomas says quietly.

"Huh?"

"He's my hero. Maybe he's…maybe he's going to the Imagination to do the things heroes don't get to do."

"Okay, you gotta break that down for me a little more."

"The heroes don't get to be vulnerable. They don't get to…to actually stop and rest, not really. They have to keep going, they have to…" Thomas swallows. When did this lump in his throat get here? "They're not—oh, god, am I gonna cry?"

"Shit, shit, shit, uh—do you want me to get Patton back?"

"N-no, no, don't—" for some reason the thought of Patton reappearing sends a bolt of fear straight through his chest and he knows Virgil feels it too, shooting to his feet and watching as Thomas stumbles back to the couch— "I—oh, god."

"Hey, hey, hey, buddy," Virgil says, voice soft and low as Thomas buries his face in his hands, "take it easy, okay? You're okay, you're safe in the house, everything's okay. I need you to take a deep breath for me, okay? Just a nice, deep breath, you're okay, that's it, good, now let it out…nice, do it again…"

Virgil helps talk him slowly through the well of emotion suddenly bubbling just at the base of his throat, the breaths coming out shaky but steady. Absentmindedly, he puts a hand to his chest and starts rubbing in slow, firm circles. The pressure does something to the frantic and flighty part of him, helping to soothe him back from whatever brink he hadn't realized he'd walked to.

"Hey," Virgil calls a few minutes later, "you with me again?"

"Yeah, I think so." He takes a couple more seconds just to breathe it out. "Roman's—Roman's my hero, and I don't know if he knows that I…that I still want to listen to him."

"What do you mean?"

"Afterwards. When I—when we were all—when the stuff happened. He said that he thought he was my hero and I told him he was and then he…"

"Freaked," Virgil finishes when he can't, "yeah, I remember."

"I don't…I don't know why that made him so upset."

"Well, hey," he says when that lump starts to come back to his throat, "let's not have you worry about that right now, okay? You—let's go do something else that'll get your mind off of it. Go rewatch the Office bloopers again, that always works."

"Will you—can you keep an eye on him for me?"

"Yeah, Thomas, I can do that. Now c'mon, those bloopers aren't going to rewatch themselves."

***

Roman walks slowly through the woods as the fireflies twinkle around him. He lifts a hand to push aside a branch, stepping through the shadows to emerge onto the thin dirt path that winds through the base of the trees. As the darkness falls, the thin blue lines grow deeper, darker, blending together to weave across the grass as little critters scurry back and forth. The whistle of the wind accompanies the crunch of his footsteps as he makes his way toward the cabin.

Movement from around the side and the man emerges, wiping dirt from his hands with a rag. He looks up and smiles as Roman approaches.

"Roman," he greets, with his voice warm, "how good it is to see you."

"I see I'm a bit too late to help with the chores." He nods to the rag. "I don't mean to impose on you."

"Nonsense, old friend, nothing you do could possibly be an imposition. As it happens, I have a stew on that I won't be able to finish by myself and it would be a great favor to me if you were to help me."

Roman chuckles. "How could I refuse?"

The man holds a hand out to him as he nears, settling it on the curve of Roman's neck and pulling him close for a brief hug of sorts. Roman turns his cheek to rest against the curve of his jaw, breathing out shakily. The man lets out a comforting noise and his fingers card through the delicate hairs at the base of his head.

"Come inside, dear friend, let the fire warm you."

"The night is warm already."

"It is young still, and will grow cold," he says as he begins to lead them up the stairs, "and you look to be the type of cold that does not thaw even in the hottest sun."

"I worry for the state of the realm sometimes, if I am truly so transparent."

"Only to me, dear friend, and only because you have seen fit to allow yourself to be so with me." He's coaxed inside a modest cabin, sat at a simple hewn table as a rich smell fills the room. He closes his eyes to breathe it in, opening them again when the low thud of a bowl and tankard draws his attention. "Eat, please. You know I can't bear a less-than-full stomach under my roof."

"You're too kind to me."

"Nonsense." The hand fits itself around his head once more. "You are worth being kind to, and even more worth allowing me to care for you. Now, come on."

The stew is simple, hearty, and as filling as he could ever want. Under the table, their legs press together, boots against boots, knee against knee. The fire crackles in the hearth as the last of the light fades from outside. He can feel his shoulders beginning to relax, the line of his body growing looser, more languid.

When they've both eaten their fill and the dishes have been set away to deal with later, he sits on the floor near the hearth and stares into the flames. A warm hand lands on his shoulder and brings his head to rest against another, light touch trailing over the bare skin under his sleeve.

"What troubles you tonight, dear friend?"

"I don't want to impose—"

"Shh, none of that now. It's an honor to be troubled by your worries."

He turns his head into the crook of his neck, breathing in the smell of clean sweat, of spiced apple, of wood smoke. "I struggle to remember what it is I fight for."

Gentle nails along his scalp. "How so?"

"There is nothing wrong with the way you speak, Roman. Nothing at all."

"If only it were something that would be listened to."

"Hey." He's nudged until he can look up at the man's face. "You once told me that all you wanted to fight for was this. For the chance for one to sit, in the peace and safety, with those they care for, and have that be alright. Is this still true?"

"Yes. But I don't—I no longer know how to do that."

The man goes quiet, contemplative, running his fingers gently over the edge of Roman's face. The touch coaxes a lump to his throat, a tear to his eye, and the man lets out another comforting noise, pulling him closer.

"Rest for the night, please, dear friend. My bed is warm, my touch willing. You fear losing who you are without your sword? Put it down for the night, stay. Remind yourself of how to enjoy the thing you fight for."

"If only I could be as persuasive as you," he mumbles, allowing himself to sink into the warmth of the touch, "then I might never need a sword again."

He chuckles. "Well, I don't know if I can do all that much, but I have learned how to persuade you, my dear, and that will serve me well enough."

***

"Roman?"

Roman turns, spotting Janus as he trudges back from the Imagination. "What're you doing awake?"

"I was waiting for you."

He winces. "Sorry, I, um, did we have something planned?"

"What? No, no, sweetie, nothing like that, I only—I wanted to talk to you for a moment."

A chill works its way up Roman's spine and he suppresses a shudder, walking slowly to his room and opening the door. Janus follows him in, carefully closing it behind them and waiting while Roman tucks something into a drawer on his desk and sitting down.

"What's up?"

"Are you…are you okay?"

He flinches slightly. "Why, um, why?"

Janus looks pained. He glances around and seemingly comes to a decision before sinking down to the floor, crossing his legs and sighing. "You…seemed very upset after earlier, and I wanted to come and ask you about it."

"Oh, no, I'm fine, I wasn't—Logan was right, I wasn't going to be useful in that conversation."

"The one you were in for all of three seconds before you were being shunted out of it again?"

Roman narrows his eyes. "You know, it is kind of ironic that you of all people are worrying about that right now."

Janus barely has time to process how he feels about that sentence before Roman's eyes are widening and he's leaning back.

"Sorry, I'm sorry, that came out really rude, I didn't mean that."

"You did, and that's okay. No, no—really, it is okay, Roman, you don't have to pretend like I didn't hurt you—that I'm not hurting you when I do things like that. No, no—" he stands as Roman covers his face with his hands— "please, sweetie, just—just listen to me for a second, okay?"

Roman nods, his face still hidden. Janus hesitates for a moment before gloved hands come down to rest on his shoulders. He leans down and carefully, carefully presses his chin to the top of Roman's head. Roman shudders a little under the contact but stays still.

"You've been distant lately," Janus whispers, as though afraid of breaking the silence, "and that's not a bad thing, sweetie, but it's…it seems like it's hurting you. And I'm worried because Thomas isn't—I don't know what Thomas would do without you."

Roman stiffens and immediately he knows it was the wrong thing to say. "I won't let Thomas down again, I know what I'm doing. I'm just—I'm sorry I haven't been very present lately, but I'm—"

"No, no, that's not what I meant—wait, what do you mean, 'again?'"

Roman hunches his shoulders. "I know I'm not Thomas's hero anymore, okay? You don't need to keep acting like I'm—"

"Wait, wait, sweetie." Janus crouches down, cupping Roman's face in his hands. "What do you mean, you're not Thomas's hero anymore?"

"That's what you said! After the wedding, when he said—when I said—and you nodded! Like it was a lie!" He jerks away. "We don't need to pretend that didn't happen, okay? I remember, it's not like I could forget something like that."

"No, no, Roman—no, that's not what I meant, I didn't—it wasn't a lie."

Roman goes still. He stares at Janus for a long moment, long enough for a bit of a smile to come to his face, like Roman's actually listening to him. Then Roman's expression darkens and the voice that comes out of him is darker and more venomous than anything Janus has ever heard.

"Do not lie to me."

"R-Roman—"

"No." Roman pulls away, standing up, towering over him. "You will not lie to me. Not about that, not about anything like that. Use me as your puppet all you want, everyone knows I can't stop you, but I won't let you lie to me about this. Ever."

He's already fumbling to get his gloves off, surging up and grabbing Roman in a tight hug, so close he couldn't hope to get an inch of distance between them. "I'm not lying," he hisses, almost into Roman's nose, "I'm not lying about this, Roman, I'm not. Thomas wasn't lying. You're his hero. You still are."

"Stop it—"

"My gloves are off! I can't lie with my gloves off, Thomas loves you—you're his hero—"

"Stop it!" The words leave Roman in a breathless cry and Janus is left struggling to heft his weight as his knees buckle. "Stop it, stop it—stop it, it's not true, it can't be true, it's a lie—it—it has to be—"

"Why does it have to be, sweetie?" They're back on the floor, Janus smoothing hair back from Roman's flushed face, awkwardly holding him in his lap. "Why did it have to be a lie?"

"Because—because—" he sniffles— "nothing makes sense anymore. I don't—I can't—I can't do anything."

He frowns. "What do you mean you can't do anything?"

Hands come up to circle his wrists, not to push him away, just to have somewhere else to hold onto. "Princes fight for honor, for what's good. I can't—I can't fight anymore."

Not much can break Janus's heart like hearing Roman admit something like that, fewer things still can threaten tears at the corners of his eyes like the ones badly concealed in Roman's voice. "What do you mean, sweetie? Why can't you fight anymore?"

"I don't know anything! I don't know what's good, what's honorable, what's—what's right, I can't…I'm wrong, Janus, I'm just wrong and I don't—I don't know how to be right again."

"Shh, shh, shh, easy, now, sweetie, shh…" Janus hauls him closer, pressing his mouth to his flushed cheek, still murmuring comfort. "Shh…that's it, just stay here with me a moment, okay?"

"J-Janus—"

"I'm here, sweetie, I'm right here."

Roman's stifled sobs land like mines in the room, creating a mess around them as he curls up tighter, tighter still. The door to the Imagination glistens softly and he can almost hear the distant crackle of a fireplace and that alone sends him further into the fit. Janus's hands remain gentle, holding him close, but everything keeps spinning and nothing, nothing makes sense except the hurt in his chest.

He's going to cry himself to sleep again, he realizes faintly as exhaustion starts to seep through him, but then Janus is kissing his forehead again and gently shaking him awake.

"Sweetie, listen to me: no one knows what you fight for better than you, okay? You're Thomas's Hopes and Dreams, his hero—" Roman whimpers— "you do know what's right."

"N-no, I don't."

"Then who does know?"

"Patton."

Janus's blood runs cold. "Patton? Why Patton?"

"Patton's the Heart, he's M—he's Morality. He knows—he decides. I'm—I just follow." He sniffles. "And Logan—Logan, he's right, I don't—I'm so stupid—"

"That's enough, now." He runs a hand through his hair again. "That's enough, sweetie. You're not stupid. No—shh, shh, you're not. You know you're not."

"I am. I can't—I can't talk right and I don't know what I'm doing and—an' I'm just gonna mess everything up again."

Janus closes his eyes, bowing his head and taking a deep breath of his own. Cradling Roman's head to his chest, he leans down and kisses both his forehead and his cheeks, just staying there for a long, long moment. Roman's soft sobs echo gently in his ear and he tucks a stray piece of hair back from his face.

"You're not stupid," he murmurs, "you're not going to mess everything up again. You're okay. You're okay, sweetie."

Roman sniffles and shakes his head. "No, it's not. It's not okay."

"…no," Janus concedes, pulling Roman close, "I suppose it's not."

***

Not many things can happen in the Mindscape without Remus noticing, and almost nothing can happen to his brother without him showing up to knock some heads.

Case in point: when there's a tug in his gut telling him that Roman is upset, he grabs his Morningstar and sinks out without hesitating.

When he rises up in the living room, it takes less than two seconds for him to determine one: that Logan is picking on his brother, two: Patton isn't doing anything to stop him, and three: Roman is crying.

"Remus, not now," Logan sighs, "we're in the middle of something."

"You're in the middle of hurting my brother."

"R-Re?" He's got his arm around Roman's shoulders in the next moment. "W-wait, I need to—I have to—I gotta explain."

"Explain what, Roro?"

Logan sighs. "Roman has been trying, unsuccessfully, to explain that we are at fault for—"

"Ah, no." Remus throws a knife at Logan. "I didn't ask you. Shush."

"Remus! Throwing knives at people isn't nice!"

"Neither is making them cry! We're all in agreement." He tucks his head against Roman's, gentling his voice. "What're you trying to explain, Roro?"

"The—" he sniffles— "Janus said I should try—try talking to them and I said it wouldn't work but he—he insisted an' I—"

"Shh, shh, take your time, Ro, you're doing great."

"Heart. Morality. Prince. Logic."

Remus's little black heart breaks in two and he wraps his arms tightly around his brother. "Oh, Ro, it's okay. It's gonna be okay, lemme get you somewhere safe and I'll do it for you, okay?"

"You don't have to—"

"Trust me, Ro-bro, I got this."

Roman sags in his arms. "O-okay."

Remus quickly bids the Imagination to open its doors and sinks Roman out, giving him a gentle push into the forest before reappearing in the living room. He cracks his knuckles and grins.

"Alright, where were we?"

Logan sighs. "Remus, I don't—"

"Ah, that's right!" Remus throws another knife at him. "You, not listening to people who can't articulate things as well as you can! Rude and ableist, Loganberry, not a good look on you."

"I am not—"

"Roman can't articulate his thoughts as well as you can and so you think you're better than him, smarter than him, and that he's not worth listening to, is that explicit enough?" Logan opens and closes his mouth a few times but doesn't say anything. "Mm. And you!"

Patton yelps as Remus throws something at him too.

"You have a nasty habit of making Roman feel like a helpless little kid! You have a lot of sway over things like Thomas's sense of right and wrong and when you don't talk to Roman like he's your equal, you really fuck him up!"

"Language—"

"Don't fucking talk to me about my language," Remus says with artificial cheeriness, "talk to yourself about how not to give my brother an identity crisis!"

He stops throwing things, mainly because the rest of them are exploding or things he knows Roman would rather he didn't throw at them, no matter how tempting it is. The two of them slowly get their shit together, each with a different amount of regret. He doesn't really care about that, though, so long as they're not going to hurt Roman like that again.

"Good chat!"

And he sinks out to tackle Roman into Ollie's pond so they can have fun playing and not crying.

God, he loves his brother.

***

"Hey, Thomas?"

Thomas looks up and sees Virgil on the stairs. "Oh, hey, Virge, what's up?"

"You, uh, you asked me to keep an eye on Princey."

He sits up straight. "Yeah, what's—what's going on?"

Virgil sighs, rubbing his hands together. "There was a…not a fight, but some stuff happened. Turns out that Roman, uh, didn't believe you when you said you still thought of him as your hero and it…got bad."

"Do I want to know how bad?"

"Like, bad enough that Roman wasn't—shit, Thomas, no, I don't think you wanna know. Let's just say it was bad enough that he wasn't just going to the Imagination for comfort, he was going there because it was the only place he felt safe."

"Oh, Roman…"

"The fight—the thing was about Roman trying to explain to Patton and Logan how it fucked him up really badly, and he wasn't—you know how Roman's not always the best at explaining himself?"

"Yeah?"

"It—it wasn't really going well. Remus had to step in and do it for him."

"Wait, Remus?"

"Yeah, they're brothers. Remus—shit, Remus is really protective of Roman sometimes and this time wasn't an exception. Everyone's fine now, but it's…" Virgil sighs. "Logan and Patton have apologized and everybody's working on it, but I thought you'd want to know."

"How much stuff happens with you guys that I don't know about?"

"Honestly? I don't think you want the answer to that either."

"Jesus." Thomas scrubs a hand over his face. "Alright, well, thanks for telling me, Virgil. If…if there's anything I can do, let me know?"

Virgil nods and sinks out. Thomas puts a hand to his chest, rubbing in slow circles. There's a part of him that feels cold, still. Maybe…maybe he can figure out some way to help warm it up.

***

Roman wakes up to the sound of a crackling fire. He hums, rolling over, reaching for the edge of the bed, only to stop when his hands meet the thick red comforter. He frowns. This…this is his bed. He didn't fall asleep in the Imagination. So then why…?

He looks over and his eyes widen.

Across the room, tucked into a neat little alcove that definitely wasn't there when he went to sleep, is a merrily crackling fireplace. Above it, mounted on a gold plaque, is a cardboard sword with the words you're my hero written on it in red ink.

General Taglist: @frxgprince@potereregina@gattonero17@iamhereforthegayshit@thefingergunsgirl@awkwardandanxiousfander@creative-lampd-liberties@djpurple3@winterswrandomness@sanders-sides-uncorrect-quotes@iminyourfandom@bullet-tothefeels@full-of-roman-angst-trash @ask-elsalvador @ramdomthingsfrommymind@demoniccheese83@pattonsandershugs @el-does-photography @princeanxious@firefinch-ember@fandomssaremysoul@im-an-anxious-wreck@crazy-multifandomfangirl @punk-academian-witch@enby-ralsei@unicornssunflowersandstuff@wildhorsewolf @thetruthaboutthesun @stubbornness-and-spite @princedarkandstormv @your-local-fookin-deadmeme @angels-and-dreams@averykedavra @a-ghostlight-for-roman @treasurechestininterweb @cricketanne @queerly-fluid-fan @compactdiscdraws@cecil-but-gayer@i-am-overly-complicated@annytheseal@alias290@tranquil-space-ninja @arxticandy @mychemically-imbalanced-romance@whyiask@crows-ace @emilythezeldafan@frida0043 @ieatspinalcords @snowyfires@cyanide-violence@oonagh2@xxpanic-at-the-everywherexx@rabbitsartcorner @percy-07734@triflingassailantofmyemotions @virgil-sanders-the-gay-emo@cerulean-watermelon@puffed-up-bees@meltheromanstan@joyrose-fandomer@insanitori@mavenmush@justablah65@10paradox10@uhhh-hi-there-i-am-nervous@cutebisexualmess@bella-bugatti-frogetti-baguetti@ultrageekygirl

#sanders sides #roman sanders #roman angst #roman sanders angst #remus sanders #sympathetic remus #janus sanders #deceit sanders #sympathetic deceit #patton sanders #logan sanders #virgil sanders #dragonbabbles #fic

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icannot3 · 1 year ago

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Menstrual Dilemma

(Frat) Kyle Spencer x reader

Word count: 1k

Warnings: talks of periods? Kyle buys you pads lmao. That's the plot.

Taglist: @taintandviolent (comment if you'd like to be added!)

....................

Excruciating pain was all you could feel. It left you doubled over, rolled in a tight ball and rocking around in agony. Your arms squeezed your abdomen tightly, short-lived waves of relief feeling like the holy grail before your ovaries once again continued their monthly, almost murderous routine. It was as if a knife had been stabbing you aggressively from the inside. The pain- along with other symptoms of inconvenience, such as headaches and nausea, had made you an uncrossable force not to be reckoned with. Being in far too much anguish to move, you'd sent Kyle to assist you.

Kyle deeply considered himself a gentleman. He'd do just about anything for his little lady. But when given the task of fetching you menstrual products, the job was perplexing - to say the least. Not only did he not have any deep knowledge about the use of these products, but he also had no idea where to find them. You'd told him to grab pads. After a painful amount of time scanning through the aisles of the nearest grocery store, refusing to ask for any help, he'd finally found the brightly lit women's care section. Before he entered, he did a quick loop around, making sure no one was close enough to see him enter. He felt a bit flustered being near the products in plain sight.

Finally, he'd made it in. His eyes scanned over the very large selection organized across the shelves. From what he'd gathered by looking at them, there were seemingly infinite options. The variety amazed him, really. The pads alone had so many sizes, but then there were just as many tampons up for selection. His hand trailed across the shelves, noticing a small box with bright purple packaging. The label read "menstrual cup", he'd flipped around the small cardboard box with curiosity. His eyebrow cocked up quizzically after seeing the product. Kyle's mind raced with endless questions. How did that even stay in there? Why would someone leave that inside of them? Did it hurt? Fairly astonished, he set the box back in its rightful place and made a mental note to ask you about that later. Regaining his original focus, he went back to the task at hand. He needed pads, right. He looked back at the intimidating selection, attempting to choose the best option.

He tried his hardest. He really did. But he truly had no clue what he was getting into when he accepted your request. He picked up one smaller package that seemed to lay in the middle flow-wise, gathering that it was the safest option. Kyle looked at the price tag from where it sat. Almost ten fucking dollars? For a medical necessity? His eyes widened like saucers, disturbed by the ridiculous cost of just a fancy cotton ball. He'd finally felt a small ounce of feminine rage and frustration over these matters. It was outrageous. Even the ones that weren't name brands were ridiculous. And the large packages for people with heavy flows? Screw that. Kyle gathered that if he had a period, at this rate, he'd shove a washcloth down there and call it a day.

His head snapped over, alarmed at the sound of a shopping cart. A mother had walked into the aisle with him. She had a small child in her cart as she browsed the selection. She looked at the prices, comparing them with her pointer finger whilst letting out a defeated sigh. Kyle understood, watching her try and look through the cheaper generic brands at the bottom. He still felt unsure about his choice. Putting all embarrassment aside, he got her attention.

"Is this stuff good? I'm here for my girlfriend." He showed her the pads he selected, desperate for help of some kind. She smiled kindly at him, nodding her head. "Yes, they don't have wings, though. You may want to ask her if that's what she prefers?" His brows furrow, he continues to grow confused over yet another technicality.

"What are wings?" He politely asks her. She giggles, pointing at another products photo. She gives a brief explanation, telling him about the benefits. Gratefully, he nods, grabbing that one as well. Just in case.

When he greeted you at his return to your shared apartment, just seeing you bundled up filled him with an immense amount of guilt. Not only did you have to deal with these ridiculous prices, but you were suffering. He set the bag next to you, pulling your exhausted form into his arms. You greeted him happily, pulling him into a tight embrace.

"How do you feel?" He inquires, rubbing small circles into the small of your back. You took a deep breath, soaking in his warmth. "Better, the cramps are starting to fade since I took my medicine. Were you able to find the pads?" He gives you a small smile, nodding his head in response. "A really nice woman helped me pick some out." You laughed, shaking your head at the thought of him getting advice on periods from a complete stranger. He found you precious, looking absolutely beautiful, snuggled into his chest. His fingers twirled through your hair and brushed your soft locs. Kyle, in that moment, vowed to always be as understanding and sympathetic towards you and any woman who complained about their monthly. He felt disgusted from his lack of knowledge alone.

He tapped your shoulder, silently asking you to face him. You hummed, eyes catching his own. "I have a question." He placed a kiss to your brow. You tilted your head, ready to answer whatever it was.

"Do you use menstrual cups?"

#ahs #fluff #american horror story #kyle spencer #kyle fluff #kyle spencer x reader #frat kyle #evan peters

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elizaditton · 8 months ago

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Too Small To Be Afraid (Chapter 15)

Cover / Master Post / Previous Chapter / Next Chapter

- - - - - - - - - -

I move my character through the virtual landscape of Flower Forest, interacting with the townsfolk and continuing toward my goal of beautifying the town. This is of course on top of my other goals, like paying off my mortgage to the village's local snooty businessman Mr. Buck, and running my own little flower shop. I'm glad I have free time this weekend to play on my FlexPad, but shouldn't I be doing something a little more productive?

As I lay on my bed, immersed in the wonders of virtual gardening, an open box in the corner of my room catches my eye. It's the only box I haven't completely sorted through from the move, since it's full of things I don't exactly have a place for yet. I heave a sigh. I should at least try to get settled in before the end of Carmen.

I stand up with a stretch, setting down my FlexPad and walking towards the box. I peer inside to see a mess of contents ranging from junk drawer material to family keepsakes. I pull out a long, heavy metal object and examine it. It's a silver bowling trophy I won some time in stage 3. I got second place in an all-girls competition with a score of 116. Not that impressive, but a fun memory. Plus it's probably the only trophy I've ever won. I look around the room for a place to put it and decide the shelf beside my bed will do. I place the silver bowling pin beside a picture of Dad and me.

Returning to the box, I reach in and pull out a small, smooth object. It's a rock with a silly face drawn on in marker. 'Rocky' was his name, I believe. When I was little and wanted a pet, Dad made this thing for me to take care of since pets aren't allowed in the undercity. I was supposed to 'feed' it every day, 'play' with it, and do all the things you're supposed to do to care for an animal. Shockingly, playing with a rock turned out to be a bore, so I stopped taking care of Rocky. I have no use for this thing, but since Dad made it, I can't bring myself to throw it away. Especially not with that goofy expression it's making. Into my desk drawer it goes, I guess.

I continue going through the box like this, pulling out knick-knacks and heirlooms alike, finding places in my room for some things, and throwing out others until I've nearly reached the bottom of the box. One of the few items remaining is a cream-colored journal with blue morning glories adorning its glossy cover. It's bursting at the seams with papers and paper clippings, and is held together by a burgundy ribbon. I sigh. I remember when Dad first showed me this thing.

It was a few days before the move, and we were trying to get rid of as many things as possible so we wouldn't have to move so much. That proved a bit difficult, however, seeing as my dad had lived in that apartment in Maedri since before I was even born. Needless to say, he had a lot of stuff. The day came when we managed to clear out most of his unwanted and unneeded things, and all that remained was an unassuming box in the back of his closet with no label. It was a decent-sized box, but not too heavy. It wasn't closed all the way, and the top was covered in dust. I had asked about the box in the past, but Dad seemed to want to avoid it for whatever reason. That day, I would find out why.

Dad set the box down on the floor and sat down beside me with a sigh. He eyed the box for a moment before flipping open the cover and sending dust everywhere, which resulted in the two of us suffering through a coughing fit. Once we recovered, Dad reached into the box and pulled out a long, blue article of clothing, explaining that it was my mom's favorite cardigan. To my surprise, I still have a few vague memories of her wearing it.

Dad pulled out a few other things, all belonging to my mom. There was a scarf, some old art supplies, a poetry book, an indoor planter I decided I would keep, a few novels, and a flute to name a few. But what really caught my attention was a journal with flowers on it. I've always loved nature, and I know my mom did too, so I wondered what was inside. Upon retrieving the journal from the box, Dad looked it over for a moment. He had a smile on his face, but I could see him getting misty-eyed.

"What's that?" I asked, pointing to the book.

"This was your mom's art journal," Dad said. "This book contains nearly every drawing she made since before we were even together."

Dad flipped through the journal. Mom had doodled little flowers on napkins, and drawn elaborate portraits on scrap paper.

Dad handed me the journal. "I think your Mom would want you to have this," he said.

I took the book and turned the pages in awe. One page in particular was a watercolor piece, depicting a girl I could only assume was my mom with some enormous bluebells dangling above her. She looked up at them with wonder filling her eyes. I looked at the painting with the same wonder. How did she learn to draw flowers with such detail?

I turned a few more pages and was shocked at what I saw next. My mother painted herself, again in watercolor, dancing in the palm of a perthean's hand! One masculine hand held the twirling figure, while another held her hand from above, as if they were dancing together. I slammed the book shut.

I haven't opened the journal since then, although now I'm a bit curious as to what else is inside. I guess I'll leave it on my desk.

That leaves the planter. It's still a bit dusty, but it's nothing a damp cloth can't fix. I gaze at the planter's plug, its cord yellowed and worn with age. Could this thing really still work? I guess there's only one way to find out. I set the planter on my desk, and after a moment's hesitation, fit the plug into an outlet on the wall. There's a spark, which causes me to flinch back and let out a yelp, but to my surprise the light on the planter somehow manages to flicker to life when I press the power button.

I turn my eyes to a shopping tote beside my desk. My hand feels around the inside of the canvas bag until it finds and pulls out a small white envelope with a picture of my mom's favorite flower on it. I give the packet a gentle shake and listen as tiny pansy seeds rattle around inside. Sounds like there's more than enough to fill the planter. I feel around the inside of the tote again, absentmindedly nudging a receipt out of the way, and find a sturdy bag at the bottom. I lift the bag, which is rather heavy for its size, out of the tote and set it down on my desk with a small thud. I've never worked with soil before, and the only gardening I've ever done has been virtual. Since the planter is old, it doesn't have instructions with it anymore, but I'm sure I can figure out what to do. How hard can it be to fill pods with dirt, bury seeds, water them, and turn a light on? And after all, my mom definitely had a green thumb, so hopefully I inherited some gardening skills from her.

Upon tearing open the bag, the earthy scent of potting soil invades my nostrils. It has a note of sweetness to it, which I find strange. I'm reminded of the smell of moist dirt when it rains above ground. I carefully tip the bag over one of the empty pods on the planter until a steady stream of soil spills out. I must have tipped the bag a bit too far, though, since nearly half the contents spill out all over the planter, the desk, and my lap. I let out a sigh. I guess I'll have to vacuum. I try to collect the soil from my lap in my hands, but most of it manages to slip between my legs and onto the floor. Looking down at my last pair of good jeans, they're covered in dirt stains. I should probably wash them, along with the rest of the clothes I've been procrastinating on washing.

I look back at the dusty planter, covered in dirt. This definitely isn't going like I hoped. I wonder what my mom would say about my failed attempt at gardening. Maybe I should leave the gardening to Flower Forest.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

I sit hunched over on the bench in the apartment's communal laundry room, my head down and my eyes fixed on my FlexPad. Flower Forest makes gardening seem so easy. How did I manage to mess things up so badly on my own?

The sound of another washing machine starting up catches my attention, and I look up to see a boy around my age nervously scanning the room for a free place to sit among everyone else doing their laundry this weekend. His green eyes and short black hair are familiar to me. I could almost swear I've seen him somewhere before. He pushes up his glasses as his gaze lands on me. His eyes widen, and he quickly looks away. I avert my gaze as my cheeks redden. I didn't mean to stare!

The boy finds a seat on the bench a few yards away from me when someone else leaves with their laundry basket. I try to focus on my game, but my mind keeps coming back to this boy. Really, where have I seen him before? Could I know him from school? Or have I just seen him around the apartment complex?

A pleasant melody ringing out alerts me that the dryer I'm using has completed its cycle. I set my FlexPad down beside me on the bench and stand with my basket to gather and fold my laundry.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

"Back so soon?" Dad asks when I close the door to our apartment behind me, not looking away from his laptop.

"I guess I got in early enough that there was a free washer," I say, adjusting my grip on the basket under my arm so it doesn't slip. "Are you... working? On a Restday?"

"Yeah," Dad sighs, "I told a client I'd have this ad ready by Firsday, and it's still not done."

"Yikes. Well, don't overwork yourself," I say, turning to my room.

Bing-bong!

"Could you get that?" Dad asks.

Anxiety swells in my gut as I set my laundry basket down and turn back to the door. We aren't expecting anyone, and we didn't order anything that I know of, so I'm a little nervous as I peer through the peephole in the door to see who's standing outside of the apartment. To my surprise, it's the boy I saw in the laundry room! Blood rushes to my face. What's he doing here? I take a deep breath and hold it in before opening the door.

"H-hello?" I ask.

"Hi," the boy answers, his voice deeper and sharper in tone than I expected. He looks around the outside of the apartment, avoiding eye contact with me. "Is... this yours?" he asks begrudgingly as he holds out a FlexPad covered in familiar stickers of Catmium from Stranded and Mr. Buck from Flower Forest.

I stand there speechless, taking the FlexPad in my hands. "Yes! How did you—"

"You left it in the laundry room," the boy says before I can finish my sentence. "Just be more careful next time, alright?"

With that, the boy turns and speeds down the hall.

"Wait!" I call out. "Don't we know each other from somewhere? Maybe school?"

The boy flinches, stopping in his tracks. He turns his head back toward me only slightly. "I don't know," he says, his voice softer now, and nearly cracking. He clears his throat. "I don't know, maybe."

"Well, thanks for bringing my FlexPad back, um...?" I trail off, expecting the boy to give me his name.

He looks down and sighs. "Sam," he finally says, his tone a little softer than before.

"Thanks, Sam," I say. "I didn't even notice it had gone missing—"

My thoughts are interrupted by the sound of Sam bolting down the hall away from me.

"Hey!" I call out again. "Where are you going?!"

As Sam disappears around the corner, I contemplate the bizarre encounter that just took place. Just who is this guy? And what's his problem?

"Was that a friend from school?" Dad asks as I reenter the apartment.

"Honestly?" I chuckle in disbelief. "I have no idea."

#too small to be afraid #tstba #perthea #giant/tiny #g/t #g/t writing #giant/tiny writing #sfw g/t #sfw giant/tiny #sorry again for taking so long!!!#hopefully this chapter is a bit of a breather #school is back in session in the next chapter ;)

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disaster-cryptid · 2 months ago

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It shouldn't be this hard to find people who think physically and psychologically torturing people on a large scale (prisons) is unhelpful and unreasonably cruel

It shouldn't be this hard to find people who understand how easily power can be abused and used to exploit others

It shouldn't be this hard to find people who actually care enough to look into what causes harm and what doesn't rather than jumping on bullshit crusades because someone made something sound nice despite the utter ludicrousness of their argument or idea

I hate how it feels like people just shut down when someone is discussing any kind of harm that's regularly happening and will bend over backwards to justify it or say it isn't happening

I hate how people are taught not to care about other people for the sake of some fictional ideal world that won't come due to their own actions

I hate how this society teaches people to shut off any sort of critical thinking or examination of harm to certain groups and some people just think they're some freedom fighter because they've reframed or reduced the amount of groups they consider are worthy of harming

Learn how to resolve conflict without punitive measures. Learn how to hear why others feel harmed. Learn that boxing other people into arbitrarily defined labels is a product of those in power justifying their abuse so don't get stuck in their web of convoluted lies about each other. Learn that not everyone comes off a factory line and all experience the world differently so while one thing may be enjoyable to you it could be painful to others so don't try and force everyone to fit your experience.

This is a rant and probably not worded as eloquently as I'd like but I'm just exhausted seeing people justify harming others for piss poor reasons

#and tbh I'm almost at the point of giving up on people entirely #i have almost no faith in people to do the right thing no matter how direct or elegantly information is given #and i guess I'm kinda mourning my hope that people could be better #cause I kinda don't think most can anymore

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ralith · 6 months ago

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In Hot Water

A drabble from the Wild West IronRatch AU (humanformers).

Just Ironhide getting some much deserved attention in the tub. Fluff and humor.

Rated T for suggestive themes.

“Are you falling asleep on me?” Ratchet chuckled as Ironhide slipped further into the bathtub. Not that Ironhide was able to sink much deeper into the water. He was a large man in small tub and much of him was exposed to the air. But it was the portion of him that was submerged that he wanted to keep underwater…though that part of him wasn’t small either.

“Mm, sorry,” Ironhide rumbled and shimmied back up so Ratchet could resume his ministrations. Seated on a chair at the head of the tub, the medic’s focus went back to the warrior’s head where he continued to work shampoo through salt and pepper hair, massaging the scalp as he went.

It wasn’t that Ironhide was falling asleep, despite feeling more relaxed now than he ever had before. No, he was trying to keep concealed his body’s reaction to the medic’s thorough touches. Thankfully there were just enough bubbles to hide his growing stiffness.

Ratchet worked from front to back, smoothing his palms along the soldier’s scalp, rubbing little circles above his temples, massaging his ears, making sure every inch was attended to. Then Ratchet’s fingers curled and grasped at the roots, tugging with just enough force to elicit a throaty gasp from the warrior and Ironhide grasped at the edge of the copper tub. There was no way he was hiding that from the medic. He could practically feel Ratchet’s knowing smirk boring into the back of his skull.

“What happened to do no harm?” Ironhide asked when he found his voice again.

“Hm? I hardly think that reaction came from a place of pain,” Ratchet teased. “Even now, I’m learning new things about you.”

Ratchet tapped Ironhide on the shoulder, signaling for him to sit up straighter. The medic reached for a pitcher at his feet and began to slowly pour clean, lukewarm water over the soldier’s head to wash away the suds. The contrast of lukewarm water to the hot water he sat in set goosebumps to his skin.

Ratchet was right. Though they were several months into their relationship, there was still plenty they were learning about each other, from their kinks to the more domestic, like that Ratchet may be a highly skilled doctor, but he was far from a decent cook and that it was best if Ironhide handled cooking duties.

The soldier didn’t mind that at all. He considered it his way of caring for the doctor. Ratchet was always there to tend to his wounds, from the moment they met when Ratchet discovered him bleeding on the side of the road to now, where he’d spent the last few weeks recovering from being thrown from a horse.

For all Ratchet did for him, the least the old warrior could do was prepare a well-cooked meal.

Ironhide shook his head to break the rivulets of water that cascaded down his face. The motion caused him to wince and he let out a small pained grunt.

“Still hurting?” Ratchet had been there when Ironhide was thrown from the bronco’s back. He fell hard. Ratchet was sure the man had broken some bones, but to his relief Ironhide was only bruised. It was muscle soreness that continued to plague the soldier.

“Yeah, but it’s getting better.”

“I figured. That’s why I bought this.” Ratchet picked up a small box that rested at his feet. The top was latched and he opened it, bringing it around for the soldier to see. Inside were two glass bottles, their labels printed in a language Ironhide wasn’t familiar with. But he didn’t need to understand the language to know they said ‘Rose’ and ‘Lavender’.

The bottles and packaging certainly didn’t look cheap.

“What are those?”

“Massage oils. Imported.”

Ah, that’s why they look expensive.

“I saw them at the store. The clerk said he’d been waiting months for this shipment. A rare find indeed.”

“You bought these luxury oils just for me?”

“I don’t care about price, Ironhide. I care about the quality of the product. I only want to use the best on my patients. The same care and attention extends to my loved ones. Now, which scent would you like to try?”

Ironhide was silent for a moment, the medic’s words working through his brain.

“Lavender,” he said softly.

Pouring a small amount into his palm, Ratchet instructed Ironhide to sit forward and laid his hands to work. They started at the base of his skull where Ratchet pressed his thumbs into the tight neck muscles, stroking and rubbing the soreness away.

Loved ones.

Ironhide mulled over those words. Sure, they had expressed their love for one another many times over, but it was the softness and reverence in how Ratchet expressed his love that never failed to amaze Ironhide. It was in every utterance of “I love you”, every dressing of a wound or cold compress to an ache, each caress in the dark, and the lengths Ratchet would go to give Ironhide an experience of the finer things in life.

Ratchet loved him so completely it made the warrior’s heart ache.

Ratchet’s touch was deep and sure as his hands wandered over tired shoulders and thick arms. Down the taught expense of his back Ratchet worked his fingers deep to get the muscle to release. It took some time, but eventually the doctor could see Ironhide’s shoulders relax, and the soldier slumped forward. Ratchet worked down his spine some more before slowly coming back up and over to his chest.

There he continued to massage, but Ironhide got the feeling Ratchet’s touch here was more exploratory. Expert fingers followed the dip of his collar bone and drew down, tracing the swell of the soldier’s pecs. One hand stilled over the soldier’s heart while the other travelled farther south along the dark trail of hair that adorned the warrior’s abdomen.

Ironhide’s breath hitched and no doubt Ratchet could feel his heartbeat quicken. He wondered just how far Ratchet intended to go, shifting in the tub in anticipation, but Ratchet’s hand came back up just as slowly as it had descended.

The doctor leaned forward and crossed his arm over the soldier’s chest in a hug. He brought his lips to the corner of Ironhide’s mouth and placed a quick kiss.

“The water’s beginning to cool. Why don’t we get you out of here and I can continue working your soreness out in the bedroom?”

Ironhide made a pleased rumble in his chest, and he turned his head to meet Ratchet’s lips properly.

“Sounds wonderful. And after you’ve finished me off, I can return the favor.”

#transformers #maccadams #ironhide #ratchet #humanformers #fanfiction #ralith's fic #wild west ironratch au

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thesinglesjukebox · 6 months ago

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NEWJEANS - "HOW SWEET"

Breaking up: it's like sugar sometimes...

[6.69]

youtube

Rachel Saywitz: NewJeans has found a comfortable home in the production of DJ and electro-trot producer 250, whose musical style has become so singular that I'd start putting him up there with some of the other K-pop producing greats like Brave Brothers, the late Shinsadong Tiger, or Sweetune. His method continues to work well on "How Sweet": adding a little shimmering twist to American club genres (Miami bass in this case), seamless transitions from section to section, and the light vocal touch of every girl's vocals. But, as with the greats, I sense a slight loss of luster with the constant repetition. How many underground genres is 250 going to fish out of the Western world's murky waters to can up and ship out with a shiny new label? The catches are going to dry up eventually. [7]

Kayla Beardslee: NewJeans’ early singles smashed, bringing them ridiculous and unprecedented success for a first-year K-pop rookie group, because they delivered masterfully crafted pop songs in deceptively simple packaging. "Hype Boy" plows through enough memorable hooks for an entire album in a minute and a half, yet sounds so breezy and youthfully optimistic that the music doesn’t feel like work at all. Beneath the soft swells and whispers of "Ditto" is an instrumental that has a beautifully subtle touch with intimacy and a topline that stays in constant motion even as it tantalizingly holds itself back. In comparison, “How Sweet” is more of an underachieving graduate of the Tortured Poets school of songwriting. In each section of the song, they pick one melody with a limited dynamic range, hammer it into the ground, then tick the box and move on. For a Coca-Cola ad, it’s pretty flat. [5]

Mark Sinker: Chirpy song about how breaking up with u is great and also v easy bcz u suck and I never liked u! Happily the real-world backdrop (MASSIVE INDUSTRY DRAMA pitting label against manager) cannot possibly ground this as a metaphor. The delivery turns the tale of the change from oops non-allegory into smilingly blank-faced stonewall. [7]

Iain Mew: They stretch simplicity as a virtue further than ever, relying almost entirely on immaculate floaty vibes. The almost is crucial, though; the "...now that I'm without you" kicker adds just enough bitterness to keep this from feeling completely blank. [8]

Joshua Minsoo Kim: "How Sweet" is one of the most powerful kiss-offs we've had in years because it treats the end of a relationship as something so effortless, so natural, "like biting an apple." Even when lines are acerbic ("toxic lover, you're no better"), they are delivered with the exact amount of lift needed to signal both disgust and nonchalance. NewJeans do not care about this ex anymore, and they wield their restraint with grace; this is living well as the best revenge, and the song is potent because it feels like mist on a hot summer day. Producer 250 has always known how to excavate the potential of a minimalist pop song, and he's found an especially strong avenue here with the skeleton of an Atlanta bass track. The regional style (and specifically the Ghost Town DJ's track "My Boo") has had a large impact on K-pop since "Body Party" got big, but 250 makes it a more congenial affair: the hi-hats are low in the mix, the handclaps have more pop than the kick, and it all feels muted so the bubbly synth melodies and percussion—the latter approximating the "Triggerman" sample used in bounce classics—can flutter about. "How Sweet" is the most everyday that NewJeans has sounded, and it's all the more biting for it. [7]

Ian Mathers: It's devastating enough to get a "I'm doing better without you" message delivered with such nonchalant cool, but to make it a bop too? Really drives the implied "I probably didn't care that much in the first place" home, ouch. [8]

Jacob Sujin Kuppermann: A very NewJeansian take on the break up-come down song; it's a harder feeling to make sound giddy, but they pull it off here. The fragments jutting out from the sing-talk ("like biting an apple"; "no drama, it's good karma"; "little demon in my storyline" most of all) are thrilling and deranged, the kind of phrases that become involuntary mantras and mutterings when you make your way out of something all-consuming and are faced with the shock of the new. Most of the writing about NewJeans centers on their musical trappings, but the Miami bass riffs here are more perfunctory than their prior dalliances with drum-n-bass and Jersey club. That's not to say that it's a bad song — that bassline itself, rubbery and grooving, is gorgeous — but that it shares less with the perfect grooves that "OMG" and "Ditto" than first appears. [9]

Oliver Maier: Unusual for NewJeans both in that it is kind of a retread (think "OMG" 2: Not As Good) and that the performances are really quite listless. The thing about girl groups from anywhere in the world is that their songs tend to implode the moment it sounds like they aren't having fun. [5]

Jonathan Bradley: There's not the great shock of the new provided by genre experiments like "Super Shy" or "Ditto," but the R&B-lite of "How Sweet" gets some extra mileage from burbling percussion runs and photon-light electro textures. Switching between English and Korean lines in the hook is smart songwriting as well as smart globalization; it adds variation to a melody that threatens to run out of ideas after a mere three-and-a-half minutes. [6]

Michael Hong: Initially put off by how weary the vocals sound -- NewJeans have always been low-key, but they've never sounded so spent. But it starts making sense when you consider that NewJeans are just as much about the experience of sharing these milestones as they are living them. Backed by a laser show of synths, "How Sweet" is about convincing yourself that you're okay after a heartbreak and proving it to your friends. This exhaustion makes the sharper moments more effective: the wistfulness of "it's like biting an apple" longs harder, and the snarky "I'll see you out" that closes the track is a truly satisfying line read. With every chorus, the bitter tartness lessens and the the sweetness pops brighter. [7]

Alfred Soto: The relaxed sensuality is what I wanted from this week's Tinashe track. The melodies are sticky and sweet. [7]

Nortey Dowuona: The drum programming is a bouncy, yet flimsy kick snare pattern full of glittery lasers and clinking closed hi-hats. At first, it overwhelms you, with the rising hit arriving every four bars and doubling during the post chorus, but once you pay attention to the looping, ghostly synth melody, you feel toward a handhold in the wind. [6]

Isabel Cole: I get so excited by the aliens-attacking space-laser sounds at the beginning, and then it all mellows out to make room for an uninspiring vocal line delivered uninspiringly. Things perk up a little in the chorus (I remain a sucker for handclaps!), but unfortunately the actual melody continues to be the worst part of the song, to the extent that I think I'd prefer an instrumental version. [5]

Katherine St. Asaph: The melody on the verses sounds like something off PinkPantheress's Heaven Knows, which is some real influencer-becomes-influenced ouroboros shit. But "How Sweet" settles into a chorus that's undeniably itself, frenetic but small: kind of like "Let the Music Play" recreated by one of those miniscule Helmacron ships from Animorphs in tiny zaps and little plinks. And I do mean "settles": there's less fizz in the pop than there could have been, and NewJeans' vocals range from effortless to affectless, unbothered to unengaging. [6]

TA Inskeep: I'm absolutely here for NewJeans giving us a little bit of ecstasy. If this kicks off a revival of second-wave freestyle, I'll be very happy. (Someone call Sabrina Carpenter to the white courtesy phone, stat!) [8]

Wayne Weizhen Zhang: “How Sweet” is the most subdued and pedestrian newjeans have sounded. The beeps and blorps and percussion taste sweet, but the vocals are bitter and dull. But when the production has so many dynamic flourishes, and the meta-narrative around the group is so interesting, the score floor is high. [6]

[Read, comment and vote on The Singles Jukebox]

#newjeans #music #k-pop #music writing #music reviews #music criticism #the singles jukebox #Youtube

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