This Is BEAUTIFUL - Blog Posts
a gift. and also a clear observation of me losing it. my brain wont let me draw normal stuff. I want to make Redfield. I want to make resident evil Content I swear.
#Repost @/freddie3000luv on Instagram:
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Unseend photo of Freddie in the dressing room on the set of the promotional video for I’m Going Slightly Mad at Limehouse Studios, London 1991.
A short comic I made about my experiences as a seasonal worker, and the way places change you.
Moses (drawn from a screenshot)
he has t-boy swag (the t stands for trauma)
The way that exclusionists treat ace and aro people often reminds me of how the average person would treat me when I started being open as non-binary. I’ve said it once and I’ll say it a thousand times, we are not enemies. Our experiences do not oppose each other, they are intertwined. If you’re ace, if you’re aromantic, if you’re any variation thereupon; your home is here. You belong here, too. You are beautiful, and powerful; and you don’t have to explain yourself to anyone. You are a valued part of this community.
intertwined, sewn together 🐞
bringing art i didfor a tiktok trendto here.....hope u likeit gang
damn this really got me feeling sum stuff
2sU ^.^
(“I know you hate me”, Amnesia, Wildcard)
Okay so this was a little late, but i managed! I went with a hollywood setting. Hope you guys enjoy!!!
“Can you shut up for two minutes and listen to me? We’re not on stage, you don’t have to be the main character!” Virgil snapped.
Roman huffed. “Oh, as if you had anything helpful to add? Other than that my ideas are all trash?” he argued.
Roman didn’t know what the teacher was thinking putting them together for this report. Virgil Stillwater always had something to critique and Roman was tired of it.
“Maybe, if you’d actually let me finish for once! But as usual when the great Roman Riva speaks all must be quiet!”
Roman let out a frustrated huff and packed his stuff.
“Oh, real mature! Run away. That’ll help!” Virgil bit.
“We are not going to do anything other than shout tonight, clearly. And I can’t deal with that right now.” He really couldn’t.
“Oh please,” Virgil scoffed. He didn’t know a single thing about him. He wasn’t going to bother defending himself.
Roman stormed towards the door. “Roman get back here. We haven’t made a single plan!” Virgil called after him. Roman wasn’t listening though. He was out of here. Working face to face wasn’t going to work. Maybe if they built on each other’s work or something. But this could not…
“Roman!” Roman looked up. Virgil sounded terrified. That was when he saw the headlights and heard the car horn.
Roman was vaguely aware of sounds around him. Voices. Beeping. But nothing really made sense. Occasionally he felt something. Though he couldn’t really pinpoint what it was. He could tell where though. His arms, his forehead, his hand. He just wanted to wake up and see what was going on.
And then he did.
As he’d sort of gathered at this point, he was in a hospital bed. Next to him was an unexpectedly comfortable looking chair and a man was sitting in it.
He was past his mid twenties and Roman couldn’t for the life of him figure out what this man was doing in his room. Shouldn’t his parents be keeping watch over him?
He is distracted by the sound of the tv. There was a Disney movie playing, Tangled. Very few people knew about his love for Disney… Had this man chosen it? Was it coincidence?
Where were his parents? What had happened? The car hit him that much was clear. But how bad was it?
The man’s eyes drift towards him, perhaps reacting to a sound Roman had made without realizing.
Once their eyes meet, the man shoots up and reaches for a button on the bedside.
“Roman!” he exclaims, looking ridiculously happy. How long had he been out?
“Sir, what is… Oh good. Mr. Riva is awake.” Mister? Him?
“Yes, he just woke up,” the stranger smiled before looking at him. “I’m going to call the others. Your parents had to arrange some things back in Florida but they’ll be here as soon as they can.” Back in Florida? Where was he? Why wasn’t he in a hospital back home?
“I’m going to give the doctor some space to work. I’ll be right back though,” the man promised, patting his hand comfortingly before leaving the room, getting replaced by a doctor.
“Good to see your eyes open sir.” Sir?
“How are you feeling?” the nurse asked as she checked the machines and prepped a needle.
Roman swallowed and tried to speak. “Sleepy, sore,” Okay that felt a little weird, but his voice worked. “Can you tell me where you are?” The doctor asked.
“Hospital… America,” Roman said. Hopping the doctor would tell him where they’d taken him.
The man nodded. “You’re in LA sir,” he offered. Los Angeles? Why was he on the literal other side of the country?
“Do you know how you got here?” the doctor asked.
“Car,” Roman said, though he wondered if he’d missed something. Had he been taken here for some kind of specialized care? That might be it. He wouldn’t put it past his parents, though he hoped they hadn’t spent too much money.
The doctor nodded. “Indeed. You’ve been in a coma for about three weeks. The first two were medically induced but you clearly felt you needed an extra minute,” the doctor joked. Three weeks…
Okay that wasn’t too terrible.
“You luckily managed to break the impact rather well, our biggest worry was your head injury. Other than that you had some minor fractures that have mostly healed at this point. You do have a broken rib or two that still need time to heal I’m afraid but physically that is the worst of it. Your last scan shows that the brain trauma has cleared up almost completely, so we are hopeful that any effects that might still linger, will be temporary and treatable. You are still young so that helps your chances at a full recovery.”
Roman managed to nod. That sounded good.
“Alright. I’ll need to ask a few questions, just routine. I know they’ll sound ridiculous, but it is part of the process.” Roman nodded again.
“Okay. Can you state your name?”
“Roman Riva,” he said without hesitation.
“Good. Who is the current president of the USA?” he continued as he scribbled something down.
“Obama,” Roman said. That gave the doctor and the nurse pause.
“What date is it?” Roman frowned as he tried to count it out in his head, three weeks… It’d been start of February… Sooo.
“March 1st 2012,” that was his best bet. The doctor glanced at the nurse. A moment passed and they nodded at one another. Then that friendly smile was back again. But Roman was a bit worried. He had to be off by a bit more than a few days for this reaction. Right?
“Alright sir. As I said, we expect a full recovery. If you experience dizziness or memory issues or anything unusual, make sure to alert someone of this. You’ll need some physical therapy as your body gets used to moving around again. Once again, welcome back sir,” the doctor said before he and the nurse left.
Roman took in the room again. It was a nice room. There were a lot of cards and balloons and flowers. Like a lot a lot. And there was a pile of letters in a box next to the bed. The whole school must’ve sent something. All the flowers caused the room to smell nice. Moments later, the man returned. Looking a lot less excited. But he was smiling, just in a sad way.
“Doctor gave me an update,” he said. Why? Aren’t doctors supposed to be very strict about only informing family.
“If you don’t feel up to visitors yet, I can tell the others you want to be left alone for a bit… But I felt you should hear it from me.”
Roman wasn’t sure what ‘it’ was. But he didn’t want to be left alone with his thoughts. “Visitors, are, fine,” he said slowly.
“Okay… this is going to sound insane. You were in an accident a few weeks ago,” Roman nodded, he remembered that. Not the impact but the car coming at him. “And well… you seem to have lost a bit of your memories from before that too. So don’t freak out. Please,” the man says gently.
Roman swallows tensely. Okay. Okay he can be cool. Though he didn’t get what he had forgotten, there weren’t any holes in his memories that he could spot…
“It’s 2022,” the man says.
What… “It’s 2012…” Roman corrects. The man shook his head and picks up a mirror from under a book to show Roman his face. His significantly more mature face. Oh… He looked back at the man and tries to imagine it younger. Clearly he was supposed to know him. Did they know each other back in high school? Back in high school. This was crazy. How could he be 16 one minute and 26 the next?
The man had something vaguely familiar to him though. He looked a little like an older Virgil, he even was dressed in a more mature and cooler version of his usual emo style. The purple hair and arm tattoo threw him off… But the more he looks at him. “Virgil Stillwater?” he whispers.
Virgil nods, his smile becoming relieved.
“You look… you…”
“Look like I could be an actual model for Hot Topic? I know,” Virgil smirked with a casual confidence that seemed so out there for him. “I guess that’s a way to put it.” He was very handsome.
“Yeah. I had a great stylist teach me how to dress like me but with style. Got through some serious issues which allowed me to become much more confident. It’s been a ride,” Virgil smirked. He was being playful, teasing. But there was still sadness in his eyes. Roman wanted to ask a million things. But then…
“We came as soon as we heard! Roman! You sweet prince, you’re back!” an excited voice called out as a man with curly, dirty blond hair and freckles raced in, barely being held back by a man with long sunny blond hair and a beautymark darkening the left side of his face.
“Patton, he’s still in recovery,” the man reminded his companion. Knowing that he had to deage by a decade Roman recognized them. Patton James and Janus Vance.
“Right right…” the man, who last time Roman remembered seeing him was terrified of everyone currently in the room, less so of Virgil, but still, nodded while the slimeball who stole Roman’s most recent prospective boyfriend wrapped an arm around his waist.
“Guys…” Virgil started but then there was a familiar screech.
“Romie!!” Remus was caught and held back by both Patton and Janus.
“No need to knock him out again right away,” Janus smirked with fond teasing.
“Hmph… Later?” Remus wondered and everyone chuckled, even Virgil, though it came less easily to him.
“My apologies, I could not hold him back on my own… Roman, it’s good to see you again.”
Logan, the quiet nerd who only ever spoke to him to berate or ridicule him said, smiling fondly. What? And why did he arrive with Remus, who existed to embarrass him? Okay maybe Remus being here made the most sense of all of them. He was still his brother, and he should hope he’d been a little worried after a car crash.
“What… What are all of you doing here?” he asked shocked.
That confused most people in the room. “What do you mean?” Patton asked.
“Oh don’t give me that! I know you hate me!” he stated firmly. Sure of it.
Everyone looked at Virgil. Why was this so confusing to them?
“He’s lost his memories. Last he remembers, from what I understand, was our fight back in sophomore year. You know. When he nearly got hit by that minivan,” Virgil surmised.
“You mean when you pulled him out of the way just in time, putting your own health and safety at risk for his sake?” Logan recalled. Virgil pulled him out of the way.
“Yes. So last he remembers none of us are friends yet. I mean, he maybe remembers Patton aggressively trying to befriend me because he took one look at me and said ‘this sad boy is friend shaped’.” The group laughed, nostalgia clear among them.
“So what you are trying to tell me… is that after that near miss, we started getting along?” Roman surmised. Virgil looked at him and nodded.
“You and I had an actual talk without yelling, and we learned we had stuff in common. Like that we both liked Disney. And after that, well, we started giving the other people in this room a chance. I tried to trust that Pat wouldn’t run for the hills the second he actually got to know me. You confronted Logan about his tendency to make people feel dumb. We both confronted Jay about his scheming and sabotaging. And Remus kind of just… Well he never changed. But you two get along better now. Though he still is a hazard to society,” Virgil surmised for him.
“And proud to be one!” Remus exclaimed gleefully.
Roman looked around trying to make sense of it all.
“It’s a lot to take in,” Virgil concluded. “How about, I go and see about getting you released as soon as possible. Then we can figure out the memory situation. The doctor said that they should be coming back in a few weeks. Your brain just needs to recover some more. The others can catch up with you when you are ready. We can do a few movie marathons,” Virgil suggested.
“Oooooh! You get to see so many things for the first time again!!!!” Patton gushed.
“It would be you who would find the proverbial silver lining in this situation,” Logan stated, though he didn’t sound as demeaning about optimism as he used to. Guess they were right. They all grew up… And he might’ve too. Only he got a hard reset to what they probably considered the worst version of himself.
“Yes! And he gets to befriend us all over again! Oh and he’ll be able to actually tell us, what would your 16 year old self think of who you are today!” Patton prattled on as he was led out with the others. Roman observed how Janus’ arm remained around Patton the whole time.
“He isn’t wrong,” Virgil noted. “You’ll get to have a second chance at a lot of stuff. See some things spoiler and hype free. And. You have no other responsibilities until you are better. No school, no work. Just whatever you want or need until you are yourself again,” he assured him before getting up and leaving the room. Roman was left watching the rest of the movie. Trying not to wonder too much. But… Why did Virgil seem in charge of his care?
The answer came the next day. When Virgil drove them home in a very nice car. The windows were tinted and they left very hush hush.
Roman was given a wheelchair and crutches. Because moving around was very tiring after laying completely still for three weeks. He wasn’t incapable of moving. But he might need assistance from time to time if he tried moving a lot. Which he did not like.
“Your parents came in this morning. They are at the house. They want to help you settle in,” Virgil told him as they drove the streets of the city of angels.
“When did we move here?” Roman asked.
“Um… You and I went to college here and stuck around. Remus studied here to. And the others followed soon after,” Virgil told him casually.
“And we… We live in the same house?” Roman verified. He got the distinct feeling that they did.
“Yep. Roommates since high school graduation, pretty much,” Virgil nodded with a smirk.
“You are very calm about this,” Roman noted.
“Took my meds before picking you up,” his chauffeur winked.
Roman pretended to be looking at the Hollywood sign to hide his blush. Virgil looked very attractive okay? There is aging well and aging fiiine. Virgil was the later.
Oh no. Was he being weird? They were the same age. But Virgil remembered 10 years of growing and learning and friendship. Roman only remembered a gangly dude who infuriated him only to have him turn into a mature, handsome man who teased him and didn’t even think twice about taking care of him.
“I do look forward to teaching you how to cook again. I wonder if you’ll be less of a disaster the second time around,” Virgil mused.
“You cook?” Roman asked.
“Yeah. My parents didn’t always get home in time, so I occasionally took over cooking dinner.
When we went to college I wanted us to take turns, but your first turn… Well you’re better off not remembering that. So I taught you what I knew, and after a lot of misses, you developed into a fine cook. It was a very rewarding experience.”
Roman listened with rapt attention. He never imagined Virgil would be coming home having to cook dinner to help his parents out. He didn’t know much about Virgil he supposed.
“How did I end up in a coma?” Roman asked. If it wasn’t the accident from ten years ago, then he didn’t know what happened.
“Much like the one you remember almost happening. We were both very tired and under a lot of stress. We said things we didn’t mean. You went outside to take a walk. I was too slow this time. Someone was using our street as a racing track… Luckily your jacket was white so they spotted you. Luckily your body somehow knew how to minimize the damage… It wasn’t a fun time,” Virgil said, now saddened and tense. And guilty.
“Um… I know it might not mean as much as it could, since I don’t remember. But it wasn’t your fault,” Roman offered.
Virgil’s shoulders actually relaxed as he said that. It does mean a lot actually. Considering that 16 year old you used to jump at every chance to blame me. Or, so I saw it at the time. I was a bit defensive on the matter since I’d internalized some of the stuff some of the other kids at school said. So it wasn’t completely your fault,” he assured him.
“You sound like you’ve been thinking about this stuff a lot,” Roman observed.
“Therapy man.” Virgil shrugged as he turned up a driveway that led to a gate.
“Woah,” Roman breathed. This couldn’t be… But Virgil showed a card to some kind of scanner and they were let in. The neighborhood was fancy.
“If not for the safety and the privacy you wouldn’t catch me in a neighborhood like this,” Virgil muttered. “Way to posh for my taste.”
“How do we afford this?” Roman asked breathlessly. This place looked expensive.
“I’ll show you when we get home,” Virgil smirked.
Roman nodded. Home. Right. Where his parents would greet him after he’d been in a coma for three weeks. “Me and my parents are still good right?” he asked nervously.
Virgil snorted. “Yeah, they just love Florida. They visit often though. There was just some trouble at home they needed to fix,” he told him.
Okay, that was good at least. Roman had started to worry his parents might’ve changed over the years as well.
They pulled up to a big mansion and got out on the driveway. Virgil opened the door for him and helped him out. “Wanna try walk a bit on your own?” he suggested. Roman nodded as soon as he got his balance. Virgil took out the crutches, just in case, and walked beside him.
They made it a few feet before the door opened and Roman saw his parents, definitely older than last he saw them.
“Hold on, let him try to make it up the steps,” Virgil warned. Roman noticed there was a ramp to the side, but he did want to push himself, just a little.
The steps were definitely harder than flat surfaces though.
“Oh, sweetheart. Are you feeling alright? Virgil told us about the memory loss,” his mother fussed.
“Um, I’m feeling a little confused. Like I time traveled. And a little weak. So if we could… Sit down somewhere?”
“So you don’t want to see how we landed this place?” Virgil smirked.
Roman’s head snapped up. He did, actually.
“Thought so. Come on. It’s not far. After we can sit down for a bit,” Virgil promised as he offered Roman the crutches. Roman decided to take them. He had no idea how far he’d have to walk. And the doctor warned him not to overdo it.
“Should we show him now? Aren’t we supposed to ease him into these things?” Roman’s father wondered.
“In movies and books maybe. But he should be fine. He’s had a rough going. He should see something that makes him smile. Give him something to remember,” Virgil explained.
There was no argument against that. Roman had one though.
“Wouldn’t a decade long friendship with you and the others be something worth remembering?” he asked as he took in the hallway. It sure looked like he and Virgil lived here.
“It’s October,” Virgil stated as he saw Roman eye the gothic decorations. “We didn’t get to the outside yet,” he added.
Roman nodded. He’d seen pumpkins and other autumn classics outside.
“And the threads?” he asked.
“A system to help us find everything when we just moved in, then to help guests find the bathroom and now for you to find your way around the house. The red one goes to your room, the bathroom and the living room. They are labeled where they split off. The purple one is for if you look for me and can’t find me in the living room. I should be at the end of one of them. Also labeled,” Virgil offered. “The golden one. Is for this room. If you want to visit again,” he stated as he laid his hand on a door. “Ready to see why you are a rich boy Princey?”
Roman couldn’t help but smile at that nickname. Virgil had always called him that. It was one of the nicknames he secretly liked. Though he supposed he now openly liked it. Because Virgil definitely looked like he knew he didn’t mind this one.
“Yes, let me have it.”
Roman hoped to see certain things of course. But that didn’t mean that actually seeing the posters and the awards hanging from the walls was any less exciting.
“Those are movie posters with my face!!!” he exclaimed. He was on movie posters!!!
“That’s right. A few Oscar nominations too. No wins yet though,” Virgil told him.
Roman kept looking around and found that the walls had a theme. The left full of movie awards and posters. The right was filled with records in several metallic colors, music awards and album art.
The center wall was a mix of both.
“I am a professional musician,” Virgil said casually. That explained why they were in LA then.
Roman couldn’t stop staring at all those posters and awards. There was still plenty room for future accomplishments. But man… It wasn’t bad for someone who was only 26.
“He looks like he did on Christmas mornings,” he hears his father whisper to the others, making them chuckle.
“Wanna go? We can check out your room, maybe prep for the movie marathon? The others will be coming around noon,” Virgil told him.
“Movie marathon?” Roman wondered.
“Yeah. You missed a lot of Disney movies man. And who knows. Maybe rewatching a few will trigger some memories.”
That made sense. He’d probably watched some of these a dozen times in the past ten years. Something had to trigger a memory.
He nodded. “Sounds like a plan.”
Virgil grinned and helped him back to the living room where they prepared the floor and couches for a massive movie marathon. His parents doted on both of them, surprisingly. They must’ve really taken to Virgil over the years. If they were so close that they lived together for several years now, then it would make sense that they’d gotten to know him too.
“Sir Singalot! Wanna try and help me with the food?” Virgil called when the evening approached. Roman had been talking with his parents about some childhood memories, pretty much avoiding the subject of his amnesia, but they did help him look at his interactions with Remus in a new light. Maybe he had been vilifying Remus in his head as they’d gotten older. Something he’d apparently worked through. Had he been to therapy too?
Never mind that. Apparently Virgil was ready to see him embarrass himself by failing at this basic adult skill.
Roman was going to try and focus on learning more about this future though.
“So… are there nicknames I’m allowed to call you?” he asked as he watched Virgil lay out all kinds of ingredients according to some kind of schematic that Roman couldn’t follow.
“What do you mean?” Virgil asked as he dug through the fridge for some things.
“I noticed you calling me nicknames I recognize that I actually don’t mind. And some new ones that are pretty okay too. So… I don’t want to call you… Debby Downer, if it hurts you or something. Since we are friends who share a home,” Roman explained.
Virgil took a moment to think as he motioned him over to the cutting board. He picked up a knife and an apple. “Okay, I did need to teach you this too the first time around. I’m hoping muscle memory will kick in, but just in case I’m going to show you, and I have a first aid kit on standby,” the musician explained. Roman huffed but paid attention as Virgil showed him how to safely cut the apple into slices.
“You can call me whatever you want. But… um… You tend to call me storm cloud, or a variation of it. Also nothing emo is safe from your quick wit. Okay now you try.”
Roman was a bit taken aback by the brisk change of tone. From fond to formal in one breath.
Roman took the knife and starred cutting with surprising ease.
“Seems your hands remember what to do even if your head doesn’t,” Virgil noted as he got started on something else. “I want to make a whole bunch of stuff to snack on throughout the marathon. We made a selection bug it'll likely still take us more than one day to get through them all,” Virgil explained as they worked.
“Are there questions you won’t answer?” Roman pressed. He wasn’t volunteering information but he was shown whatever he wanted to know.
“No. If you ask it I’ll be honest. But I’m not going to force feed you ten years of memories. All on your pace,” Virgil replied. Roman nodded thoughtfully.
They worked in silence until they had enough to last them the night. Just in time for the rest of their friends to get there. Everyone was infuriatingly careful when greeting him. Virgil picked up on it and led them go the living room to get everyone situated.
Roman was amazed that they all seemed so eager for a Disney marathon. He'd been embarrassed about his love for the movies. But apparently at 26 he was open about it.
“Stormcloud?” Roman whispered, his eyes glued to the videogame characters exploring gameworlds beyond their own.
“Yeah Charming?” the dark not so loner replied as he took a bite from one of the snacks.
“Am I out?” surely someone who lived with him knew.
“Yep. For the world to see,” Virgil told him with a smirk. He looked almost proud.
Roman relaxed at that. “We all are.” That addition very nearly made Roman choke on his food. Okay… okay. Cool he was cool.
He really liked Frozen. Though they had to play the power ballad twice because Remus sang along off key the first time around.
Big hero six and inside out both were emotional gut punches. Zootopia looked breath taking. Finding dory was adorable, moans had him giddy and coco blew him away with excitement. At least until Hector sang remember me, and Virgil was singing along under his breath. That broke his heart. But also… somehow it sounded familiar.
“Alright. That’s enough for one day. Time to go home,” Virgil insisted when the credits rolled.
Their guests yawned and stretched and hugged them before leaving. Including his parents. Apparently they had a guest house in the garden.
Roman was sent to bed, Virgil insisted on cleaning up alone. He needed his rest.
Roman followed the red thread leading to the large master bedroom with the big bed and massive closet… Roman’s thoughts mingled processing the past two days. And he thought back to Virgil being told everything. Virgil taking charge of his care. No one, not even his parents seemed to question that. Not even the doctors… because he was famous? He should hope not…
If not that though… he was so close. He could feel it. A breakthrough… hearing Virgil sing had felt familiar. Maybe if he got him to sing something he'd written. Virgil said he would tell him things if he asked… And so Roman made his way back. He was going to ask for one song to settle his mind. That was it. Suddenly he heard voices.
“… And that is it for the coming week. Unless you want me to cancel something? I did my best to anticipate what you’d want to keep on the agenda but I understand that given the circumstances…”
That voice sounded vaguely familiar. He wasn’t sure if he liked it though.
“No Alex. This is great. Thank you. For this and for the past few weeks. I don’t know what I’d do without you.” That was Virgil.
“Well. It is my job. And even if it wasn’t… It’s the least I can do,” the stranger, Alex, said. Roman looked past the corner. Virgil was cleaning up and talking to a phone on speaker.
“Don’t you start that with me. I told you that I don’t blame you. And once Roman is himself again, I know he’ll agree. We were… You know better than anyone how tense things were. It was a matter of time.”
“Exactly.”
“Alex. You did what you thought was best. And I truly appreciate it. How about you take a week off. I’ll call you if Roman is ready to talk okay? Take care.” Who was this guy? Did he have something to do with the fight that landed Roman in this situation?
“Verry well. Have a good night Virgil,” Alex allowed.
“You too,” Virgil replied before hanging up with a sigh.
“Who was that?” Roman asked. Virgil looked up surprised.
“Um. Our personal assistant. He’s been working with us since… Since your first big role,” Virgil said.
Roman nodded. “His voice sounded familiar,” he informed his housemate. This made Virgil light up.
“That’s good! See? It’ll all come back. You did a decent job at cooking, and now you recognize Alex’ voice. It’s going to be alright,” Virgil stated.
“When did you become so optimistic?” Roman asked. It was very odd to see him be so insistent on a fairytale ending.
Virgil looked down and put more plates in the dishwasher. “Because… If I let myself spiral, I can’t take care of you. So for your sake, I have to be hopeful,” he explained.
Oh… That made him emotional.
“Was there something you needed?” Virgil asked.
Right. “My head won’t shut up. I was hoping… Could you sing something for me to settle my thoughts?”
Virgil paused his cleaning for a moment, then he turned to him. “Sure,” he said, his voice trembling with emotion. Was this something old him used to ask for? Before Roman could finish that thought Virgil started to sing.
“When the road is without direction
when the way is without end
listen this is my suggestion
what you need is a friend
Someone to make it a quest
someone to set the goal
Someone who makes you your best
Someone who makes you whole,” Virgil let his voice fade out. Roman quickly realized why. Silent tears were streaming down his face. Somehow so much just clicked.
And that song… He could almost see the many memories of times Virgil had sang it to him.
“I… I think I can guess at a few more nicknames I have for you,” Roman said softly as he walked closer.
Virgil is frozen solid in his spot.
“My chemically imbalanced romance,” he whispered. Virgil nodded. Roman took a step.
“Scare amor.” A nod. A step.
“Mi novio?” Nod. Step.
And then, because of him being treated as family, because his parents let him take charge of his care…
“Esposo?” Virgil was crying now too and nodded.
“May I?” Roman asked. Reaching for his face. Virgil responded by embracing him. Roman returned the hug. Pulling back only enough to place a gentle, sweet kiss on Virgil’s lips. It felt so right, he felt so at home. That song had made him feel so safe and understood…
Memories were brewing under the surface. Ready to return to him.
Right now he remembered the most important thing.
Virgil loved him and he would always be at his side.
@moonlightshow00 @naturallyunstablegamer @m-i-r-p @meowthefluffy @frida0043 @angelic-cali @selenechris @theblackveilinreverse @prinxiety-week-2022
back at it w/ some tomco doodles
and a demon+angel marco
tom is definitely an angry and angsty bean sometimes, but he’s also soft baby and these two are in love,,
Found the room with many rats
Brb screaming into oblivion rn
DID YOU GUYS SEE CAVENDISH’S POSTER IN THE NEW LIVE ACTION TRAILER 👀👀👀 A CHARACTER WHO WASNT INTRODUCED UNTIL DRESSROSA 👀👀👀👀 DOES THIS MEAN LIVE ACTION LAW MAYBE???????
it's a sliding scale, guys
(I will accept criticism on this, especially in the form of new jokers to add to the scale)
DJ SS from no straight roads, saw this boss fight and wow everything about it was great ⭐️_⭐️
so I can’t art right now, but I CAN do this
“Monkey, initiate self-destruct!”
The cage is open, you can walk out anytime you want (Why are you still here?),
S2!Post!Hankel Spencer Reid x gn!BAU!reader
Angst (hurt/comfort). Autistic Spencer (you know the drill). Perhaps some traces of fluff if you’re like…. masochistic. Heavily implied happy ending.
— Explorations of Spencer’s (very glossed over) addiction. Love confessions? Half love confessions? Spencer admits it mentally, Reader implies it through actions. What am I saying? They’re sooooooo in love it pains me.
Warnings: *cracks knuckles,* okay…. —heavy depictions of drug addiction, mentions and allusions of suicide, previous mentions of being held hostage (Hankel). PACKED with Greek mythology references (sue me, i study classics as a degree), perhaps some light biblical imagery? Spencer being at rock-bottom. he’s kinda bitchy. he also disses hotlines (they do save lives, don’t listen to Spencer!!! he’s being a dick). mentions of childhood bullying.
w.c: 3.2k
a/n: title so long it’s basically a midwestern emo song.
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There’s intimacy in being fragile. Spencer knows firsthand, has romanticised his Glass delusion. The fear of shattering, fragmenting on impact, like jagged, sliced glass. He thinks of Charles VI, (1380’s King of France), what he felt when he refused touch. When he reinforced himself, shielding behind excess clothing, in the fallacious fear of dismantling.
Spencer does the same, hides behind fabric, shies away from human contact. Because— because being careful is better than being impetuous. If he can make himself so small he no longer takes up space then maybe they’ll be kind to him.
Monachopis. Has he always been this out of place? Has it always felt this way? Will it ever stop?
12 years old. Curling inward to shield himself from the ache of cracked fists. You’re not here, you’re not here, you’re not here. He still feels like that kid, the one bleeding across the school yard, smashed glasses, bust lip, new bruises to hide from mom.
Perhaps he should blame genetics. Find something to point the finger at. Mentally distort the truth, until it’s no longer a paling face he sees, drawing the first needle into his arm, forcing him to take what he never asked for. No longer that, but a bigger issue, a concern that cannot be personified, a larger statistic in the minefield of human psychology.
Those with ASD have a doubled risk of substance use.
He never stood a chance. Did he?
So just like Charles, he covers his arms. Veils the track marks that penetrate skin. Pretend they’re not there, pretend you’re okay. Okay? Okay, nobody has stopped to ask him if he is ‘okay’ since ‘the incident.’ When the shock wore off, and attention strayed, everyone lost interest.
He feels like an outlaw to his own team.
How do you move on from being bound, tied, degraded to something beneath human?
How did everyone else?
He understands now— the pull of addiction. The way it mimics, artificially replicates home. Something soft, in that one, life-ruinously warm moment between the first hit and the inevitable come down.
But just like everything good. It dies. Turns ugly. Disfiguring, decaying. What once was simple, a fleeting temptation, a way to starve off lonely withdrawal, has derailed into desperate, insatiable hunger. To reproduce the first time, to appease the way he palpates in the wake of something tiny—
Call it what it is. Not an analgesic agent, not a semi-synthetic, not a simple narcotic utilised in the medical field. It’s an opioid, two to eight times greater than that of morphine. Given to those dying, to help alleviate Cheyne-stokes breathing, to reduce pain before the end.
It binds to the opioid-receptions in the central nervous system.
He is no superior than those on the street. Begging for loose change to shoot up and placate the cold.
2AM. The phone connection is faint. Do you feel like killing yourself? Is the noose already tied, is the rope choking you? Do you need to breathe? Do you even want to? He wonders what it would be like, to call into those bullshit hotlines, to hear the detached, sharp-bladed sympathy of some stranger.
Instead, when the phone picks up, the blaring beep of a dial dissipating, he hears you instead.
“You know how it’s believed that Artemis killed Orion?” He starts. He cannot begin with hi, I’m scared of the dilaudid burning through my veins. Do you still love me? (Presumptuous of him to believe you loved him in the first place, he certainly wouldn’t.)
He doesn’t let you answer. Maybe he’s scared, or maybe he can try and satiate your concern by fact-dumping so extensively that you automatically revert back to oh yeah, boy genius is talking again. “Well— there’s this other interpretation, that she… y’know didn’t. Instead, they were hunting companions, and it was because of the animals he slaughtered on Crete, that Gaia. Mother ea— yeah, you know who I’m referencing. Okay.”
Even at his worst, he is conveniently a social disaster. They could poke holes in his brain, drag the sharp edge of a blade through the tissue lining of his stomach, and his mouth would still find a way to run:
‘You’re missing major arteries here, c’mon — I know you can push harder than that. Aim for my descending aorta, that will do the job correctly.’
It would be funny if he wasn’t the biggest screw up to ever exist. Social ineptitude has never looked worse.
“Anyway, um… so— disturbed by the blood-bath, and feeling repentant — she summoned this scorpion. Humans are no match for the gods, obviously. So any creation with intent will—“ he sighs, finding new ways to hate himself. “Basically he died. Yeah— dead. To… uh, sum it up?”
“And what?” Oh, there you are. He’s surprised you’re listening, that you didn’t hang up the moment his morbid rambling begun. He’s always surprised, surprised that you listen, that you stay, even when you shouldn’t. It would be romantic, if he wasn’t so flawed in believing you could never want someone like him.
“Well— Artemis gathered up the remnants of Orion and placed them in the sky. Yknow,… hence the constellation.”
There’s shuffling — a moment of uneasy silence. “Spencer—“
He keeps going. Shock-horror. “I’m not sure science would agree with that myth. It certainly counters the Big Bang theory. And the whole schtick regarding— look… it doesn’t,… it doesn’t hold any truth, of course. The gods aren’t real,” (if they are, they must spit at the flawed creation of him), “I just— it was on the forefront of my mind. Made me think of you.”
It’s innocent. If you don’t take into account the stored vials he keeps stashed in his cabinet sink. If you pretend you’re just two people, two old, weary friends, who are insomniac and restless. Then again, where Spencer is concerned, everything is innocent. He’ll bare the weight of existence with no expectation of a return favour. So willing to give give give. Always taken for granted. Tossed to the sidelines. You’ve watched the team ignore his plans, call rain check after rain check, incessant excuses for something so diminutive. Even now, they can’t see what’s right in front of them. The blunt of the truth.
The aftermath of the Hankel case.
“Bad night?” You ask. Like you don’t feel it in your ribs.
He sighs, head spilling back against the wall. Throat bared, it would be so easy for hands to wrap around the unmarred skin, to put him down. “Aren’t they all?”
You’ve both been trained to pinpoint human behaviour. Discern threat from over exaggeration. You don’t hesitate, he knows you don’t— he’s seen you behind the weight of a gun. Dominant hand curved around the grip, aligning the front and rear sight. Firing pin striking the primer of the cartridge, no recoil— he’s watched you no more than blink when the bullet penetrates.
He always anticipates a flinch that never comes.
Sometimes, he has this dream, where he’s got the same Hornady branded bullet, lodged through his chest. Sometimes he wakes up and still believes he’s bleeding out.
He can hear your keys, the clattering that fades into the grating, confirmative slam of a door. You’re out of the apartment complex, and what? He’s too busy thinking about some warped manifestation of his subconscious?
Will he ever live outside of his mind?
The call doesn’t end (5 dragging minutes of heavy breathing and awkward silence), until you’re standing right here, flesh and bone, in his kitchen.
He’s making himself small again. Sat against cold tile, he shields his face from view. As if that alone will incrimate him. He knows you know. And it’s scary; to be so raw in the face of someone you love.
When you drop to your knees, it feels like tending to a wounded animal.
“You didn’t need to come,” he mutters, obstinate.
“So what?” You brush it off, ever the hero. Spencer thinks they should marbleise you in the Vatican. “I still did.”
You came. You called. Spencer fucking hates that cliche. Except, no.. no he doesn’t. Sometimes, he wants to make himself sicker, just so you have reason to touch him.
Reaching up, he feels your calloused palm, the way it cups his jaw, coaxing his face to lift. He thinks, knows, you’re disturbed by the sight. Red-rimmed eyes, and waxen features. Skinnier, hollow. If he is Leander, then he prays you don’t suffer the same fate as Hero.
‘Geniuses are never happy,’ they told him as a child. Detailing the cyanide found in Viktor Meyer’s stomach, Wallace Carother’s affinity for Potassium Cyanide. Hans Berger, Valero Legasov, Alan Turning. Some things hurt more than can be described.
Is it really so startling that he turned out the same? When that’s all he’s ever known?
Spencer stares. He tries to look through you, but it doesn’t work. Not when you’re warm, and real, and if the come down is configuring you into reality, and you’re not really here, then so be it. He’ll take what he can get. “You’ll find Dilaudid in my bathroom. Left turn from the hallway. I suggest you call 911. Report drug possession. They’ll take it more seriously if you say my name, emphasise the doctor in the title.”
“No.”
“Yes—“ indignantly, he huffs, “Yes. You will. Otherwise you’re guilty by association. The FBI will fire you, take away your credentials. You’ll be ruined.”
“That’s if they find out.”
He can’t comprehend why you’re covering for him. There’s decency, empathy, general human kindness, and then there’s this. “You’re supposed to be an upholder of the law.”
“Pft,” you scoff, brush it off. “Yknow, in Alabama, you can’t play cards on a Sunday. Alaska, no moose on sidewalks. There’s also a ban on wearing masks in Georgia. California has—“
“I get your point.” He cuts off, “Well— no, I actually don’t. Considering they’re dumb laws that waste time. Drug paraphernalia, in contrast, is not.”
“Even high, you’re a stickler. Guess old habits die hard?” you push up, and he chases your touch. “C’mon, golden boy. You’re getting a cold shower and some water. Gonna flush that shit out of you the old fashioned way.”
“I wasn’t aware there was a modern alternative…”
He doesn’t let you see him naked. Partially because, it’s his body. This vessel that feels so alienated from the better part of him. He’s never let someone undress him before, see behind the meticulous layers. But, mostly.. well, he has a firm belief that the first time you take off his clothes, it will be in better circumstances. If that ever transpires.
You’d probably think him deranged: hi, i’m saving myself for you, because any touch that isn’t yours makes me sick.
He’d rather rot alone than string someone along who could never fill the void of you.
The shower is methodical. Skin recoiling from the harsh rivulets of water. 3 minutes spent standing there, staring outwards not in. Complete disregard for the mirror, he’s all soft features and freshly-washed pyjamas when he pads into the bedroom. Corduroy pants, thermal-wear socks, some dumb science print embellished onto the front of his shirt. (‘Never trust an atom, they MAKE UP everything’ — yeah, he hates himself.)
You don’t talk. Not until he’s consumed his body weight in water. He fights off the urge to warn you about the dilution of sodium content in blood. Hyponatremia. Fatal, with a likelihood of seizuring and long-flight comatose. You’d probably just laugh at him, considering it was two glasses, a litre at best.
He’ll use his intellect to hurt. And you’ll counter him with little regard.
Even at his ugliest, you still stay.
“I’m fine,” he protests— hating the way you look at him when he’s so raw.
It’s that gaze. That same sinking, pity-warped gaze he received when he talked about his mom, about the kids at school. Adolescent meat-heads who pushed him into lockers, and beat him between class. Its— suffocating sympathy that he no longer has room for.
“No you aren’t,” this might be the worst you’ve ever seen him.
Would you have known? If he didn’t make the call? Cassandra complex. Disambiguating. A psychological phenomenon where an accurate prediction of a crisis is dismissed. Silent concern, the intuitive awareness that he never recovered, it was only going to lead to this—
Oh fuck it. You knew. The entire team did. You’re just the only one who cared enough to help.
You’re not like the rest of them. Maybe they can blanket suspicion, play pretend, refuse to get their hands dirty. But, there’s a reason you’re better. You don’t sugar-coat reality. You act. You react.
He’ll see your name on a wall one day. An award adorning your efforts.
“You’re exhausted, lie down.”
Spencer fights the urge to scowl. Since when were you in charge? Admittedly, he knows the answer to that: since you spitballed into his apartment, better yet, since you spitballed into his life. So, like the good, propitiated loser he is, he complies. Shock horror…
“What are you gonna do? Tuck me in?”
“You wish.” Instead, you force your way onto the right side of the mattress. “Get comfy, you’ve got your own, free of charge, narcotics anonymous sponsor tonight.”
“You’re not great at the whole ‘tough love’ thing.”
“Then call someone else next time.”
Vulnerability feels like being ripped open at the seams. Like some botched Pygmalion creation — stitched wrong, still breathing. He wants to fall asleep, to just… fade into himself. But— you have this uncanny, accursed ability to make him honest.
You, draped over his bed, does little to appease the sickness in his mind.
“I never asked for this,” he starts, “I didn’t— I didn’t even want it. How is that fair? I never got to decide, I wasn’t even given the anatomy to choose. Now—“
The words rip free like Prometheus’ daily punishment: inevitable, agonizing.
He laughs. Cold. Something ugly that doesn’t belong to him. “Now, if I’m not thinking about my next hit, I’m thinking about how you see me. How the team must see me. It’s— it’s the disappointment. I just— I don’t know why you stay.”
It’s all so tentative. The moments before, when you extend your hand, run it across the curvature of his jaw. All it takes is the touch and he’s crashing into you. Like there is no feasible option but to submit to the basic human need of contact. Face pressed into your shoulder, he feels like dead-weight. Something unworthy of labour.
Stop pushing that boulder up the hill, Sisyphus. Let it fall. Let him fall.
His hand knots tighter in the fabric of your top. Like if he lets go, he’ll spiral into Tartarus itself.
Why? Why would you do this—
“You think I’m going to cut and run just because you’re inconvenient? Pft, i’m too stubborn for that. And, well…” there’s a sigh,… “I care about you too much. Alright? So be inconvenient. Fuck, call at 3AM. Call at 5AM. Make me drop everything and come over. I don’t care. I want to carry the burden. I want to carry your burden.”
His touch lingers near your lower back. Drawing soft halos there, faint and uneven. “I hate you,” comes out muttered, something muffled by skin.
“No you don’t.” you counter, immediately.
“No I don’t,” just like that, he breaks. Cease-fire. How could he ever hate you? The statement was deflective, at best. Some way to make you ache the way he aches. At least then it would be a level paying field.
“I hate who I am when I’m like this. I hate— I hate my mind. It’s not… it’s not accurate, the way people romanticise it. I can’t be what they all expect of me.”
You’re doing that thing. The one where you don’t respond. Where you just listen, without interjecting, without cutting through his incessant monologues.
Sometimes, he feels like he dreamed you up. Like you don’t even exist, a stowaway in his brain, something to re-mantle whenever he’s lonely. Real people aren’t this good — this good to him.
“I don’t get to make mistakes. I need to have the answers every single second of the day. I can’t be me. You’re the only one, how are you the only one who notices? I’ve tried so hard, I’ve been so good—“
He’s tangled into you now, tethered like Daedalus’ forgotten son trying to stitch his broken wings back together mid-fall. If he could, he’d crawl into you. Find somewhere warm to safely exist. Without hurt.
“This isn’t just, I’m not like this just because I need you. Please— please remember that. I miss you always, even when I’m sober. Even before— before everything. I’m not in some—“
“What?” you finally (mercifully) interject. “Some drug-infused decline? Where you‘ll lean on anyone that will give you the time of day?”
Spencer flinches — not because you’re wrong, but because you’ve drawn blood from a wound he didn’t know he still had.
He hates that you’ve distinguished him as some mischaracterised energy vampire. Like you could ever be nothing. Like you’re just the closest fix he can find beyond a chemical high. Designer drugs, manufactured in a lab, they say Heroin feels like a hug from God.
Until your body becomes gluttonous for a hit that never appeases.
You— you are not a hollow high. You are slow and real and catastrophic.
Oh, you’re dependable, a want that morphed into all-encompassing devotion over slow dragging time. “Yes, to the former. No— no, definitely no to the latter. You’re not just some emotional crutch to me. You’re, I don’t know, you’re just… everything.”
Spencer swallows, pulls back, feigning composure. “I should be able to do this alone,” he mutters, “Normal people can. I should be—”
“C’mon, Spence. You’re not a machine. You were never built for that.”
Another sharp laugh. It pierces— you can almost taste the blood this time.
“I’m so tired,” he says in defeat. “I’m so tired of trying to be someone worth saving.”
Pressing your forehead to his, you’re kind to not mention the tears. To just let them occur, free fall. “You don’t have to be anything,” you murmur into his hair. “You just have to be. That’s enough. That’s enough for me, and i’ve got you. Okay? I’ve got you. Always.”
“Will you stay with me?” He doesn’t mean tonight, you know that well enough. “Will you stay with me through it all?”
You’re aware of the burden it would imply, the jagged, ugly reality of withdrawal. The toll, sweat-soaked skin and cold fevers. Irrational begging, pleading for god, just one more fix. The way it would change him, change your untainted perspective of him. When you agree, it is not misguided.
You know what you’re signing up for.
“Yeah. I’ll stay. Through it all.”
If this is love, true unvarnished love, reciprocal and real, then he’s sorry he found you at a bad time. Give it, give me, a few months, he thinks, and i’ll spend the rest of my life giving you everything.
For the past few days, I have been in pain and in creativity block but this.... This has honestly made my day and I LOVE IT SO MUCH ❤️💙💜 THANK YA SO MUCH
RadioShow Selkie AU I whipped up!!
@radioshowbiz
Tadrot week four: New York Torch Song
Reblogs appreciated <3
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