Once again sitting here thinking about how, for all the remorse August felt about the video, for how shitty of a person he felt like he was for posting it, for all his efforts (however subpar they were) to try and apologize to Wille about it...Simon never got a fucking apology.
Which makes sense, and shows how, at August's core, he's still an elitist, superior prick, even if he's more cognizant of his flaws and more uncomfortable with them than he's ever been. He could not be bothered to apologize Simon, doesn't even have the thought cross his mind—why? Because Simon's a nobody. Simon has no power. Like, let's be clear, August has fucked up his life irreparably. There is literally no future where the video will not haunt Simon. (I read a great fanfiction I have to find the link for, where Simon says that he was fucked the minute August hit "post," no matter what Wille said or did, and like...yeah.) That shit was all over the news in Sweden. We see, already, people recognizing him out in public. Beyond even just the emotional turmoil that comes with that video existing, we see, through the posting of his address and the rock through the window, that its existence physically endangers Simon. Even if Simon were to leave the country, move somewhere new and try to start over, it would take one google search of his name to uncover that blight on his life.
That's not to say that Simon couldn't process its existence emotionally, or that he won't be able to lead a happy, fulfilling life with the video existing, because he absolutely can and will! It just incenses me that not once in August's journey of feeling this guilt and shame over the video, and reaching some sort of understanding and peace with Wille, does he once consider giving Simon any sort of apology. (The settlement doesn't count, of course.) It makes sense for his character, and Simon probably wouldn't have accepted the apology, and by no means should be expected to, but the fact that he didn't get one still makes me so angry.
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I see a lot of people saying things like “guys they just can’t confirm nandermo canon, that would be spoilers!!” but I think that is missing the shitty thing about this whole situation.
Nandermo does not have to be end-game at all. They’re will-they-won’t-they, it’s in the name. And that dumb “he’s his boss” comment is funny as shit and insane in many ways, but not my problem.
My problem is the super homophobic notion that them “hooking up” would somehow make their relationship “less pure” (how their relationship could ever be seen as pure in any way is a mystery to me but okay). And while he isn’t explicitly saying it, the implied point is that any romance at all would be ruining a perfectly wholesome relationship, which is a very old homophobic talking point.
Am I the only one seeing this? Am I reading into it too much? I’ve only seen people making (very funny) jokes about this but isn’t it actually pretty fucked up?
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cw: you two have a son together, mention of being married, old man Bakugou
older retired pro hero Bakugou, who you find hunched over his desk one night. it’s late and the day was long and your son was whinier than he usually is. you’d think the old man would be in bed right now, but alas—he’s not beside you.
instead, as you round the corner to get a full look at him, he’s wearing his reading glasses, adorning an old ratty tank, his arms still big but softer than the years from before. he has a book open in front of him, desk scattered with pictures you can’t see from your angle, scissors, stickers, glue sticks.
“What are you getting up to at this hour, old man?” You ask softly, smiling when Bakugou doesn’t even look up from what he’s doing. his tongue is sticking out in the corner as he cuts a squiggly line on a picture, posing it beside another on a blank piece of paper.
“Therapist said I should get into crafting,” he grunts, finally looking over at you from over his glasses. “Do things with my hands, feel busy, get my mind off’a shit.”
you pad over to where he sits, the overhead lamp on his desk focused on the big baby blue book with white pages. peeking over his shoulder, you rest your head on top of his, chin nestled in the still unruly blond and silver locks, overseeing his work.
and honestly? it almost makes you wanna cry. it’s a scrapbook, the page open to pictures of your wedding day, how pretty you looked, how big he smiled at you. you can see other scattered pictures on his desk—when you got a promotion at work, when he was number one for seven months in a row, a positive pregnancy test, the cutest baby you’ve ever seen, two little teeth coming in, baby being held in dads big ole arms that will always protect him.
“After this page, I gotta do the honeymoon.” Bakugou speaks gruffly, setting down a picture to wipe a hand down his face. “And then life accomplishment shit, the baby, his first steps.” He sounds so tired, and you can’t help but wrap your arms around his shoulders, sliding down to smush your face against his own.
“You always have tomorrow. Come to bed.” You say against his cheek, squeezing him when you feel the rejection start up in his belly. But he deflates, pulling his glasses off, reaching around to pull you in his lap. He looks so grumpy, with his frown lines and crows feet, and yet so handsome with his small smile and soft eyes.
“I’ll print more pictures tomorrow. And maybe go by the store to get some more stickers, too.” He tells you in between kisses, his words soft, his hands rough through your pajamas. You hum against his mouth, holding his nape, afraid to ever let him go.
“You do that. Now let’s go to bed.” You whisper, standing up and pulling him with you. He closes the scrapbook for now, and you glimpse at the cover, heart melting at the picture of you two holding up your son, both kissing his cheeks. The picture is captioned with “Our Life” and you don’t think you’ve ever been more grateful to have met him.
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harder than you think
i. When the Narnians stole Edmund away from beneath the Witch's blade, they told him he was safe. This wasn't a lie, but it wasn't the whole truth either.
ii. They brought him to the Stone Table. It was night. Edmund doubted very much that he would find safety there, for he still recoiled at the name of Aslan. He slept fitfully and woke the next morning before the sun was up.
iii. A sliver of gold just beyond the tent flap captured his attention, there in the dark. Unaccountably, Edmund felt the urge to rise and go towards it.
iv. And there was Aslan, who was supposed to be fearsome, supposed to be dangerous, supposed to be powerful, and he was he was he was. Dimly, Edmund felt himself hitting the ground.
v. But then Aslan said, “Come, Son of Adam. Let us walk a while, and reason together.”
vi. And as they walked together, in the cool dewy grass of early morning, the Lion told Edmund everything that he had ever done.
vii. They were standing in front of the Table when the conversation turned. Aslan spoke a riddle of a house blasted into rubble which he would piece back together overnight. He spoke of flesh being pierced, blood being shed, and of rejected stones being used for new foundations. He spoke about water welling up forever, washing you clean of everything you ever did wrong, all the blood that you ever thought of shedding, everything you ever tried to steal, and a river that carries you home when you can't walk anymore and spits you out brand new when it reaches the sea.
viii. Edmund's head swam. Silently, he yearned for the wisdom to understand what he was being told; or, failing that, at least to remember it for as long as it took him to puzzle it out.
ix. And then, the Witch. Then, the battle. The thrones. A year passed, and winter came. In its time, it melted back to glorious spring.
x. “Edmund,” said Lucy one day. “There's something we need to tell you.” She and Susan were cloaked in springtime gossamer, like fairy queens in poems he only half remembered. They sat on the window seat in his study, holding hands white-knuckled: his two beloved sisters.
xi. “It's about Aslan,” Susan said. “And the White Witch, and how he made her renounce her claim on your blood. The night before Beruna, he went back to the Stone Table.”
xii. “He let her kill him,” Lucy cut in. “Instead of you. And then, because he hadn't done anything wrong, the Emperor's Deeper Magic brought him back to life.”
xiii. “We've been arguing all year about how much to tell you,” said Susan wryly. Then, a little gentler, “We don't want to hurt you, but we feel you ought to be told what he did for you.”
xiv. And Edmund, who had never forgotten what Aslan told him on that cool, dewy morning before the sun came up, shut his eyes and whispered, “I know.”
xv. I know, he said. I know that he died. I know that he did it for me. I know he lived again because I saw him the next day, and the next, and the next. I think I know what it means - or at least, I know the shape of it.
xvi. “Oh,” said Lucy. “We should have realized that he would have told you himself.”
xvii. “Yes. But please, tell me the story all the same.”
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