Sanders sides oneshots (request closed)

Untitled Part 46

type: Human Au

ship: none?

genre: angst

requested by: me 

TW: vent, fighting, yelling, talk of death, talked of loved one being dead, threats of murder, depression, angst, non-edited shit

word count: 1979

"wassup fam" Doodles said, rolling in heelies, eir wings nowhere to be seen

"Hey there kiddo," Patton smiled kindly, "How are you?"

"Well, my grandmother just died and so i'm doing a vent oneshot with self insert in Remy and i'm pretty fucking depressed, but those two things are kinda unrelated," Doodles shurgged, "Well, i mean- the self insert is gonna be present in several of the caracters, but oh well, its all for different shit"

"Kiddo... I'm so, so sorry for you loss, is there-" Patton started, the only one in the room about to speak, but Doodles shushed him off

"Dont even try that, Pattididodingdon, there aint shit to be sorry for. I'm fine!" Doodles exclaimed, "Besides, it's you who i'm murdering, so-"

Before any of the sides could say another word, Doodles snapped its fingers, teleporting most of them away. They smiled before rolling away

...

Remy groaned, flipping around in his bed. That fucking emo music was blasting from the room next to eirs and, honestly? Ey was sick of it.

Ey had a very similar taste of music to Virgil, but this was crazy. This exact same fucking song had been playing in loop for the past two days and Remy was simply sick of it. Ey knew it was from My Chemical Romance or some fuck, but the walls were thick enough so that ey wouldn't be able to distinguish the words while still hearing the melody and music well enough so that it ticked inside eir brain, deep down, never being able to block it off entirely.

Seriously, what was his problem? How long did he plan on keeping this up? It had been two entire days already! 48 whole hours! When was he going to fucking change that fucking song!?

...

Virgil hadn't moved from his bed ever since he heard the news. Well, he had, to go to the bathroom, but even then he had waited maybe a little too much (to the point he almost wet himself) and then got back to the same place he had been in.

What else was he supposed to do?

The heaviness he carried in his chest was sinking him down, gravity's pull having increased by 20. He had nothing to do, too tired to even daring to think. Thinking meant grief, grief meant tears, and tears meant more pain and dehydration.

All he could do was staying still and listening to music. That was all he had the mental capacity to do.

...

Roman screamed, ripping the page off the notebook and later throwing the entire thing to the other side of the room before sinking down to the floor, bracing himself and letting the tears fall off freely.

He had failed. He had failed him. He had failed him before and failed him now. He couldn't even focus on designing this, his last favor for the man, for his best friend, for his love.