Hello! Been following for a little while now -- back when you still had your old blog! I don't know if you remember me, but I requested the Sawyers with a younger sibling reader who had chronic pain issues. If it's alright, could I request something with them again? I'm going through a career change and studying pre-medicine at a local technical college (specifically to be an x-ray technician), and it's got me wondering what the brothers would think about that? Would they be excited their sibling is the first to go off to school? Nervous about them being away? Would they even be allowed to go off at all? (Feel free to delete this if not up to rules uvu)
Author's note: I do remember you! Speaking of my old blog, that request, along with some favoured ones, can be found on this link right here on Ao3. They did not get erased into existence. So, if anybody wants to read some slasher fanfics that aren't available anywhere else, feel free to check my page out.
Dividers made by Zozo at (HORRORHELP).
The reality is that the Sawyer family can't afford for anyone in their family to go to university. They don't have the money for it. Even with the cash from the victims, it's never enough because that money is usually spent on other more important things. But that's not the first excuse they will be using for their sibling. To the sibling, it was a way out—a way to use their fascination with the structures of the body in a sterile, lawful environment. To them, it was abandonment. They wouldn't keep them locked in the basement, but the pressure they utilised is a cage of its own.
Drayton is the one that the sibling would have to ask permission for. He's the involuntarily man of the house. So naturally, he's the first one to react.
He'd use any item in the home. Whatever object is near him, he'll use it as a way to emphasise his point.
"College? You reckon we're just gonna let you stroll right out that front door? You think we ain't needin' you 'round here? Who's gonna fix up the house? Who's gonna keep this family together?"
He wasn’t just worried about the work; he was terrified of the idea that their voice would never be heard again once they were gone.
Screw the idea of a landline or a payphone. He wants to hear the real deal on the spot.
He'd never say it, though. He'd rather take it to the grave.
He's the kind of individual that isn't a jerk for the heck of it. He's bitter about his circumstances. But he does love his family, no matter how annoying they could get to the point he'd wished he could just throw them directly to the coyotes.
"They ain't gonna let ya keep them trophies of yours."
He dosen’t want them leaving because, in his warped logic, they're the only person—besides Chop-Top—who truly understood the "art" of the family business. He dosen’t care about the academic merit, and why waste time having some paper say that you're a professional when you could declare that yourself?
"You’re gonna be taking pictures of dead folk’s innards? We do that for breakfast! Don't you go gettin' all fancy, hear? You start wearin' a lab coat, and you’ll forget who put the meat on your plate."
He didn't want them to see the world outside because he knew that they would eventually look back at them with horror instead of love, he's silly and a bit slow at times, but he's not that much of a moron.
Chop-Top would laugh at first, the idea sounding ridiculous to him. Once he realises that they are serious, though, he'll still act the same, but the body language will be different.
His fingers would tremble as he touched their clothing. It's just with the fingertips. However, the hold is firm.
He hates the idea of them being unreachable, that they are somewhere he can't really reach.
Chop-Top is traumatised from the war, a bit more barmy than usual, which is not saying much considering he's a Sawyer. But war can leave marks on the psyche that can show up on different circumstances.
For Chop-Top, that would be cold and unkind. His voice would drop to a conspiratorial whisper.
"You go wanderin' off out there, lookin' at life through them outsider eyes, and you're gonna lose your Sawyer ways. You're gonna get all plumb peculiar."
And then there is Bubba. He doesn't understand the complexities of university or radiology, but he understood the concept of gone.
His breathing will be hitched, like a wet, rattling sound behind his mask. He'll shuffle forward, his massive, blood-stained hands trembling as he reached out to tug their chlothes, frantic, searching for a sense of prank in their words.
Even hugging them if he feels that much heartbroken over it. He let out a low, mournful whimper - a sound of pure, unadulterated sadness.
The worst thing about it is that he's not doing it on purpose. His emotions are genuine, and he'll probably throw a tantrum soon if nothing positive comes out of the situation after a while.
If Bubba would rest his forehead against their shoulder, his heavy, rhythmic sobs vibrating through them, the realisation that leaving their brothers wouldn't just be a commute—it would be a combat zone.
