#& she tells me life isn't fair and i can't just always ask for help

[ashtreelane]

it is so endlessly frustrating to have to spend 40 minutes to an hour just walking each of my moms dogs out into the yard briefly . its such a simple task but theres so fucking many of them & they all have too much energy so theyre impossible to handle . not only does it get me hurt over and over and over and over but it disrupts me exactly when i want to be forcing myself to work & its so exhausting that sometimes i can't get myself to work after it

[nicoline1998enilocin]

Fluffcember Day 5 | Forever yours

Pairing | Best friend!Steve Rogers x Best friend!Avenger!Fem!Reader

Word count | 2K

Summary | Anyone close to Steve knows he has two love languages. One being physical touch, the other being small presents. Steve never fails to surprise you when he gifts you something that you only spoke about once in a throwaway comment, and it makes you appreciate him even more than you already did.

Warning(s) | None.

A/n | This one shot is written for day 5 of my Fluffcember 2023 Challenge. In all honesty, I've always had the feelings that giving gifts would be Steve's love language right alongside physical touch, and I'm happy to say I could highlight both of these in this fic! This was such a sweet prompt and I loved writing this 🎄

A/n 2.0 | Thank you to @buckys-wintersoldier for proofreading this for me on such short notice, because you are an absolute lifesaver! Thank you for all your love and support! 🖤 I also want to thank @ccbsrmsf1 for giving me this idea, because this fic would not have existed without it!

Events Masterlist | Small presents | @buckys-wintersoldier Masterlist | Friends to lovers | @ultimatechrisbingo Masterlist | Free space | @anyfandomfluffbingo

Banners: @vase-of-lilies | Divider: @firefly-graphics | GIF: Owner

Main Masterlist | Steve Rogers Masterlist

It's been almost five years since you joined the Avengers, and during that time, you have built an inseparable bond with each of them. However, none of them are as strong as your one with Steve.

From the moment you two laid eyes on one another, there was an unspoken, undeniable connection, and this was very obvious to everyone except the two of you.

Neither of you wanted to admit it, but your love for one another goes deeper than just friends. You don't want to admit it, though, because you're both scared to lose your friendship and risk your position as an Avenger.

But lately, Nat has noticed that something's been off with Steve, and after the last mission all three of you went on together, she decides to go and see what's going on with him.

''You still haven't told her how you feel, have you?'' she asks outright. Steve snaps his head towards Nat, and a bright red flush creeps over his face, neck, and chest out of pure embarrassment.

''Would you shut up?!'' he hisses to her, but she's not letting up.

''No, Steve, I will not shut up. We were almost killed because you can't seem to keep your head on straight every time she's near, and I'm sick of it. I'm not dying over a silly crush,'' she spits the words at him.

''S not a silly crush,'' Steve says with a pout like a small boy, but Nat isn't having any of it.

''Either tell her how you feel, or I will do it because I am sick of it, Rogers. I'm not putting my life on the line for you two if this continues. We both know she won't come onto you because you're her superior; if you want anything to change, you know just as well as I do that it will have to come from you.''

Nat's dangerously close to Steve now, and even though he's towering over her, he's impressed and a little afraid of the former Russian spy.

''Fine,'' he grits out through his teeth. ''But I'm going to need help.''

And with that, Steve and Nat are developing a plan that will surely blow you away. It will require some planning on Steve's part, but he's sure you will love it.

Over the next month, he is busy preparing to buy 24 small gifts ranging from books he's heard you talk about countless times to some make-up items you love, and from your favorite sweets to some baking supplies since you love to bake in your time off.

Once he has everything ready, he spends most of his time wrapping all the presents to the best of his abilities, and it's fair to say he tried his hardest, but wrapping isn't one of his strong suits.

Once December 1st hits, Steve is taking you out for lunch, which will be the perfect moment to give you your first present. It's small, but Steve wanted to start with something representing your friendship.

''I have something for you,'' Steve says just after the waiter leaves to take your lunch orders; he grabs the square box from his pocket and hands it to you.

''Really? You didn't have to do that!'' you say with a shy smile, but you also know that giving gifts is one of Steve's love languages, along with physical touch.

You tear the wrapping paper off, and it reveals a square, flat box, and it instantly piques your curiosity.

When you lift the lid off the box, it reveals a necklace with a small copy of his shield, making you chuckle when you look at it.

''Did you take me out to lunch to give me this? You could have just given this to me at the Compound, you know?'' but Steve shrugs in response.

''I wanted to give this to you without everyone being on our case since this means a lot to me.'' The words ''just like you'' were unspoken between you.

You pick up the necklace to enjoy it from every angle, and when you look at the back, you find an inscription on the back of the shield. In small letters you recognize as his handwriting, it says 'Forever yours.' The words that have come to mean so much for both of you.

''Now I feel bad I don't have anything for you,'' you say with a slight pout, clutching the necklace to your chest as you fight off the tears.

''I thought about that, and I found the perfect solution,'' he tells you as he fishes his dog tags from his shirt, showing that there are now three instead of the usual two.

He takes them off his neck and hands them to you, and you look at the new addition, which has the same inscription as yours, but instead of his handwriting, you see yours.

Every last word you want to say has officially left your brain, and instead, you let the tears you were fighting earlier escape, though Steve quickly wipes them away.

''Hey, are you okay?'' he asks, and you nod as you let out a breathy chuckle, trying to compose yourself as you're holding the metal of both your necklace and Steve's tags.

''Thank you,'' you whisper to him before handing back his tags and putting the necklace back in its box, not wanting to lose it or break it. You'll save it for a special moment, for the right moment.

The rest of the days, you are away on a mission, and Steve is a little upset that he can't give you your presents in person, so instead, he decides to leave them in your room, one present for every day that you're gone.

Wrapped books go on your bookshelf, wrapped pieces of make-up go into your bathroom, wrapped baking supplies go on your desk, and the biggest one, for December 24th, goes on your bed.

It's nearly 3 AM on Christmas Day when you arrive back at the Compound utterly exhausted from your mission, but before you can let yourself fall onto your bed, you find a present on your mattress, with a little note attached.

Merry Christmas

~ Steve

He wanted to give it to you in person yesterday evening, but sadly, you couldn't make it, much to Steve's dismay. However, that didn't stop him from giving it to you.

''Oh, Steve...'' you sigh softly as you sit on the bed where your present was. The note is put to the side, and you turn over the item in your hands so you can carefully take the wrapping paper off.

It lands on the floor without a single sound, and when you turn over the item, you can finally see it's a photo album. On the front is a photo with you and all the other Avengers from the first day you were officially part of the team.

The book is made from sturdy, red leather, and when you open it, you see lots of photos, either selfies from you and Steve, but also more candid photos from you when you're baking, a few of Steve and other Avengers, but there's one page blank.

The pages have little stories written; the last one says ''Forever yours'', but no photo. You carefully close the book and put it together with the note before getting up, not bothering to change out of your tactical gear before making your way to Steve's room.

With a soft knock, you patiently wait for him to open the door, and you don't have to wait long. Steve waited for your arrival while he patiently drew in his room, listening to music from the 40s.

As soon as he opens the door, you fling your arms around his waist, and your cheek is pressed against his chest as you hold him tight, not needing to say a single word. He knows you've found the photo album.

''Steve-'' is all you can say before he stops you.

''Go out to dinner with me tonight, please. I'll make this Christmas one never to forget,'' he tells you, and you nod in response. He places a soft, lingering kiss on your forehead, his hands on your cheeks.

He wants to kiss you the way you deserve, love you the way you should be loved, and touch you the way he craves to touch you. But he has to have more patience because, hopefully, this will all change after dinner.

''Okay,'' you whisper before pulling away and giving him a reassuring smile. With that, you return to your room and get ready to catch up on some much-needed sleep.

Steve has told you to be ready at 19:00 so you can make it to your reservation at 19:30, though he didn't tell you where you would be going.

You opted for a blue velvet dress with a waterfall neckline, white heels, and silver jewelry. Your hair is put in an elegant bun, and your make-up is simple because you don't want to take away from the beauty of the dress.

To finish the entire look, you put on the necklace Steve gave you before your mission, and the outfit is complete.

Precisely on time, you're done, and Steve is at your door, ready to pick you up for dinner, and the butterflies in your stomach are going wild.

You open your door and see Steve in a black suit, a crisp white shirt underneath, and the top three buttons undone. His blond hair is styled beautifully, and he looks like an angel.

With a lopsided grin, he takes in your appearance, and you can't help but flush a little under his gaze as he takes in your outfit. His eyes stop at the necklace, and you're glad you saved it for the right moment.

''Wow...'' he whispers as he extends his hand to guide you to the car, ready for your dinner reservation. The other Avengers are having a Christmas dinner together, and after lots of compliments on your outfit, you're finally ready to go.

''Have fun, you two! And don't come home before midnight!'' Nat jokes, and you can't help but laugh loud at her comment. That is when it finally clicks: this is all her doing.

He has opted to take you to a beautiful Italian-style restaurant since pasta is one of your favorite dishes, and you always enjoy the atmosphere with the soft music in the background.

''Thank you for taking me here tonight, Steve. This is already the most amazing Christmas I have ever had in my entire life,'' you tell him, and that's when the nerves boil up in Steve's stomach.

''I'm glad you agreed to come here with me tonight because I've wanted to tell you something, which I probably should have told you ages ago,'' he starts, reaching for your hands.

You put them in his and you look up at him curiously, and you know where this is heading, your answer ready to go once the last word leaves his mouth.

''I'm in love with you and have been for as long as I can remember. The connection I feel with you is worth more than anything in this world, and I can't keep it to myself any longer. So I want to ask you to be my girlfriend if you have me.''

''Yes, Steve. Nothing in this world would make me happier than to be your girlfriend,'' you say, and Steve stands up, pulling you with him so he can finally kiss you the way you deserve, love you the way you should be loved, and touch you the way he craves to touch you.

''And I'm in love with you too, Steve. I'm glad Nat finally talked some sense into you,'' you tell him with a chuckle before giving him one more peck on his lips.

That night, you and Steve had a beautiful photo taken in front of a Christmas tree, and of course, it had to be one where you were kissing. This will be the perfect addition to the photo album because it will show the beginning of the rest of your lives together.

[emmg]

Hello love Can I ask for Raphael x reader where Raph actually shows love, buuut in his own twisted way? One of my fam members had autism and he never ever said those three words, but showed it in acts of service and paying attention to what you say/do aaand i was thinking about Raphael who tries to show how much he loves her(or them) but well he's not very good at this. Tav reading book- he will read it too, because he cares...just to tell her how much it sucks. She's bleeding after a fight? Throws her into his healing pool and tell her how stupid she is for the whole time he's with her and how she wastes his time, but won't leave her alone, because what if this dumb mortal drowns herself? A guy said something to her and she felt like sh*t or he touched her to make her uncomfortable? He would give her a very fancy box with big bow and smiles innocently at her ; 'Come on little mouse..open it' just for her to see somebodys hand or head 'oh..this? its this creep from yesterday' Tav wears something cheap? oh boy he would tell her everythink he thinks about this rag. She thinks he wants her to wear only expensive things, because how she looks=his reputation but the truth is he thinks she deserves only the most lavish things in her life and he wont allow her to live below HIS standards And his fav way of showing love is giving her mortal who hurt her in any way already beaten so they wont demage his precious possesion, but conscious enough so she can enjoy torturing them (for sure he does it for his own amusement more than hers)

What a fun prompt! Although, to be fair, I can't exactly make it totally healthy because Raphael isn't an emotionally healthy person to be in a relationship with so this is still a little bit dark, though definitely not awful haha.

ETA: ah crap I missed the part about x reader. So sorry about that. In my defence, I truly cannot write from second person point of view. I’m very, very sorry anon. I’ve tried before and it feels awkward to me and everything comes out… bad.

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Sometimes she feels hollowed out, as if something essential has been scooped clean from within her. She’s not sure why she stays—or even if she’s staying at all. Maybe he’s holding her here, maybe she has no choice, maybe she lost that freedom long ago. Because you don’t walk away when Raphael is speaking; you don’t walk away when he’s watching you. And his eyes are always on her, always, always, always following.

That gaze—it leaves her feeling half trapped, half sanctified, as though caught in some dreadful, holy spell. He doesn’t look at others this way, she knows that, but that knowledge only tightens the hold, winds the snare around her. It’s nothing, she tells herself—this attention, his careful watch—yet it feels like everything, a binding without words, a noose drawing tighter, a claw sinking deeper. Time twists strangely when he’s near, spiraling into something she can’t name, and she can’t help but wonder: will his interest wane, fade away to nothing? Or will it sharpen, tighten, until it consumes her, leaving her breathless, until there’s no space left at all? 

If it does—if he closes around her entirely, if his grip becomes her world, pressing in until there’s no air, no light, only him—what will she be then?

And she’s not even sure if he cares. He holds her there, yes, but it feels like watching a game; his own personal mousetrap, an exquisite little experiment to see how far she'll reach for the cheese. She wonders if he’s simply taking what he can, drawing her deeper until he tires of her, only to discard her when he does, laughing at her fascination with him. She can almost see it—him spitting in her face, turning her out with a sneer, then pulling her back in just as quickly. He'd fuck her, taunt her, pull her close only to watch her shatter, then laugh, invite her back with a gift, something golden, expensive, dripping with indulgent mockery. 

But then there are the other things he does, things that somehow feel worse—things that make the walls seem as though they’re closing in, or maybe as if he’s drawing her into some embrace she can’t escape from. She’s not sure which would be more terrifying. 

Sometimes, when they’re in Avernus together, she finds the portals dead, the way back to her world—a world of soft light and mortal trivialities, the Gate and its grime—suddenly blocked, cut off. And it's always the same dance. She demands an answer, asks why she can’t pass through, why she’s stuck here in this burning place with him, unable to flee back to the familiar. And he only waves her off, barely looking up, irritation flickering in his gaze. He says he hasn’t the time to bother with “simple magic,” that she can wait. 

But he knows, he knows damn it, that she can barely summon a spark, let alone force open a gateway on her own. He knows she’s trapped, helpless as a moth in a bottle, wings beating frantically against glass she can’t see. And he watches her, almost bored, as she paces, her panic ripening, sinking roots in her chest. Because he knows she won’t leave, can’t leave, and he’ll let her struggle just long enough to make her feel it—the helplessness, the claustrophobia, the bitter thrill of his control, closing around her, almost gentle, almost loving.

And then, only then, he flicks his fingers, and the portals blaze open, bright and mocking, as if they’d never gone dead at all. 

She's interrupting him, Raphael says, a nuisance he has no time for. Important matters, contracts to seal, souls to collect—real work to do, and here she is, lingering in his shadow, hovering as if she belongs, asking him to breathe life into a stupid portal. He snaps at her to leave, to stop her pestering, to get out of his sight. And so she does, shrinking back, biting her lip, retreating into her quiet corner.

But then, later—always, somehow, later—he comes to her, waking her from half-sleep as he climbs over her, pressing down with a heat that seems to burn straight through her skin. He murmurs his need, his lust, his rough, clumsy want, lips grazing her ear with words that are half-whispered, half-demanded. And she lets him, wraps her arms around his back, holds him, breathes through the rush of his hands, the awkward rhythm of his taking. 

She feels the weight of him, the feverish heat, and she sighs into it, into him, because in the Hells, everything is unbearably hot. His skin burns against hers, more furnace than flesh, and though she knows he’s hasty, heedless, that she’s just an outlet, a brief relief, she takes it. She lets herself be consumed by it, that pressing heat because here, with him, it’s as close to comfort as she’ll ever get.  

But sometimes there are moments that make her think he might care, moments she savors, drinks in slowly, wondering if they're real or merely the product of his boredom. She can never quite tell, but she doesn’t mind; she lingers on these glimmers of gentleness, holds them in her memory far longer than she should. 

Like when she’s soaking in his absurdly large bath, reclining in the steaming water with her arms folded along the edge, her head resting on cool stone, hair spilling loose behind her. She’s doing nothing at all, simply breathing in the warmth, letting the steam curl around her. And then he appears, slipping into the room, extending those long legs of his, rolling up his sleeves as he settles by her side. He doesn’t join her in the water; instead, he simply sits, a book resting in his hands, the very one she finished days ago. 

She watches, amused, as he leafs through it, the prominent wrinkle between his brows deepening with each page he turns. His expression is one of studied distaste, the kind that would be comical on anyone else. But on him, it’s strangely captivating. 

“Unhinged drivel,” Raphael mutters finally, his tone ripe with disdain. 

“Hm,” she echoes, half-lidded, watching him through the steam. 

“Why do you read this?” he questions. “I have half a mind to burn it. The sheer embarrassment of sharing the same air with it—I hardly want it in my library.” 

She smiles, faintly, eyes closing as she stretches a little deeper into the warmth. “I’m done with it,” she replies, lazily. “Do what you wish.” 

He taps two fingers against the spine. “The Duke is an absolute cretin, I must say.” 

“Oh?” she murmurs, her voice barely a breath above the water’s surface. 

“Utterly insipid,” he continues. "Such posturing, such shallow arrogance. I wouldn’t offer him a contract if he were the last soul on the proverbial platter.” 

She laughs then, quietly, letting the sound ripple through the steam. She knows Raphael is just indulging in his own particular brand of superiority, delighting in the verbal dissection, and maybe he doesn’t care for her company at all. But still, he stays, perched beside her, weaving disdainful monologues that settle like warm coals in her chest. And for a moment—just a moment—she lets herself pretend that he’s here for her. 

He continues, eyes fixed on the offending book as if it’s a particularly irksome insect. “The Duke’s speech in chapter five...” he says. “So very witless, wouldn't you say? Who professes undying love with such clumsy metaphors? And in the garden, no less, like a character in a tragic farce. ‘You are my sun and moon,’” he scoffs, his voice rising to a mock-romantic lilt. “‘My stars, my breath, my—’” 

He pauses, catching her wide-eyed, incredulous look. A faint smirk pulls at the corner of his mouth, and there’s a glimmer of something—mischief?—in his gaze. “Oh, little mouse, don’t look at me like that. Surely you didn’t think I’d stoop to reading this… for enjoyment?”

She raises an eyebrow, half-laughing, half incredulous. “You read it?”

“Of course I read it,” he replies, with all the haughtiness of a scholar who’s just suffered through a poorly constructed essay. “I couldn’t very well leave such intellectual refuse lying about in my library without inspecting it first.” 

“Just inspecting it? Raphael, you just quoted chapter five.” 

He waves his hand dismissively. “A tragic misfortune. I assure you, it was purely incidental. I only skimmed enough to confirm my suspicions about its total lack of merit.” 

“Right,” she says, rolling her eyes, watching as he flips another page with painstaking precision. “Is that why you’re carrying it around?” 

He raises an eyebrow, looking at her over the book with that familiar, aristocratic arch of his brow. “Little mouse,” he drawls, his tone both affectionate and condescending, “you really must learn what jests are. I can’t go about explaining them every time, you know.” 

The novel is set aside.

His hand slips below the water, and she knows, he’s done talking, at least about her books. His fingers graze her skin, tracing erratic patterns. She feels his hand leave her only to hear the soft rustle of fabric, and then he’s there, sliding into the water, slipping behind her. 

His arms wrap around her even as he pushes her against the cool stone of the bath’s edge. She feels his impatience in the way his hands move—roaming, relentless, almost rough, his fingers pressing into her skin, biting, digging between the ribs, as if he can’t bear to be gentle.  

One hand cups her shoulder, anchoring her as his other hand travels down her side. It moves in a slow sweep, now a caress, almost reverent, then shifting, tracing a path with no pattern, simply moving, as if he’s learning her contours anew. His grip tightens, loosens, a rhythm that speaks of need and very little restraint. 

He dips his head, face buried in her hair, and she feels the weight of his breath, the moist heat of it on the exhale. There’s a hunger in his closeness, an intensity that borders on obsession. He’s quiet now, all the long-winded, self-important monologues silenced, his usual need to fill the space with words abandoned. 

She feels him pressing against her back, the hard, insistent weight of him, the subtle rock of his hips, and she sighs, her body folding further against the edge of the bath, yielding to him. The warmth in her chest spills out, dissipating into something intangible, and once again, she wonders: Was this all just a performance for her, or something he needs for himself? Was that little, half-sweet conversation meant to soften her, make her more pliant? Or, against all logic, did he truly want to speak to her, to share in that strange, fleeting intimacy? 

She wonders if he cares, even a little, if those sarcastic, needlessly elaborate jests of his are meant to coax a smile from her, to make her laugh. Or is it all calculated, a ploy to keep her engaged, to ensure that when he fucks her, she meets him with something more than passive resignation? She feels his fingers tighten on her waist, his breath hitch, and for a moment, just a moment, she allows herself to believe there’s something deeper beneath his touch, something that holds her in place as much as his arms do. 

There are other moments too, moments that sink into her like a sickness, twisting her stomach, filling her with a dread so deep it almost makes her want to flee, to scrub herself clean, to be rid of him. And yet, those same moments leave her feeling strangely exhilarated, a little unhinged, as though some part of her is thrilled by the horror of it all. 

Take the merchant, for instance. A two-penny swindler, trying to pass off cheap fabric as something exquisite. She spots his scam instantly—anyone with half a brain would—but he’s audacious, leaning in, voice low and greasy as he sells his lie. She calls him out, unimpressed, and he snaps, calling her a cunt. She flips him off without a second thought and moves on, thinking nothing more of it. She’s heard worse, so much worse, and just because she looks the part of a noblewoman at Raphael’s insistence doesn’t mean she’s forgotten the dirt and sweat of her own past. She knows the cheap tricks—how cloth is dyed in back alleys, stained with whatever can be found, how insect paste and a dash of alchemical solution turn cotton into “silk” for gullible morons. She’s done it all herself, seen the worst of it, and this pathetic attempt to cheat her hardly scratches the surface. 

She forgets the encounter entirely—until the next day. Raphael barely glances up from his writing, absorbed in the ink-stained pages of yet another infernal contract, when he pushes a small, ornate box across the table toward her. He doesn’t say anything, doesn’t even acknowledge it beyond a faint, almost bored gesture. She blinks, glancing from the box to him, and then back, curious but wary, wondering if this is another one of his games. 

She takes it, hesitates, then lifts the lid. 

Inside, nestled against dark velvet, is a finger. Blue, bloated, stiff with the grip of death. Her stomach turns, nausea creeping up her throat as she stares at it, bile rising as the realization settles—this isn’t just some random, expensive trinket. It’s a message, as clear and cold as the dead flesh before her. 

“Oh,” she whispers, voice strangled, unable to look away from the pale digit lying in the box, rigor mortis locking it in a ghastly curl. Her hands are trembling, fingers itching to drop the box, to shove it away, to wipe away the memory of this grotesque gift. 

She looks up at him, horrified, and finds his gaze resting on her, idle, yet somehow amused. 

She stares some more, her mind spinning as she tries to process what she’s holding, what this grotesque little gift is meant to convey. A part of her wants to retch, to bolt from the room, while another, unhinged part of her feels an inexplicable pull, an urge to draw closer to him, to be entangled in whatever madness constantly hangs off his sleeve. 

But she doesn’t do any of those things. Instead, she lets out a half-laugh, shaky and weak. “That’s… not what usually comes in jewelry boxes.” 

Raphael arches a brow. “I’ve given you plenty of jewelry, little mouse. Rings, bracelets, earrings—a whole collection of baubles you hardly deign to wear. Lavaliers, circlets, gems so fine even the simpering nobles of Waterdeep would weep for them. And yet, here you sit, determined to remain a rube.” He tsks, rolling his eyes with theatrical annoyance. “Mayhaps, I thought, just mayhaps, you might appreciate something different to suit that plebeian palate of yours.”

“Whose is it?” she asks, though she already knows. She feels the answer in the pit of her stomach, in the memory of yesterday’s insults and her dismissive walk away. 

He only shrugs, dipping his quill in ink. “I’m told he was a merchant.” He pauses, as if to savor the uncertainty flickering across her face. “Or was it a dockhand? Perhaps a barkeep. Truly, who can keep track of such insignificant lives?” 

She watches, spellbound in a way she can’t quite understand, as he sprinkles pounce over the wet ink, the tiny white particles catching the dim light. He lifts the paper, blowing the pounce off with a sharp exhale that sends the fine dust scattering into the air, drifting toward her. She coughs, swatting it away, a moment of reflexive frustration breaking through her discomfort. 

“So many names,” Raphael murmurs, almost to himself. “So many lives, so many inconsequential little people. It’s hard to keep them all straight, isn’t it?” 

She stares at him, a blend of revulsion and fascination churning within her. His words hang in the air, so careless, so detached, as if snuffing out a life meant nothing more to him than discarding an old, forgotten knickknack. And yet, he looks at her now, watching, as if expecting her reaction, waiting to see if she’ll recoil or lean closer. 

She leans closer, letting the moment pull her in, and he gives a satisfied little hum, returning to his writing with an air of contentment, as if the world is exactly as it should be. She watches the steady flow of his hand, the way his quill glides across the page in elegant, looping strokes, his cursive rising and falling. Her mind, however, catches on another thought, one that wraps around her and refuses to let go. 

He cares, she thinks, or at least he acts as though he does. This is how he responds to insults aimed at her, as if her offense is his to avenge. But another thought lingers, darker and heavier. He knows—that’s what unsettles her. If he knows, that means he saw, or had someone watch on his behalf, and that means she’s never truly alone, even when he isn’t there. She wonders how far that gaze extends, if he’s tracking her every step, every word, if he’s marked her movements like pinpoints on a map, an invisible tether she’s unknowingly bound herself to. 

Her hand drifts to her throat, almost absently, fingers brushing the skin there as if she might feel some hidden collar, a leash she’s been wearing all along without realizing it. But of course, there’s nothing—just bare skin and the faint, lingering warmth of her own touch. Still, the thought unsettles her, sends a flutter of anxiety mixed with something else, something uncomfortably close to… warmth. A warmth that spreads through her chest, that holds her in place despite the quiet urge in her feet to stand, to move, to walk as far as she can. 

But she doesn’t. Instead, she stays there, leaning close, just watching him as he writes, utterly absorbed in whatever Infernal text he’s crafting. And as she watches, that warmth in her chest grows, mingling with her apprehension, a mix of dread and fascination that knots itself around her, binding her there as securely as any leash he might conjure. 

Another day, another reckoning. 

She’s a mess of bruises, skin mottled and darkened so thoroughly she resembles a patchwork quilt rather than a woman. There had been a brawl, Astarion may or may not have thrown punches he couldn’t back, and they both may or may not have drunk too much. Korrilla may or may not have been at the Caress at the same time, her wicked laughter mingling with the chaos, and now her nose is a crimson fountain, dripping ceaselessly. Even the potion Korrilla forced down her throat did nothing to blunt the ache, the slight sneer on Korrilla’s face as she half-carried her back to the House of Hope making it clear she didn’t particularly want to be back tonight. 

When she stumbles in, Haarlep just laughs, calling her a “bloody, battered fool” and waving her off in disgust when she starts peeling off her clothes. With a muttered “Ew,” he disappears as she limps toward the restoration pool, her one salvation tonight. She knows it’s usually reserved for soothing injuries from far more… pleasurable encounters, but she hardly cares as she sinks into it, wincing as the water starts working its magic, stitching up minor cuts and scrapes as she closes her eyes and lets her head fall back. 

She drifts, the water lapping around her, letting the throbbing recede—until a sharp yank at her scalp rips her back to the present, her head wrenched above the water. She chokes, sputtering out bloody droplets as her eyes snap open, and she finds herself staring at Raphael’s livid face, exasperation etched in every line. His hand is tangled in her hair, and her scalp stings from his tight grip. He glances down at his dripping sleeves, soaked from pulling her up, and curses. 

“What a stupid way to die,” he hisses. “Drowning in my boudoir because you’re too idiotic to stay awake.” His fingers tighten in her hair, and there’s no mercy in his eyes. “Take a deep breath now.” 

She barely has a second to react before he shoves her head under the water, his hand pressing down with unrelenting force. Her body jerks, and she inhales raggedly before he drags her up again, just long enough for her to gasp for air and catch his sharp, appraising look before he shoves her down once more, holding her under like a misbehaving dog in need of punishment. Water floods her nose, stinging as she chokes, her hands scrabbling for purchase against the pool’s edge. 

Up again, another cursory glance, and then he plunges her under once more, his grip firm, a rhythm of punishment and cleansing, as though he’s scrubbing the night’s sins from her with each forced dunk. She claws at his wrist, nails scraping against his skin, and he finally releases her, leaving her gasping and hacking as she collapses against the pool’s edge, water pouring from her lungs in a desperate, wheezing cough. 

She realizes then, as she shudders and coughs, that the blood is gone; her nose, once a mess of numb throbbing, now feels raw but whole. She clutches the pool’s edge, head bowed, catching her breath as the water stills around her. Raphael just stands there, dripping, sleeves ruined, as he observes her. 

“Well,” he mutters, flicking water from his fingers with a faint sneer, “at least you’re less of a mess now.” 

He hauls her from the water, pulling her sodden form from the boudoir and away from the rumpled heap of her clothes. His eyes drift over them—the plain tunic, the uninspired trousers, the scuffed leather boots—with a look of disdain so pointed it almost makes her wince. 

“An offense to beauty itself,” he murmurs, almost to himself, though the words slap her just the same. “These… things.” His lip curls. “They will burn. They’re an affront to my eyes, and my patience is wearing thin.” 

His gaze slides back to her face, catching on her bruised nose, and he tilts her head with the care one might give a very expensive artifact. His fingers are unhurried, methodical, as he surveys her battered skin. “I don’t keep unsightly things, you know,” he says. “I like my things beautiful. It’s why I collect them—why I keep them close.” 

Then, as if struck by a sudden thought, his tone shifts to something almost conversational, a careless elegance in his words that sets her nerves alight. “Tell me, little mouse,” he begins, fingers tapping idly on his thigh, “shall I lock the door?” 

She feels a shiver run through her, her voice faltering. “Which… one?” 

He tilts his head in mock contemplation. “Why not all of them?” 

“Raphael…” she starts, but she isn’t even sure what she wants to say, or if there’s anything to be said at all. 

Unhurriedly, he begins to strip off his clothes, each gesture carried out with an almost ritualistic elegance. He slips out of his doublet, casting it aside with a look of mild annoyance. “Your doing,” he sighs, smoothing an imaginary crease before discarding it. “This fabric—fine enough to silence even the heavens—ruined by your negligence. It cost more than you could dream, more than most would spend in a lifetime.” 

She watches, stuck somewhere between disbelief and fascination, unsure if he’s preparing to fuck her or simply indulging in the strange meticulousness of his undressing. Each cufflink is unfastened with almost absurd care, each tie released with the same flawless precision she knows so well. The clothes fold neatly under his hands, smoothed and arranged as if they were sacred relics, and though part of her wants to laugh at the absurdity, she knows better than to test his patience now. 

Raphael pauses, shirt open just enough to reveal the line of his throat, his collarbone stark against tan skin. His eyes pin hers and his voice takes on a melodic, almost regretful tone. “Perhaps if I lock you in,” he murmurs, “you might refrain from throwing yourself into every pit of squalor in the Gate, seeking out any hand willing to smash that face of yours.” 

“No one seeks that, Raphael,” she says, her voice sounding distant. “It just… happens.” 

He snaps his fingers with a sharp, final click. “Yes, yes,” he echoes, almost as if humoring a child. “And doors just… lock themselves.” 

[pascaloverx]

Moonlight

Summary: You and Edward Cullen used to have a romantic relationship. But fate seemed not to believe in the possibility of a vampire and a potential she-wolf being together. Years after your separation, you return to Forks. Edward is committed to Bella Swan, and Jacob Black has his own pack. What happens when, upon your return, you begin to transform into a she-wolf and both Edward and Jacob seem eager to revisit the past with you?

Author's Note: The characters in this fanfic do not belong to me but to Stephenie Meyer and the Twilight universe. The story blends events that happened in the Twilight saga movies with invented ones. If you're enjoying the fanfic, please interact. This story will contain inappropriate language, a possible love triangle, scenes of violence, and romance. I would appreciate it if those who enjoy the fanfic could leave a comment and like (kudos). Engagement helps me know that there are still people reading. I hope you enjoy this chapter ❤

SIX EIGHT

SEVEN

Before Sam and Jacob could get into a physical fight, you dragged Jacob out of Sam's line of sight. Even though you're mad at Jacob, them fighting would be terrible.

"What exactly was your plan when you told Sam I was in your pack?" you ask while driving Jacob to his house, as he sits impatiently, frustrated that he couldn't fight Uley.

"Well, a thank you would be the right thing for you to say to me. I saved your ass from having to commit to declaring war on Uley's pack when up until now you had no support," Jacob says with a certain arrogance and confidence. After glancing at you, he laughs. You can only imagine that he finds it amusing to irritate you.

"Getting involved in my problems isn't your job, Black. You made it clear you didn’t want me here, so what's the reason for rescuing me? Did you get a guilty conscience after taking Bella's side?" you say while trying to keep your focus on the road. Jacob lets out a loud sigh, then looks at you. You ignore it while driving but can feel his gaze on you.

"I didn't take Bella's side. Or maybe I did. I acted on impulse and took out my frustration on you. But you can't tell me you don't think all this shit is messed up. Before you showed up, Bella told me that Edward wanted to marry her. Maybe even thought about turning her into a cold-skinned monster. Now, not only did he ask for a break from her, but he also brought you into their side. Tell me you wouldn't be pissed if you were in my place?" Jacob says, and you almost understand him. But you're too hurt to be completely sympathetic.

"He didn't take me to their side, Jacob. The truth is, I don't have a side. Because those who should be on my side, for being like me, prefer to make me feel like a mistake. And the Cullens aren't much different. My intention was never to be a problem, but now I want to make my own decisions without thinking about the consequences. I've been pushing Edward away for a long time. Trying not to make anyone unhappy. I've chosen my family over him more than once. Now, the one I always considered family is treating me like a burden. Whether you like it or not, you're also responsible for that. But I'm truly sorry for Bella." You say as you approach the Black house, and when you finally arrive, the tension in your car could not be higher.

"Your life would be simpler if you were with me, you know that, right?" Jacob says, removing his seatbelt and turning in the passenger seat to look at you. You take off your seatbelt as well and turn to look at him. Jacob's hands move to your face as he gently caresses your cheeks.

"It would be. But we could never have a true happy ending if I spent my life thinking about what it would have been like to give Edward a chance. It wouldn't be fair to you. So don't think that I'm choosing Edward; just as he's not choosing me. We're both just trying to level the situation," you say while looking gently into Jacob's eyes. You wish he understood that you don't want to hurt him or Bella.

"This situation seems too painful. And I know Bella will be waiting for Edward at the end of the day, because they love each other. But maybe I'm not waiting for you. In any case, I was serious when I said I want you in my pack. Even if we don't have a romantic relationship, I'm your friend. And you're probably my best friend. That won't change, if it's up to me." Your eyes meet Jacob's as you feel that this conversation has taken a different but appropriate turn.

"I accept. But know that if you ever offend or humiliate me, I'll take you down myself." You try to sound threatening, but Jacob doesn't seem to believe you. He kisses your forehead and then leaves as if there's nothing more to say. As you watch him walk away, you feel that this moment you've shared has brought a new closeness to your relationship.

You drive again to the Cullens' house, this time to inform Edward about meeting with Sam. As you go, you think about where you could spend some time. Then you remember that your old house still exists. Maybe you can stay there if you can handle being haunted by the memories. When you park in front of the Cullens' house, Edward is already waiting for you. He approaches your car and sits in the passenger seat, looking at you. If a look could speak, Edward's would say, "I missed you." You can respond to that because, honestly, you missed him too. You unbuckle your seatbelt and then pull Edward's face toward you. Instantly, your lips meet his. It's a desperate yet calm act as you feel the kiss deepen, Edward's dominance increasing as he gently presses your head against the car door. Your hands slide around his neck, lightly tugging at his hair.

"I'll go with you," Edward whispers against your lips as you break the kiss. You look at him somewhat angrily; he obviously read your mind. But then he gives you a peck on the lips, as if trying to calm you.

"You're going to abandon your home to go to the house of the man who would kill us both if he knew we were together?" you ask, as you move away from Edward a bit. He smiles briefly as he holds your hands gently.

"First, I won't be abandoning my home, just extending it. And your father hated me, but he loved you. If I can keep you company, I think he might tolerate me," Edward says, and you give a weak laugh. Then you remember you need to talk about the conversation with Jacob.

"The conversation with Sam was almost as bad as it could be. And because of that, I ended up agreeing to become a member of Jacob's pack. And you can't react negatively to this news because the other option was going to war with Uley without any support. At least now I have his pack." You say, and Edward seems bothered. He turns to look straight ahead, while you watch him.

"You would never be alone. I will always be with you, you know that. But I understand why you did it, just like I understand that you're upset about earlier today. I think it's still too soon for my family to understand what's going on between us." Edward says, turning back to look at you. You give him a kiss on the cheek for understanding so well. Then you catch a hint of feminine perfume on him.

"Why were you waiting for me out here, Edward?" you ask, staring at him, who seems to be hiding something from you.

"It’s not what you think. Bella is inside. We were trying to put an end to our story peacefully, but my family thought it was a reconciliation and invited her for dinner," Edward says, defending himself, that idiot. You look at him seriously.

"Go back to your dinner, Cullen. I can’t believe you wouldn’t tell me this. I must be a real fool to you." You say, then get out of the car to open the door for Edward. You’re definitely not going to take him with you.

"Y/N, let me explain…" he says, and then you look at him with anger. As if you knew that a little more and you would drag him out of the car, he gets out of the car, facing you.

"Save your explanations for Bella, who’s inside waiting for you. Goodbye, Edward." You say angrily, slamming the car door and then getting into your car to drive away. You don't expect him to say anything, simply driving away at a high speed. All you can think is how pathetic you are. Flashbacks of the recent events play in your mind like a movie. You're so angry that you don't even notice when a person appears in the middle of the road. Your car flips over as you try to swerve to avoid hitting the person in front of you, a pale-skinned red-haired woman. You feel a sharp pain in your stomach, your vision blurring and the sound of a female voice saying, "Tell Edward I said hello." Then everything goes dark as you feel your life slipping away.

[spacebarbarianweird]

Hi I saw your Astarion x Tav HC recs are open and personally my Tav is a half elf Selûnite cleric.

I just think its a really sweet matchup- a vampire, a creature of the night, and a cleric that always preferred the night to the day. I’m forever mad that we don’t get to tell him that we prefer the moon to the sun when he apologizes for the fact that he’ll never be able to spend time in the sun with Tav.

Just my two cents I needed to share with someone haha

(can't stop thinking about Astarion praying to Selune. I don't think he will become a devoted selunite but he can find some faith within him)

The text of the prayer comes from Selûnite Prayer Book

Astarion x Cleric of Selûne! Tav

Masterlist

Headcanons

Astarion is beaten and tortured.

His flesh wounds bleed and his bones are broken.

It's a neverneding hell he can't escape, because he is already dead.

Silently, Astarion prays.

His split lips whisper the words of prayer he once heard in a temple.

Dearest Selûne, our fair maiden, weave our hearts with threads of silver, guide us with the light of the moon, and quench us with the purest of tears.

Astarion doesn't have much hope.

Besides Selûne a human goddess, and Elven gods have long abandoned him.

But-

His prayers are heard this time.

A human woman suddenly feels the urge to go outside. There she meets a young elf - and spends a night with him.

She never asks his name and, in the morning, they part ways forever.

But the woman doesn't leave alone.

She carries a half-elf child in her belly.

Probably, the woman never wanted to have a child, maybe she doesn't want to have a mixed baby or she simply can't care about the newborn.

Or maybe she dies at childbirth like many women do.

Anyway, a little half-elf finds their family among the Clerics of Selûne.

You grow up, knowing no other family but your brothers and sisters in Selune.

With a very firm belief, you are born to serve Our Lady of Silver.

Eventually, you are sent to Baldur's Gate - to join the fight against the Shar adepts.

But you never manage to get to the city as the Mindflayers kidnap you.

Astarion lost all his faith years ago and he doesn't remember ever praying to Selûne, though seeing someone so devoted rubs him the wrong way.

Gods never heard him when he was tortured and abused. Why bother?

But you catch his attention. Maybe it's your willpower, your leadership skills. Maybe your looks. You kind nature.

At first, you are scared of Astarion. Selûne condemns the undead and necromancy - vampires are considered the pure evil who desecrate the world.

But-

No one objects that Cazador is a monster. But Astarion?

He is a thinking feeling creature! He didn't choose this "pure shit". What are you supposed to do him?

No. You know the answer, though some of your sisters would consider it heresy.

Astarion has a choice. If he chooses the path of evil, you will be his enemy. You are a Cleric. You know what is right.

But should he choose a good path, you will be on his side.

And you will do anything in your power to help him.

You give Astarion you blood. You give him your body. Your compassion, your kindness.

You mention him in your prayers.

Astarion doesn't say anything to you about your faith but you know he isn't fond of it.

"I prayed to all the gods, including the Moonmaiden. No one saved me."

You made a deal, as people of different religious views do. He respects your faith, you respect his right not to have one.

Post-game you keep being a Cleric planning on rising through the ranks in the church.

You are a half-elf - you inherited ambitions from your human ancestors.

Astarion is still hesitant - he doesn't want you to spend your life in shadows with him.

"Astarion, I am a Cleric of Selûne, not of Latander. I love night more than day and the Moon more than the Sun. I will be fine"

You will forever remember the shock on his face as he realizes Moon shines for the undead, too.

You travel, helping the Selûnites to restore their organization.

One day during your prayer you notice Astarion standing on his knees with his hands in a gesture of adoration repeating the words after you.

Shadows taunt us. Hear our prayer! Shadows stalk us. Hear our prayer! Shadows wound us. Hear our prayer!

He mostly does it because he knows you like it.

You like when he joins you in your rituals and prayers, when he visits temples with you.

It makes you happy seeing him praying and he does it more and more often.

But one day a weird idea comes to his mind.

He prayed to Selûne once. Many years ago. After one especially brutal torture.

What if-

What if she heard him?

What if she sent him his savior? Her servant, her cleric, her devoted Selûnite?

What if is this half-elf he loves so much, whose body he worships, whose blood is so divine - is the answer?

You wake up to him kissing you. His face is red with tears and he mutters the words of gratitude.

From that day, he changes a bit. It's not like he is a man of god - he is still too rebellious to be a part of the church.

But every cleric of Selûne knows that Astarion the Undead is the man any Selûnite can rely on.

There are many rituals he can't partake in but as they say - Moon shines for everyone.

Astarion starts wearing the Selûnite light armour which looks very beautiful on him. Together you go into the most dangerous places - because you have your own undead to save you.

And every time you go to sleep (even if before that you've had the wildest sex possible). You pray while holding each other in your arms.

Selûne, thou with radiam loom, mend our hearts with threads of silver, heal us with drops of morning dew, and sooth our souls with softest starglow.

--

Tag list

@tugoslovenka @marcynomercy @wintersire @vixstarria @not-so-lost-after-all @ashiro20 @theearthsfinalconfession @herstxrgirl @starlight-ipomoea @micropoe10 @astarion-imagine-archive @veillsar @elora-the-slutty-songstress @fayeriess @lumienyx @astarion-beloved @tallymonster @caitlincat-95 @tragedybunny @valeprati

[rc-imagines]

Hellooo, Could I request some Ada Wong content? I Love your writing!!! Perhaps some headcanons on relationship style or being paired with her in a mission?

A/n: I'll do you one better and do both! They're done in seperate sections but they can absolutely go hand in hand (as in you're in a relationship with her and are her partner for missions as well) I have been having immense RE4r brainrot so I watched the cutscenes for Seperate ways recently- Thought they were good, and I could tell Wesker was a bad guy because he had no pores. Fight me.

Relationship:

Ada took "One of us has to wear the pants and it's me" joke seriously

She takes care of you in every sense of the word

I also feel like she's a bit on the softer affection side…As in like she'd like to just lay with you on the couch or in bed and just enjoy being with you. (Either with a movie playing in the background or she's reading)

She would also try to allow PDA, but I really feel like with her line of work, she'd have some paranoia about being watched so she's always careful

She'd ease into PDA over time, because it just happened naturally She can cook- She just looks like the type that can absolutely make a gourmet meal and say, "Ah, no biggie. It was easy." as if it didn't take two hours to make

Speaking of cooking, you're always put on cutting veggies duty. She taught you how to perfectly dice the vegetables purely for that purpose

Loves gives you kisses. Especially on the lips or forehead. Just the most tender, soft kisses

Would get you a promise ring, 1000%

Now, I don't mean this in a sugar mommy way, I mean this in a financially secure (and probably rich) way, but Ada would absolutely not hesitate to buy you whatever you wanted or needed

Her love languages are acts of service and gift giving, change my mind- Plot twist: You can't

Ada would definitely crave a quiet, domestic life, so she'd really cherish every moment with you.

I feel like she really likes baking? She loves the smell of sweets in the oven whether it be a pie or a cake

So you can expect her to always have some sort of treat made for you

Cat and dog mom, you can pick, but she gives me like orange cat and yorkie vibes and I cannot explain why

Overall, a relationship with her would be fairly peaceful whenever peace decides to pay a visit

On a Mission:

100000000% acts like the boss of you nonstop

"Don't get too ahead of yourself." and other slightly playful warnings are a constant

Would try to stick with you as much as possible to ensure that nothing went awry

Isn't the type to really act that she cares outwardly, but it definitely shows (accidentally on purpose)

She's only able to relax once she know the end of the mission is near

Definitely surprises you a bit by using that specific tone of voice (you know the one- "Very smooth.") and asks if you'd like to go out for drinks after everything is said and done

Of course you say yes because who would ever say no to Ada? So you know how she put tracks on Leon and Luis? You're getting the same thing done to you (without you knowing)

You can't help but chuckle once you notice it- You'd even make a light, joking conversation about it

"Next time, don't put a bright, red light on it."

"Fair enough."

Ada would also share resources with you, and only you, no matter how scarce or limited her supply might be

If you get hurt, even the tiniest amount, Ada swears that there will be Hell to pay

[vilentia]

Uncle Wayne's Diner

Eddie Munson x reader (from Wayne’s perspective)

As Wayne sat on the porch of his small house, he couldn't help but feel a twinge of worry for his nephew Eddie. He had always been a sensitive boy, prone to getting his heart broken at the slightest provocation. And now, with this new girlfriend, Wayne could see the signs of angsty teenage love brewing in the air.

Eddie and the girl - what was her name? - had been inseparable since they started dating a few weeks ago. They would come to Wayne's diner every day, sitting in the same booth, holding hands and giggling over milkshakes. Wayne had to admit, they were cute together, but he couldn't shake the feeling that things were moving too fast.

One evening, as Wayne was closing up the diner, he heard a knock on the door. It was Eddie, his eyes red and swollen, his hair tousled from running his hands through it in distress.

"Uncle Wayne," he said, his voice cracking. "Can I talk to you for a minute?"

Wayne let him in, sensing that this was something serious. Eddie collapsed onto one of the stools at the counter, burying his face in his hands.

"What's going on, Eddie?" Wayne asked gently.

"It's her," Eddie said, his voice muffled by his palms. "I just... I don't know if I can handle it, Uncle Wayne. It's like she's always on my mind, and I can't focus on anything else."

Wayne nodded sympathetically, remembering all too well the all-consuming feeling of teenage love. "It's tough, kid. But it's also kind of wonderful, isn't it? To care about someone so much?"

Eddie lifted his head, his eyes shining with tears. "Yeah, I guess so. It's just... what if it all falls apart? What if she realizes she doesn't feel the same way about me anymore?"

Wayne leaned in closer, placing a reassuring hand on Eddie's shoulder. "Listen, Eddie. I know it's scary, but you have to take a chance on love. You can't live your life always wondering what could have been. And who knows, maybe this girl is the one for you."

Eddie sniffled, looking up at Wayne with a mixture of gratitude and uncertainty. "But what if she's not?"

Wayne shrugged, a small smile playing at the corners of his mouth. "Then you pick yourself up, dust yourself off, and keep on going. Because that's what life is all about - taking risks and making mistakes, and learning from them. And if you ever need someone to talk to, you know where to find me."

Eddie nodded, a glimmer of hope in his eyes. "Thanks, Uncle Wayne. You always know what to say."

Wayne chuckled, ruffling Eddie's hair affectionately. "That's what uncles are for. Now go on, get out of here. You've got a girl waiting for you."

Eddie grinned, hopping off the stool and heading towards the door. "Thanks again, Uncle Wayne. You're the best."

As Wayne watched his nephew disappear into the night, he couldn't help but feel a twinge of nostalgia for his own angsty teenage years. But he was glad that he could be there for Eddie, to offer him some guidance and support as he navigated the tumultuous waters of young love. And who knows, maybe one day he would be giving similar advice to the girl who had captured his nephew's heart. Only time would tell.

___

As the weeks went by, Wayne couldn't deny that he was growing more and more fond of Eddie's girlfriend. At first, he had been skeptical - after all, he had seen his fair share of teenage flings fizzle out before they really began. But as he watched the way she cared for Eddie, listened to him, and supported him through his various anxieties, he couldn't help but be impressed.

One afternoon, Wayne was taking a break from the diner, sitting on his front porch with a cup of coffee and watching the world go by. He saw Eddie and his girlfriend walking hand-in-hand down the street, their heads close together as they chatted animatedly. They caught sight of Wayne and waved, smiling brightly.

Wayne waved back, feeling a warmth spread through his chest. He had to admit, seeing Eddie so happy made him happy too. And he was grateful that his nephew had found someone who seemed to truly understand and appreciate him.

As Eddie and his girlfriend approached, Wayne stood up to greet them. "Hey there, you two. How's it going?"

"It's going great, Uncle Wayne," Eddie said, grinning from ear to ear. "We just went to the arcade and I beat her at Galaga again."

His girlfriend rolled her eyes playfully. "He's just lucky, don't listen to him."

Wayne chuckled, enjoying the banter between the two of them. "Well, why don't you two come inside and I'll fix you up some milkshakes?"

They eagerly agreed, and as Wayne mixed up the shakes, he couldn't help but ask Eddie's girlfriend a few questions about herself. He was surprised to learn that she was an avid reader, with a particular interest in science fiction and fantasy. They chatted about their favorite books and authors, and Wayne was impressed by her intelligence and creativity.

After they finished their milkshakes, Eddie's girlfriend helped Wayne clean up the kitchen, offering to wash the dishes while he dried. As they worked, Wayne couldn't help but notice how kind and considerate she was, always making sure to ask if he needed any help and thanking him for the hospitality. He was beginning to see that she wasn't just a fleeting crush for Eddie - she was someone special.

Later that evening, as Wayne was closing up the diner, he saw Eddie's girlfriend sitting outside on the bench, staring up at the stars. He decided to join her, taking a seat beside her and offering her a warm smile.

"It's a beautiful night, isn't it?" he said, gesturing up at the clear sky.

She nodded, a small smile on her lips. "It really is. I love looking at the stars - it makes me feel small and insignificant, but in a good way."

Wayne chuckled. "I know what you mean. Sometimes it's nice to be reminded that we're just a small part of something much bigger."

They sat in comfortable silence for a few moments, before Eddie's girlfriend spoke up. "I just wanted to thank you, Wayne. For being so welcoming to me, and for always looking out for Eddie. He's lucky to have an uncle like you."

Wayne felt a warm flush spread through his chest. "Oh, it's nothing. I just want him to be happy."

"I know," she said, her voice soft. "And I want that too. He's such a sweet, caring person, and I feel lucky to be with him. I know relationships can be hard, but I'm willing to work at it, to make it last."

Wayne was impressed by her maturity and dedication. "That's good to hear. I have a feeling you two are going to be just fine."

They sat a while longer, chatting about life, love, and the mysteries of the universe. Wayne felt grateful for the connection he was building with his nephew's girlfriend, and he couldn't help but think that maybe, just maybe, this relationship was something special after all.

___

A couple of months had passed, and Wayne had grown even more accustomed to having Eddie's girlfriend around. She had become a regular presence at the diner, often coming by after school to hang out with Eddie or chat with Wayne. They had even gone on a few double dates together, and Wayne had to admit that he was impressed by how well the two of them seemed to complement each other.

One evening, Wayne was closing up the diner when he heard a loud commotion coming from Eddie's apartment upstairs. He hesitated for a moment, wondering if he should intervene, but then he heard Eddie's girlfriend's voice, raised and angry.

"I can't believe you would say something like that! How could you be so insensitive?"

"I was just trying to be honest!" Eddie shouted back, his voice tight with frustration. "Why can't you see that?"

There was a moment of silence, and then the sound of a door slamming shut echoed through the building. Wayne's heart sank as he realized that Eddie's girlfriend had stormed out.

He hesitated for a moment, unsure of what to do, before finally making his way upstairs to Eddie's apartment. When he arrived, he found Eddie sitting on the couch, his face buried in his hands.

"Eddie, what happened?" Wayne asked, concern etched into his voice.

Eddie looked up, tears in his eyes. "We got into a fight. A really bad one."

Wayne took a seat next to him, placing a hand on his shoulder. "Do you want to talk about it?"

Eddie nodded, taking a deep breath. "I don't know what to do. We were arguing about something stupid, and then it just... escalated. And then she left, and I don't know if she's ever going to come back."

Wayne listened patiently as Eddie poured out his heart, expressing his fear and sadness at the thought of losing the person he loved. It was clear to Wayne that Eddie was really struggling with this, and he knew he had to offer some guidance.

"Well, the first thing you need to do is give her some space," Wayne said, his voice gentle but firm. "She's upset right now, and she needs time to process her emotions."

Eddie nodded, wiping his eyes. "Okay, I can do that. But what about after that? How do I fix this?"

Wayne paused for a moment, thinking carefully. "You need to be honest with her, Eddie. Tell her how you feel, and really listen to how she feels too. Relationships are about communication, and sometimes that means having difficult conversations."

Eddie nodded again, taking in Wayne's advice. "You're right. I need to be brave and tell her how much she means to me."

Wayne smiled, feeling proud of his nephew. "That's the spirit, Eddie. I have a feeling things are going to work out just fine."

Over the next few days, Eddie took Wayne's advice to heart. He gave his girlfriend some space, but when they finally spoke again, he was open and honest about his feelings. He apologized for the hurtful things he had said, and he promised to work on his communication skills going forward.

To Eddie's relief, his girlfriend was willing to give him another chance. They worked through their issues, talking things out whenever they had a disagreement. And through it all, Wayne was there to offer support and guidance, watching with pride as his nephew grew and matured in his relationship.

As time passed, Eddie and his girlfriend grew even closer, cementing their bond through shared experiences and a deep love and respect for each other. And Wayne was grateful to have been a part of their journey, seeing firsthand how the power of love and communication can overcome even the toughest obstacles.

In the end, Eddie knew that he had found something special with his girlfriend, something worth fighting for. And with Wayne's wisdom and support, he knew that he had the tools to make it work, no matter what challenges lay ahead.

[lemonflavouredchaos]

Hi there! I’m looking for more body worship/pleasure dom fics. The one with Eddie and the shy chunky reader was so gooood

Oh man have I got you covered; this request opened up a chest of inspiration today.

Just the Touch of Your Hand

Highschool had been hell; in the era of super slim, super cute, dainty girls with glossy, sleek hair, you were the furthest thing from an 'it' girl as it was possible to be. Adult life would be different, you told yourself, when you had a job and a place of your own...

Of course, it isn't. Working in a bar with the same super fit, super slim girls, serving the same rude guys who look at you as if terrified a single smile would give you the wrong idea is hell too, God forbid the chubby chick thinks you like her, right?

Is it any wonder you need to let loose now and then? That's what you tell yourself as you drive out to Eddie's trailer. You just need to let loose; the weed is a way to relax and definitely not a way to forget you're... well, yourself, for a few hours.

He opens the door with a wide grin and leans on the frame, his dark hair messy and wild around his face, a sliver of smooth skin showing between his belt and his shirt,

"Y/N," he says and shakes a finger at you, "you're not a cop now, are you?"

"In this body?" You scoff, "no, Just a pissed-off barmaid."

"The cops would be lucky to have that body," he whispers, winking before he turns on his heel, leaving you no chance to reply. You roll your eyes and follow him, closing the door behind you. It's always been the same; he always has something smart to say, but when he plops down on the couch and hands you a baggie you force a smile.

"How much?" You asked, pulling your wallet from your purse,

"Sit and smoke with me and it's free," he says, then spreads his hands in mock surrender, "I'll be a gentleman, I just wanna catch up. Seems like it's been forever." You hesitate; you just want to be alone, but when he smiles at you like that it's hard to say no,

"Ok, Eddie," you sigh as you sit at the other end of the sofa, "let's chat."

He grins like he's won the lottery, and that joy is infectious,

"Great, you want a beer?" He jumps up, clapping his broad hands together,

"Sure," you nod and stretch, letting the cool air the fan blows around the room and the muted music from his bedroom soothe you. He places a can down gently and starts filling a bong.

The problem with Eddie Munson is that he can't help but be charming. The guys in school who called him a freak were assholes; he was weird, sure, but in a goofy, kind of endearing way, and it didn't take a rocket scientist to see the desperate longing in his eyes. He just wants people to like him... boy do I know that feeling,

"So," he blows smoke out in a plume before he hands you the bong, "you're a barmaid."

"Yes." You nod and take the bong,

"Do you like it?"

"Hell no," you laugh and take a drag,

"Fair enough..." he leans back, watching you hold the smoke for a few seconds before you let it go, one hand in his thick hair, "your own place?" You nod. "Hey, that's great."

"Thanks," you say and raise your eyebrows, "it's a shithole."

"Well, it's your shithole and that matters," he says, then winces, "let's forget I said that, it sounded wrong." You nod and laugh, feeling your mood lift despite yourself,

"You graduate yet?" You ask

"No," he said and grins, "but this is my year, Princess, I can feel it."

"I bet it is, too," you say as you pass the bong back, folding one leg under you, "You still seeing that chick? With the red hair?" He shakes his head,

"Nah, she moved to Portland." He shrugs as if it's nothing, but you can hear a little hurt in his voice,

"Shame," you murmur, hating yourself for being glad. He's just too cute, even if there's no chance, "she seemed nice."

"She was," he says and then his eyes slide to you with a mischievous glint in them, "you got a boyfriend these days?"

"No."

"A girlfriend?" He asks, wiggling his brows,

"No, Eddie," you say and slump back into the soft cushions. He frowns,

"Why not?" He asks, "no-one you like?"

"No-one that'll have me." The ceiling is stained with smoke, but the lights are clean. Everything is strangely clean. He scoffs and leans forward and the smell of his aftershave seeps into the air between you, fresh and sharp

"Then they're idiots," he whispers conspiratorily,

"Nah - I don't mind."

"You should have some poor guy wrapped around your little finger," he says and his eyes are warm and dark. The way he looks at you, it feels... wrong. Nice, but wrong. This isn't the way men talk to you.

You sit up, heart hammering, certain there's a blush spreading across your cheeks.

"Anyway, that's all for guys, really," you say, scrambling for something that will take those eyes away from you,

"Dating?" He asks with a quizzical grin, eyes already a little hazy. You shrug, suddenly embarrassed,

"Yeah, no, I dunno, Eds," you say and take a drag from the bong, "the whole... all the stuff that comes with it, you know?" You shake your head, feeling the world go soft and hazy, "the.. sex stuff. It's not really for girls... well, girls like me. We just kind of put up with it... or... you know, not, in my case." You laugh, but he isn't laughing along. "Guys don't really like me," you confide in him without any filter, yeah, that's what weed does dumbass, "but I don't mind."

You realize you've shocked him, you must have because he's silent and there's a line between his brows. When he opens his mouth, at first, he says nothing, and by the time he thinks of something to say the phone rings, calling his attention,

"Stay... right there," Eddie says and crosses to answer it. As he speaks into the phone, you realize you've said too much, but by the time you're gathering your purse, he's back, and he's on his knees in front of you looking at you with that same strange, almost hurt look, "ok, look, before you go..." he says, "I know you probably think you said too much, but you didn't."

"Ok," you say, and your voice is small,

"I'm sorry some shitbag made you feel like you're not good enough, " his hands land on your knees and they're so big. Your head spins. "You are. You're more than good enough... and any idiot that made you think it's 'not for you'," he makes air quotes, "if I ever find 'em, I'm gonna run them over with my van."

He's so earnest that you laugh and cover your mouth, and this time he does laugh with you. But he reaches up and takes your hand away from your face,

"Don't hide that pretty smile," he says softly, "please."

"Ok," you say, standing up with his help. Eddie presses a fresh baggie into your hand,

"Drive safe," he whispers, "and don't be a stranger.... please."

Just like that, you're in the sticky night air again; you stop your car and take a few deep breaths. Did that really happen? As if in answer to your unspoken question, his trailer door opens,

"No," Eddie almost shouts, "you know what," he leaps the steps from his trailer and crosses the ground between you, pushing a broad hand into your curls moments before he stoops to kiss you. It's hard and needy and feverish; you whimper into his mouth and let his weight push you back against the side of your car. He doesn't cop a feel, but the way his hand grips your hip has the same feeling; like you're helpless and exposed and completely at his mercy.

He pulls away, eyes bright and glittering in the gloom,

"Sex is not just for guys, Y/N, it's for girls too... especially girls like you," he whispers and rubs his nose against yours, "do you believe me?"

"I..." the words don't come; you're trembling, silent, and his face starts to shift,

"Shit, sorry -" he mutters, "I'm a fucking idiot, I'm sorry-" You cut him off with a kiss because it's the only way you can express what it is you wish you could find the words to say, and he turns to you like a sunflower following the light.

"I'm not sure I believe you," you whisper when you pull away, "but you can try to prove me wrong if you like."

He grins like you've given him the world and takes your hand,

"I will," he says and steps back, not tugging or pulling you, just inviting you to follow, and God it could be a bad idea but you do. All the way to his bedroom where he pulls off his shirt like it's nothing. You wish you had his confidence; the thought of taking off the loose, long dress you're wearing is like ice down your back, and he sees that, "hey," he says gently, "it's ok if you changed your mind."

"No... I haven't I'm just..." you trail off as he approaches,

"Lil' shy?" He teases, but his voice is warm. You nod, "that's ok... do you trust me?" You nod; you always have. He's a nice guy, really a nice guy; the kind of good person that wouldn't let anyone be pushed around. He was always kind to you, and that doesn't seem to have changed. When Eddie trails a hand along your arm, you shiver; the next kiss is gentle and slow. And it goes on and on until you think you'll lose your mind; as you slump against him, his arms slip up around your waist and he holds you like it's easy. Like you weigh nothing, "can we lose this?" He murmurs, tugging the skirt of your dress gently.

Time to be brave, Y/N, it's now or never.

You nod and help him undo the buttons down its front, but you keep your eyes closed as it slips away and the cool air tickles the fine hairs on your arms and belly.

Silence.

Then he whistles through his teeth,

"Where have you been hiding?" He asks, voice a little thick. When you open your eyes they don't meet Eddie's, because his are fixed on your body. He takes a few steps around you, and for a moment it's hard not to feel like a rabbit being circled by a wolf. Then he steps up behind you and kisses the side of your neck, fingers tracing along your hips and waist,

"Nowhere," you whisper,

"You've been hiding in these baggy dresses," he mutters, "you shouldn't have, Princess, you're perfect." Those big, warm hands slide over your skin, around to your belly, up to ghost over the fabric of your bra,

"Hardly," you scoff, but he just nips your ear lobe, making you squeak and squirm, and you can feel it against your back, how hard he is. Somehow it makes you feel small. Toes curling in the flat hightops you haven't gotten around to taking off, you're almost floored by a sense of clarity. Of how you must look in your underwear and shoes. It feels vulgar, but not dirty.

It's strange, you realize, how he moves you without pushing or pulling at you. It feel natural to move to the bed, perfectly natural; its like he's guiding you. There's no pressure or negotiation; if I say no, he'll stop. Just like that. He won't even be mad. The thought is like warm water, so when his fingers touch your back, you lie on the bed on your belly without thought, and smile when the thud of his knees hitting the floor shakes the matress.

Lips ghost over your legs and back, his hands slide slowly, almost lazily over you until he snaps your bra strap against your back with a chuckle,

"Hey!" You whine and squirm,

"Sorry, Princess," he says with a laugh, "couldn't resist. Damn I can't believe you're here..." he tugs the strap again, "yes? No?"

"Yes," you murmur, when was the last time you were this relaxed? You can't remember. When the clasp comes free and he gently pulls the bra away you sigh,

"Can't believe you're really here," he says again, "God I wanted you so bad when we had English together." The absurdity of that thought makes you giggle,

"Can't believe I believed you when you said you were gonna be a gentleman," you tease and he feigns offence, lowering the weight of his body onto your back as he whispers,

"I am being a gentleman," he says, "I'm gonna take such good care of you." You roll over, almost by your own volition, but raise your arms. This time he does pull; pulls them down, "none of that," he mutters and lowers his head to kiss the skin under your collarbone, working down to lick your nipples, placing a kiss on each one, "don't hide from me. Promise?" Those eyes are like pools of warm chocolate. How can you say no to them?

"Promise," you say, and he raises a hand,

"Pinky swear?" There's a teasing edge to his voice, he pushes one leg between yours and shifts, rubbing the rough denim of his jeans against the thin material of your panties,

"Pinky swear," you gasp and wrap your pinky around his, grinning when he leans to kiss it,

"Good, 'cause if you do, I'm gonna have to punish you," he says, grimacing, "detention for you Princess. "

"Gonna make me write lines, Eds?"

"Not what I had in mind," he rubs his leg against you again, eyes flicking over your face as you flush, then leans down, "you cold?"You shake your head, "no? Then why're you shaking?"

"I don't, ah, I don't know." When did it get so hot in here? He sighs and sits up, eyes trailing up and down your body until the urge to cover yourself is so strong it's almost tangible. He tuts,

"'Sex isn't for girls like me,'" He mimicks you with a roll of his eyes, "bullshit, this," he runs his hands from your hips up to your breasts before pressing his knee against you firmly, grinning when your thighs squeeze around it, "sweet," he leans to kiss your neck, "soft," another kiss, lower down, "perfect," and another, lower still, "little body is made for it." His chin digs into your belly, his hands tug your panties, "please?" He pouts, dragging laughter out of you again. Are you supposed to laugh this much when you're naked?

You nod.

"Fuck me," he groans, "even your pussy's pretty, what the fuck Y/N?" That's it, the last straw; you buckle, curling around yourself, shaking with laughter, "no, no, no, I know I'm hilarious but you better bring that pretty ass back over here." He says, sniggering. Domineering isn't the word for Eddie Munson, but he manhandles you with ease; the strength in him shocks you as he wrestles you onto your back and presses the length of his body against yours, "you do understand that it's unfair to be this cute?" He's grinning like a child, watching you blush and laugh and shake your head, "it is, yes, it's unfair and it should be illegal, but it won't stop me from eating that pretty little pussy until you scream, so are you gonna behave or do you need a minute?"

"I need, Jesus, Eds, I need a minute," you gasp through the gasps of laughter and the fiery blush. He flops beside you on the bed,

"Fine," he says, turning to look at you, "do you want a beer?"

"No, thank you."

"You want a pop tart?"

"No Eddie," you snort shaking your head,

"So what do you want?" He props himself up on one elbow,

"I want you to lose the jeans, for a start," you say, feeling your nakedness with painful clarity, "even the playing field a little. "

"Oh the playing field," he drawls and hops to his feet, undoing his belt without ceremony, discarding the jeans with a flourish, "you don't fool me," he points, "we both hated gym."

"True..."

Even on his knees, Eddie seems to loom, he can't help it. You smirk as he approaches, putting his elbows on either side of your legs,

"I'm literally on my knees, " he says, "can I please eat that perfect pussy?"

"God you're so rude," the eye-rolling, the admonishment; it's a front. You're shaking, terrified and exhilarated... and maybe, just maybe, enjoying the strange power he's given you.

"Please," he bats his eyelashes comically, dragging you closer until our hips are at the edge of the bed, "pretty please."

"Fine," you drag the word out, trying to mask the shivering excitement that's building in your belly.

He parts your legs like he's opening a gift, which is precious, but there's no time to tell him that; he doesn't start slow. Trying to breathe through the onslaught of sensation is enough to keep self-consciousness at bay until your body understands what it's feeling. The hot press of his maddening, the way his tongue slips over the flesh makes your head spin, and when he sucks, just enough to make you whine with need, your hands find his hair and tug.

Hips moving in time with his rhythm, you suddenly get it. Suddenly all the fuss makes sense; this is what it's supposed to be like. Those half-hearted fumbles with boys who were only interested in being able to say they had fucked anyone feel like they happened to someone else. This is how it should have been.

When you cum, it's like lightning; blinding and sudden hen you, and when you come back down to earth, Eddie's tapping your thigh,

"I do need to breathe," he says, muffled by your legs which, you see, are clamped around him.

"Shut, Eddie, I'm sorry, I-" he cuts you off with a kiss, and you can taste yourself on his lips,

"Don't be, that's exactly how I want to go out." Just like that, it seems to be over; he lies beside you and pulls you close, kissing your forehead and your hair,

"What about you?" You peek up at him and he smiles,

"I'm good," he says quietly, pressing his nose to your hair,

"You don't want...?" It's funny, you don't know how to ask him. It seems silly, this is the perfect time to ask him, just say 'Eddie, don't you want to fuck me?' The words don't come,

"I do," he murmurs, voice hot and sweet in your ear, "but this is about you."

"I want to make you feel good," it's the bravest collection of words you can assemble, so you slip your hand down to cup him while you say them and watch his eyes flutter closed,

"Yeah?" He asks, voice catching,

"Yeah," this time you're the one who moves, trying to put him on his back, but Eddie rolls and traps you under him,

"Well, who am I to refuse a lady," he chuckles and buries his face in your hair as he reaches over to fumble in the drawer of his bedside table, what...? Oh, "sure?" He asks, shaking against you as he pulls a condom free,

"Uh-huh," you can't help but watch him as he pulls his boxers down and kicks them off.

"You're so fucking cute when you blush," Eddie almost growls as he climbs back onto the bed, "... you sure about this?"

"Aren't you?"

"Fuck - what... how the hell can you ask that?" He demands A look of stupefied irritation on his face as you snort,

"Just checking," you say and realize, finally, that all this, the jokes, the teasing, they're to make you less nervous. And it's working, because your legs are up on his hips and you can feel the hard, hot press of him against your entrance... and you don't feel nervous anymore. It's Eddie, and when he sinks into you, muttering something barely audible about how good you feel, about how wet you are, the only words you hear that matter are simple,

"my good girl"

It's that simple, you realize, and that complex; it doesn't really matter what everyone else thinks of your body it doesn't matter if other men don't agree with him. As long as he says those three words again. As long as he holds you close and kisses you just like this, it doesn't matter if your stomach isn't flat, or if it ever is. Because he's got you. "You feel so good," you whisper it into his ear, along with everything else you've wanted to say all night. You tell him he's precious and adorable and handsome, that he makes you feel small in the best way, that he was right, that he proved you wrong and you want to do this again and again, and in the end, he only jokes about not actually being a superhero. So, you both agree to call a pizza and watch a horror movie while you wait.

[doraambrose]

When it comes to the Victim Blaming Grief coping one of the big things that makes it an issue is that he actually did it to Jason's face (in Hush as it was retconned to be Jason he said that too).

And, when Jason comes back it stops being grief for the dead, it becomes grief for the wounded. And people victim blame people who were hurt too. This is how they cope, however this coping mechanism always hurts the victim and is a genuinely bad coping mechanism that shouldn't be used. It's harmful. It's harmful to the victim and it is harmful for the other people who might be grieving. It's probably one of the most selfish coping mechanisms.

I've experienced people using this method in real life and it's rough. And it's toxic. Saying you can't criticize the way someone grieves is flawed because you are rarely the only one grieving and I personally have been harmed during a period of shared grief. And I am sure other people have been too because grief brings out the bad in people but that doesn't mean all is forgiven.

Like, imagine if Jason was just comatose and all the victim blaming happened and then Jason just woke up and found out all Bruce had been saying about him? Would Jason's feelings be justified then?

Also, saying the deceased person doesn't matter when they die disregards a lot of religious and spiritual beliefs around honoring the dead.

I feel like Jason is as justified as any other person harmed when someone copes with toxic way in being upset. Jason's death is also a traumatic thing that happened to him. Centering Bruce's feelings while disregarding Jason's as unjustified doesn't feel fair. Especially considering the incident where Bruce took Jason to Ethiopia to try to trigger Jason's memories of what brought him back without his consent.

(Sorry if this was a bit much, I've experienced a decent amount of the bad sides of grief in my life and feel strongly about it)

Okay, so I feel like I need to re answer my previous post because I was struggling to find the right words and also at work, but I think I've figured it out.

One thing to keep in mind is when we talk about feelings, grief, and emotions, there's not a set right or wrong. I also mentioned that I don't like the word justified in this case because it sounds like right or wrong. I did use it at the end, but I'll get into that here. This is a very gray area subject matter and that makes it tricky and you're never gonna find an answer that everyone agrees with because it's not really as fact based as if I said "batman wears a cape sometimes" or "dick grayson is nightwing".

The first thing that comes to mind for me is what my therapist tells me when I feel guilt over feelings. She would tell me "anything you're feeling is valid, you're allowed to be upset, angry, sad, jealous, etc. It's how you act on those feelings.. something I can't remember atm lol". So when I say jason isn't justified, I'm saying that he's allowed to be upset and angry and his feelings are valid, it's not right to actively take it out on the family and hold it against them and be sort of malicious or harmful. And i know theyve done that plus some towards him, but its important to remember that you can only control your own actions and even if someone is being toxic and harmful, that doesnt mean you should too. I think I didn't explain that right and there was some miscommunication. I also wanted to explain why I felt that jason would be angry.

As for this comment, both of these asks were right. Grief can be harmful and toxic. And before I say what I'm going to say next, keep in mind that I'm discussing grief alone and not any of the stuff post utrh that Bruce has done to jason that's harmful and abusive. This toxic kind of grief doesn't make the person a bad person. They can't help it. It's your brain going crazy to try and cope with something traumatic. When my dog died, I wanted to sue my vet, even though they didn't really so anything wrong. It's easier to have someone in front of you to blame. I'm not saying it's right or okay, but it does happen and it can be harmful, but you're not a bad person for it. (In Bruce's case, he's a bad person for all the other shit he's pulled outside of this)

I think these two asks are like at the opposite ends of this topic and I think it's something that you can meet in the middle with. So basically

Yes, grief can be toxic and harmful, but it's also very much a subconscious phenomenon and it's extremely personal and different for everyone and alot of times, people are unaware of what they're doing.

Because of that, jason can be hurt by it, he can be angry,etc. His feelings are valid, But it's not fair to activey hold that over Bruce forever, which he doesn't, this seems more like a fanon thing btw. But it also doesn't hurt to apologize afterwards.

I think when you say that the idea of not critiquing the way someone grieves is flawed, it comes off as unempathetic. Because as someone who has had to grieve alot of the past few years, it's the worst feeling. And your brain is literally scrambling to cope with it so you don't actively lose your shit and sometimes it ends up with some unhealthy Coping mechanisms. And you're usually unaware of what you're doing. I feel like you're not thinking of how the other person is feeling or what they're going through. And fair is fair, they need to see what you're feeling too and actively try to remedy things at some point, there just needs to be more patience and empathy all around and trying to remember that this person is not always intentionally being malicious.

I'm a religious person. So I see where youre coming from, but nobody said the deceased doesn't matter. I think the point was more that you don't have to worry as much about how that person is feeling or thinking because they've moved on to a better place, you should focus on self care and doing what's best for your mental health.

I am also 100% not trying to center around Bruce's feelings and discredit jasons, in fact, the last post was 100% about jasons feelings.

In summary, there's not "justified" or "right" or "wrong". It's super complicated, varies from person to person, and is a tricky subject matter. Everyone's feelings are valid and there definitely needs to be more empathy and patience on all sides, but there are still actions that have been made on both sides that aren't the best and can be hurtful or toxic. I hope this all makes sense and I worded it right :)

[inlovewithregencyera]

transcript under cut : )

Thornfield House, July 7th, 1818

Isabella: And you did write to her father informing him of this, right?

Max: Yes. He wrote back to me an hour ago, and they're leaving for Hollow directly after her birthday. I've asked him to keep this in confidence of himself and Lady Grey, and he says he will as it would break his heart to tell Aurelia himself.

Isabella: *clutching hand* When will you tell her?

Max: I don't know, and I don't know why you're all tasking me with the impossible. It's not fair, truly. *sniffling* If I had a lover and I lay dying of consumption I wouldn't have Frederick tell her. It should be an intimate moment between them.

Isabella: I think she shall be very upset.

Maximilian: *voice quivering* She'll be plagued with perturbation. Perhaps it would be easier if that idiot thought about how his actions effected others for once in his damn life. He overwhelmed her with affection and now I must tell her he's dying.

Isabella: Oh, please don't cry. More than anything, I hate seeing you upset. I don't care much for people's emotions, but yours always tug at my heart.

Max: Luckily for you I have no more tears left to cry. My eyes have been soiled with tears for the past 12 hours, I believe I'm done for today.

Isabella: Dear Max, crying that long isn't good for-

Max: Don't you stand here and tell me what's good for me and what's not. I don't expect you to understand. You've rarely been emotional a day in your life.

Isabella: have been emotional many times in my life, I just know that crying *THAT MUCH AT ONCE* does you no service!

Max: *scoffs* You are heartless sometimes, you know?

Isabella: How am I heartless for telling you the truth?

Max: I cannot help crying if I am again watching someone I love die.

Isabella: *scoffs* He's not dead! And there have been cases where people overcame this disease.

Max: And you think he will be an exception?! That he's some sort of miracle and will prevail through?

Isabella: He could be. Why you've given up on him I do not know.

Max: He's given up on himself! Why should I have hope for his survival if he's not going to even fight for it!?

Isabella: Because he's family, Max! You don't give up on someone even when they've given up on themself. When Eleanor gave up on herself, you-

Max: Damn it don't you bring her up. I told you I was done crying for today, so stop wherever you're going.

Isabella: Your tears won't bring her back, so what use is it?

Max: You are heartless! When you love someone, and they die-

Isabella: Damn you Max if you are trying to insinuate I didn't love her! I loved her more than anyone ever to walk this Earth!

Max: That's not at all what I meant Isabella and you know that! I just can't believe you're telling me that I shouldn't cry now. Name a time when any one of our household was dying and I didn't?

Isabella: When Uncle Percy had a stroke! He was as good as gone right after and I don't recall you ever shedding any tears then. And there's hope for Frederick, he's not coughing blood.

Max: Frederick is much thinner than the last time I saw him and that cough tops it all off. So no, I will not tell myself there's any hope. And I apologize for not crying in front of my sickly, invalid Father, SOMEONE had to be strong for him.

Isabella: Are you saying I wasn't Maximilian? Really? When you went off to do Ducal business and whatnot who sat with him that whole time until you returned? I endeavored just about as much as you to ensure his comfort, *voice cracking* and how can you accuse me of not being strong when you and I suffered the same trials?

Max: Bell…

Isabella: WHAT?! *covering eyes*

Max: I didn't mean to upset you, dear. I'm sorry, and you're right, we experienced the same sorrow. Perhaps we go about it differently when reacting to it.

Isabella: *sniffling* It just hurts that you'd call me heartless for saying crying does you no good. I'm not saying you shouldn't cry, because Lord knows I have moments sometimes, but I know it's not helpful in the long run. He's not dead yet, t-that is to say, *eyes welling up* if he was truly dying, *burts into tears* in which he is-

Max: *extending arms* Come here.

Isabella: *sobbing into chest* Oh Max! Whatever will we do?

Max: *kisses forehead* What we always do I suppose. Deal with whatever God throws at us.

Isabella: *sniffles* Yes. Let us not quarrel as we shall need each other more than ever in the coming weeks.

[contentloadingandstuff]

Hu Tao x Doctor!Reader

CW: Swearing, Male!Reader. I wonder who will catch all 4 references? Tips: One book, one comic book, one animation, one real life case. If someone does, they'll get a gold star from me! :D

I'M SORRY I COULDN'T HELP MYSELF-

What a pairing. The bright and sunny funeral director, Hu Tao, and the cynical but still good doctor Y/N. 

One benefits from ended lives, the other from saving them… This poses a fair amount of questions, doesn't it? 

No wonder, then, that you're not as popular as doctor Baizhu, especially with kids. Though honesty is usually considered a virtue, well… Let's say that it's not the case here. 

Though some call you a quack, Baizhu and Changsheng see the truth. You have good intentions, you have the necessary skill and knowledge, but all the years of not-so-casual field work desensitized you quite a bit. 

Y/N: Let me tie this, and we can begin.  Milelith soldier: Gods it hurts… Just… Just hurry, doctor. Please… I don't know if I can take it…  Y/N: Don't worry, my friend. You will manage, worst case you pass out. A leg is still better than your life, right?  Milelith soldier: I suppose…  Y/N: I learned from the best. My professor in Fontaine could make an amputation in just about 153 seconds, can you believe that? Truly impressive.  Milelith soldier: Oh… I see… How so?  Y/N: Impressive in the sense that it allowed the only case of 300% mortality rate to occur.  Milelith soldier: W-what does that mean?  Y/N: It's a funny story, let me tell you! A bystander died of a heart attack while witnessing the procedure, the patient later died of gangrene, and the saw cut off the fingers of the doctor's assistant, who later died of gangrene as well. That's skill, isn't it? Three for the price of one!  Milelith soldier: ...  Y/N: Well, not that funny. But don't fret, he saved more lives than he ended. Anyway, we'll take our time. Can't have any of you dying, can I?  Soldiers: *nervous laugh* Y/N: Here, bite down on this. And you two - hold him, just in case. 

Due to your skill in general medicine and surgery, especially the emergency variety, Ningguang deemed you to be a most valuable asset to Liyue. Putting up with your unsettling remarks and dark jokes is nothing when compared to all the lives you save regularly, especially among the Milelith and miners. 

Just… Why do you seem to actively try to undermine your fairly good public image? It's Hu Tao's influence, no doubt about that. 

Hu Tao: Buy a coffin, and the second will cost you nothing!  Y/N: But wait! Before you pass, take those pills to help with gas! 

The two of you are probably the most well-known couple in Liyue. Some find your complementary quirkiness adorable, while others keep a safe distance. Your demeanor may be unusual, to say the least, but the statistics speak for themselves - the essentially non-existent mortality rate of your procedures earns you respect amongst those you've helped. 

Some think of your sense of humor as harmful, but you'll hear the opposite if you ask your patients. A joke, even if it's gallows humor, can help immensely.

Hu Tao likes your sense of humor, though she can't help but worry a little. The stories are told in a funny way, but the topics are rarely such. 

Y/N: I have your test results, sir.  Old man: Please make haste, doctor. I don't have all day.  Y/N: Aw shucks, who told you? 

She understands how exhausting your profession is, how mentally challenging it may be. There are people you can't save, no matter how hard you try. There are those that can be, but they disobey your orders. If you make mistakes, you're always the one to blame. They rarely recognise your effort. More - some treat you as a fraud, a killer in disguise. 

Y/N: Have you heard of the surgeon's regularity, Hu?  Hu Tao: Aiya, do tell!  Y/N: If the patient dies, it's your fault. If they live, it's a miracle. 

Hu Tao loves listening to the many stories you've gathered over the years! 

The skill you hold in the field of medicine earned you the respect of many throughout the nations - commoners, aristocrats, generals, and even the Raiden Shogun herself. Due to your priceless service in the Shogunate's army, your Hydro Vision was never taken away, and you, even as an outlander, got the full freedom of movement and social rights in Inazuma. 

With your actions, you showed the Inazumans that a doctor isn't a coward. You attended the battles sometimes, standing alongside the other soldiers. They say it's bravery, but… Truly, the battlefield is the biggest test compound there is! 

Kujou Sara: Doctor! Are you sure this will work?  Y/N, firing up a Hydro beam: Hahaha, I have no idea! 

You finished med school in Fontaine, your homeland. You earned your license and started your career there, but you weren't very popular amongst the public and the officials. The reason? Well… 

Y/N: Ladies and gentlemen, have you wondered how you can serve science? Serve medicine? Serve mankind? Well, do I have an offer for you! In fact, we doctors are not sure how some things inside us humans work, and what we use can, at times, look like black magic, but rest assured - it's just ignorance. How can you assist us in making progress then, you ask? Sign this waver today! With a flick of your wrist you can donate your body to science and be the stepping stone for ground breaking progress! We'll crack you open after you kick the bucket, see what makes you tick, stitch you back up nice and tidy and give you back. Your family will get a compensation of 100 000 Mora. More - sign it now, ladies and gentlemen, and get a free wine voucher! Tell me, isn't that the offer of a lifetime? 

Anyway, that's how you lost your medical license. You were 'unprofessional', they said. 

After that you went to Inazuma, spending a year there before moving on to the land of wisdom. The researchers of Sumeru quickly recognised your experience, and looked into granting you an official license in an alternative procedure. Amurta professors were impressed by your ability to do your job with even the most bare-bones of tools, in harsh conditions, and succeed at treatment at the same time. 

Y/N, cooking up a rudimentary antidote: Don't stress, Y/N. It's just a tiny scorpion sting. Just a little life-and-death scenario. No reason to panic.  Eremite, choking: Doc… tor, that's n-not my name…  Y/N: Yeah, I know. 

While the paperwork was in progress, you visited Natlan for some time. It was the true unofficial test of your skills. Tropical diseases, the immense heat, the endless flood of combat wounds… But you just rolled up your sleeves and got to work, just like in Inazuma. 

Y/N: ... and I tell her: sorry, I can't treat you - I'm a family doctor, and you're an orphan!  Both: *laughter* Y/N: Whew… Anyway, that's why they kicked me out of the Teyvatian Association for Children's Medicine. Gladiator: Some folk can't take a joke huh… Um, doctor? Should I be awake for this?  Y/N: Haha, well… No. But since you already are, can you help me open up your chest cavity? I can't… seem… to…  Gladiator: *scream* Y/N: Oh, don't be such a Treasure Hoarder. Ribs grow back!  Gladiator: I don't think so… You sure, doctor?  Y/N: Yeah, if trimmed. You don't need it to survive. But that'll be another 75k.  Gladiator: Eh, do it doc. My insurance will cover it.  Y/N: I hope so! Else… *cracks knuckles*

The Akademiya offered you the place of the leader of an exchange project with The Fatui of Snezhnaya, due to your extensive experience in the field. You agreed, of course. In the land of Cryo you learned about gunshot wounds, frostbite and radiation poisoning (stemming from equipement factories), adding their treatment to your already long list of capabilities. The competition was possibly the biggest in Teyvat, since Fatui doctors and medics are the best money can buy. 

Electrohammer Vanguard: Job twoju mat’... Fuck… It hurts like a bitch… Y/N: Yeah, yeah, I know. A little quieter, please? A mistake now would be fatal. Electrohammer Vanguard: S-sorry… ugh… That’s my first gunshot, d-doctor… Y/N: Oh, don’t worry. Mine as well :) Electrohammer Vanguard: … Y/N: Now, can I get my hydrogen peroxide back? I hope you left some for the wound…

Mondstadt was pretty dull and boring. There weren’t nearly as many traumatic injuries as in the other nations, and the diseases weren’t even half as lethal as malaria, cholera and typhus you faced in Sumeru and Natlan. That moment of peace allowed you to reflect on your life and experiences, as well as finally enjoy your hard earned fortune. 

Y/N: Take two of those throughout the week. If the symptoms don’t let up, come back and I’ll give you stronger ones. Kaeya: Thank you, doctor. May I ask something? Y/N: Sure. Kaeya: How did you become a doctor in the first place? Was it the salary, or perhaps a moral reason? Y/N: Hm. Duty, I think. I do what needs to be done. I didn’t have much time to reflect on it before. There’s always something to do. But even if I complete what is necessary, I still think back to what I did. Long days of waiting usually follow. It will come out if the treatment works, or if the surgery was a success. And just then, when the tension and joy leave my body - just then I realize what are the odds. 1: 400 000. It’s laughable. But for everyone their life is everything they have, so perhaps trying makes sense. 

And so you ended up in Liyue, the last nation on your list. It wouldn’t be your final destination if not for her. In Hu Tao you found a soulmate, someone who shared your sense of humor, someone who understood you. 

Painfully aware of how limited your time among the living is, you and her make the most out of it. 

Thanks for reading!

[kkukiejams]

Since I started my hobby as a fangirl, there's this one fear that I always have. That one day I will awake up and see the news that one of the people I looked up to and always brought me happiness died/suicide/od-ed somewhere out there, inside a hotel room, alone and away from their loved ones. I mean, I grew up seeing news like this from Michael Jackson to Whitney Houston to various K-pop idols. But I never thought that I would really experience this nightmare.

On the early morning of Oct 16th, I woke up with a text notification from a close friend saying "Liam is gone," with no other context. My first thoughts are, "Gone? Wdym by gone?"; "Wait, which Liam?"; "Did she have a dog named Liam?"; "Liam? as in 1D's Liam?"; "Isn't it too early for a hoax, especially on this happy day?"; "Hobi is about to come home; wtf is this bullshit." And so I open my Twitter app and see what the fuck is happening.

*Liam Payne's picture in gray, 1993-2024*, "One Direction member Liam Payne (31), died after falling from his hotel room balcony in Argentina," and all the other fan-shocking tweets, news site tweets, tweets about what happened, tweets about how intoxicated he was, passing out in the hotel lobby before the hotel staff brought him to his hotel room, and that horrible, horrible tweet about how fucking tmz posted a picture of his body laying in the ground focusing on his tattoos barely an hour after he fell.

And all I can think is, shit, I can't do this today. It's already 8 in the morning; I need to move my ass because my work starts at 10am and I cannot afford to be late this month anymore. So I moved and got ready, but I can't even process anything like, Fuck, is this even real? He was just in Niall's concert a few days ago. Did the other boys know already? What time is it in the UK? Are they even awake? Are they even in the UK right now? Fuck, he's so far away from home. Why is he so far away from home? Did his mom already know? Did his baby already know? Wtf, I can't really just cry right now; it's still Thursday, and I can't file for sick leave just because of this; my next schedule will be fucked if I did.

And so, I go on with my day; I got in time for my work, still feeling like a blank slate, and still doesn't know how to react. Other people told me about what happened, asking me, What happened? They know I'm a fan, of course. I'm that big directioner fan girl in high school and college; everyone I met from 2012 till 2016 knows I love that group and how I love those boys. And all I can simply tell them is that he fell from his hotel room balcony, accidentally or by suicide; I'm not sure; he was drunk; he was high; I'm not really sure.

And the day went by, and I came home and went back to Twitter to get more information and updates. I know he was suicidal and had an alcohol problem. I think I saw an interview before that he said this thing himself and was trying to seek help. I really prayed that he would be able to seek help. He was depressed, that the days that he was one of the sources of my mental stability are the days he needs to depend on these vices to keep going so he can keep doing what he loves and to keep surviving.

It was also truly devastating to find out that this once bright, kind, and talented person I know was able to hurt and abuse so many people he was supposed to love and people who loved him. I will not excuse him for his wrongs, and I will not blame his victims for speaking out, but it was so tragic that none of them got a happy, peaceful ending. His life was not supposed to end like this; he should be able to heal, to make amends, and to live the rest of his life in content. But life is a bitch and has never been fair. And so I end my Thursday night still doesn't know how to react, still haven't had a cry. Am I even allowed to cry?

Then it's already Friday morning. He was already gone for a day. I woke up and still cannot believe that this is really happening. Then Louis, Zayn, Niall, and Harry released a joint statement regarding what happened to Liam. This is not how I imagine seeing Zayn's name on a 1D official post again. I always thought it would be the 5 of them, and it's about a reunion concert. I was still looking forward to that. I never saw all of them performing live together. I was able to attend one of their concerts, but Zayn was not present, and it's the last concert they have before they officially announced that he was quitting the band. I never thought that I would really never see them all five performing together.

So again I went with my day, still not crying, still have work to do. I also read Louis', Zayn's, and Harry's personal posts. I cannot imagine how they are feeling. They are losing their brother, their friend. Someone they truly know, someone who tried his best to support them when they're all too young to be exposed to how cruel the media can be and how disgusting the entertainment industry truly is. Niall's personal message came in a later time today, and I can understand why. He was the last one of them to see him, to spend time with him, to hug him. I really, really hope that all of the remaining four boys have the support they need in these trying times. I hope they are not alone.

Some people say they are grieving for the younger Liam and not this man he became. But I mourn for all of him, the Liam, whose dream is to perform and sing. the Liam who saw and experienced how amazing it was to reach these dreams, the Liam who found out and paid the price for reaching the said "dreams," and I will especially mourn for the Liam who could have find his way again and should have been able to heal.

So tonight, I will finally allow myself to grieve and cry for the lost that he is. To the brilliant, talented, and loved Liam James Payne. I hope you will finally find peace. I hope that your next life will be happier and more peaceful than this one. Rest in paradise, darling.

[magniloquent-raven]

everybody's saving grace

(cw the karen and billy thing. but this is mostly about joyce finding out and getting protective of billy, so)

(read on ao3)

Jane didn't speak for seven days after they lost Hop. 

Joyce made space for her in their home, accommodated as best she could. Will offered her his room and promised he didn't mind sharing with Jon, they used to bunk together on the rare weekends when Lonnie remembered he had kids anyways. More often than not though, Jane would sneak into Joyce's room in the middle of the night, awkwardly hovering in the doorway until Joyce patted the empty space next to her and Jane would crawl into the covers silently, cheeks wet with tears. 

That first night Joyce tried to talk to her about it, with soft words and a story or two about the trouble she and Hop used to get up to as teens, hoping to coax a smile out of her, or at the very least a story of her own in response. Something. Anything. She tried to tell herself it was only because she was trying to help, but there was a selfish part of her deep down that just wanted someone to share her grief. Jane was the only other person in the world who felt his loss as much as she did, and she needed help shouldering the burden. 

But Jane would only listen. Curled on her side and squeezing Joyce's hand, blinking up at her with red-rimmed eyes. 

Joyce would wait until Jane fell asleep to shed her own tears. She's up at all hours nowadays, watching every shadow, listening in the dark, a cigarette between her shaking fingers. Her boys have noticed, she knows it. Jon's picking up more slack than usual, cooking meals and cleaning house and making sure Will is always accounted for. And Will. Will has barely said more than Jane has. He's always been a quiet boy, but…well.

Even his friends spending all their time around the house hasn't brightened his mood. Mike has been glued to Jane's side, getting more and more drawn and frustrated the longer she goes without speaking. Dustin and Lucas have been the loudest of the group, trying desperately to fill the silence, and Joyce can't say she isn't grateful for it. The house feels more full when they're here. It's easier to keep busy and not let her mind wander.

On the seventh day after the mall fire, Max Mayfield asks her if she can spend the night. She's been paler than usual. Withdrawn, but only when no one is looking. 

Joyce puts a gentle hand on her shoulder, "Of course."

She gives the girls her room, and says she'll sleep on the couch. No one believes her, but they don't bring it up. She sits at the kitchen table alone, fiddling with the ashtray Jon made her when he was eight. There's a chip in it from when Will, young and clumsy, dropped it while trying to present it to her with all the puffed-chest pride of a toddler given a task. 

He cried for twenty minutes after that. No amount of hugs and forehead kisses would get him to calm down until Jon told him, his dark brown eyes big and solemn, that he hadn't broken it, he'd given it some character. 

Things were so much simpler back then.

Not easier, not really, just…less complicated. 

At two am she decides to brush the stale coffee taste out of her mouth, but stops dead in her tracks on the way to the bathroom. 

"I hate him," Max's quiet sniffling filters muffled through the closed door. 

She shouldn't be eavesdropping. But she can't…not. The walls are thin, and the floor creaks, and she can't move without everyone in the house knowing she's frozen awkwardly in her own hallway. 

Well. She toes at the carpet with socked feet. She might be able to sneak away. Maybe. But…

She's concerned. 

God, she's becoming her mother. Nosy to a fault.

"I'm just…I'm just so angry, you know? He—he saved your life, and I'm grateful for that, but," she pauses, and there's rustling, a sigh, "Stupid asshole up and left me. Everything we've been through and he…he's gone, just like that, it's not fucking fair." 

Joyce had heard about Billy Hargrove from Jonathan. Just a little bit, vague details. "There's some new guy at school," with a scrunched up face, nose wrinkled with distaste. And a week later, "He got into it with Steve, knocked him around pretty bad." It made Joyce nervous, whenever she saw him around town, picking up cigarettes from the store on the corner, driving that loud car of his up main street. She'd always think of the Harrington boy's face, bruised and swollen, the worst-case-scenario that used to haunt her thoughts after Lonnie gave Jon a black eye when he was ten. 

Then, "Max's brother, he, uh…" Solemn brown eyes. It's not broken it has character. "He got…possessed, I guess." Standing in the Starcourt parking lot with a shock blanket around his shoulders, sweat matted in his hair, Jonathan pieced together what he knew. It wasn't much, and she couldn't stop thinking about Hop's teary nod, the white light that burned her eyes even though she closed them, the empty space where he'd been standing seconds before. 

She feels horrible now, for only half-listening. For not giving much thought to the boy who died saving Jane. 

He was just a kid. Only a few years older than Will. 

"How did he even get caught up in this bullshit?" Max's voice breaks, despite the force of her anger, cracks under the strain of her grief. "Did…did you see? When you looked into his memories."

The silence is heavy. Strained. Joyce chews the inside of her cheek. She doesn't expect Jane to reply, and figuring she's heard enough she goes to tiptoe away.

"Yes." 

Joyce freezes. Jane's voice is barely more than a crackly whisper, but unmistakable. There's a pang in her chest at the sound of it, emotion welling up, thick in the back of her throat. 

"What happened?" 

She can't help leaning in a little, stopping just shy of pressing her ear directly to the door.  

"It was…nighttime. He was driving." There's a pause. "Mrs. Wheeler wanted to see him."

…What?

"What?" Max echoes, breathlessly scandalized. She can't think it was like that. Was it?

No, there's got to be an innocent explanation. She struggles to come up with one, but it must exist. Karen is her friend. Sort of. They went to school together. They've known each other their whole lives. Back when they were teenagers Karen had a bit of a reputation, sure, she was a ditz with lofty romantic notions and a string of boyfriends willing to play along, but she's settled since she got married, and she isn't a predator. 

"He was going to. A mo-tel," Jane sounds out the syllables carefully, a child repeating an unfamiliar word. 

Joyce's heart drops. 

Her first, and worst, thought is about how that boy used to parade around town, drawing as much attention as possible. She'd never seen him with the same girl twice, and she'd never seen him in modest, weather-appropriate clothes. Karen was always weak for a flirty guy, she was easy to take in with a few flattering words, and by the time she realized they didn't mean any of it they'd already gotten what they wanted from her. 

She assumes Billy must have laid it on thick, as he was prone to do, and Karen fell for it, like she always did.

But that was when she was a teenager too. When she was a silly, impressionable girl, not a married woman with three children of her own. 

Her children, Christ. Joyce's stomach turns. Billy was in Nancy's year. He was Jonathan's age. 

Bile burns the back of her throat. 

She'd been hearing gossip about Karen and half her book club spending every day at the pool all summer and she hadn't thought anything of it. Not a goddamn thing. How long had it been going on? Was she sleeping with him when he was still in school?

Joyce puts her head in her hands and lets out a slow, silent breath. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. She doesn't feel any calmer but she feels less like throwing up. Confused, directionless anger prickles under her skin. It's easier to be angry. At Karen for taking advantage. At herself for not caring soon enough. At everyone for not seeing it before it got him killed.

She hears Max swearing, ranting, none of it makes sense and she can only make out every other word. She's not sure Max even knows what she's saying.

There's this…itch. In her brain. That little buzz at the base of her skull, when she needs to get up and do something, when she can't sit still, stay quiet, but. But there's nothing she can do. There's nothing to be done. 

Her fingers clench in her hair, hands trembling as she aimlessly pushes her bangs back.

She can't do a goddamn thing.

**

It takes Joyce three weeks to lose her shit.

She's been trying to get Jane settled in—with a few new things and a lot of hand-me-downs, she's tall enough to fit into a lot of Joyce's old clothes—but it's been…challenging. She still barely speaks. Joyce isn't sure if that's normal for her, and that's part of the problem. As much as she wants to take care of this child she barely knows her, and the universe doesn't seem to be that keen on giving her the time to change that. 

Because she has…a lot on her mind. Looking into places to move, for one. Sunny places. With minimal suspicious deaths. And work has been much busier now that the mall has burned down. And people all over town are still talking about it, people who have no idea. Who don't know. They still pat her hand and tell her Hop was a hero, like that will make her feel better about pulling the switch that got him killed. 

And then there's…the Billy issue.

Max comes around the house a lot. Always wearing a denim jacket that smells like Marlboro Reds. Snapping at Mike more and more often. And Joyce has no clue what to say to her. 

If there's even anything she could say.

She keeps…failing. She failed Will. She failed Bob. Hop. Twice over, when she couldn't get him out of that base alive. And now. His daughter is struggling. Her friends are struggling. Joyce is doing everything she can but it's not enough, and it's driving her crazy.

She can't scratch that itch in her brain, no matter what she does. No matter how much often she rents Jane's favourite movies to watch as a family, or sits with her after dinner and goes over the writing and grammar worksheets they got from the library, or insists on cooking dinner and pretends Jonathan isn't hovering over her shoulder the whole time expecting her to burn their grilled cheeses. 

Because every time Max stays over they all act like they can't tell she's been crying, like they don't see her eyes go vacant whenever someone lights up a cigarette or a car engine rumbles in the background or any number of tiny things Joyce doesn't catch that must be tearing Max up inside. Joyce lets her stay and puts food on her plate and a comforting hand on her shoulder but none of it helps.

And four weeks after Billy died, Karen Wheeler walks into Melvalds General, her hair perfectly curled, a tiny, sad smile pulling at her lips when she spots Joyce in her employee vest. She's coming over, hands folded to her chest, freshly manicured nails sparkling, the picture of grace and sympathy, with her soft eyes and pouting lips. 

The whole routine has never rung so hollow before. Discomfort tugs at Joyce's insides, writhing in her guts. 

"Joyce," Karen calls, stepping delicately around the half-unpacked box of mouthwash on the ground. Stocking shelves has never been Joyce's favourite part of her job, but she'd rather keep doing that than have this conversation. Karen reaches out, grasping Joyce's elbow. "I'm so sorry. I should have come to see you sooner…I know you and Chief Hopper were close." 

Joyce shakes her hand off. "Sort of busy here, Karen. Work. You know how…it…" She pauses, and shrugs awkwardly, gesturing to the bare shelf behind her. "I'm in the middle of something."

That earns her a frown, a pitying look, sympathy to the point of condescension. "Did you take any time off? After…you know."

Like she can afford that. Jonathan's making less at his new job than he did working for the Post and she's got another mouth to feed now. Two if she's counting Max, which she might as well. 

Max, who's a ticking timebomb nowadays. A raw nerve trying to pretend she isn't. A shell of the vibrant girl Joyce met last November. 

Because her brother is gone, and it's Karen Wheeler's goddamn fault.

The itch returns with a vengeance. Crawling up her spine, a thousand tiny needlepoint fingers prodding her back. Her stomach feels like dropped jello, jittering fragments smashed on the ground. 

She hasn't been told, in so many words, what life in the Hargrove household was like—is like—but Max says just enough that Joyce can put the pieces together. It's not a pretty picture.

And Karen got to go back to her cushy little life, getting her nails done and making casseroles like there's nothing wrong in the world, like her children haven't been fighting monsters right under her nose for years. Doling out advice like she knows a single thing about what any of them have gone through. Walking around with her head in the clouds because she can still pretend she's living in a normal town with normal problems.

Something bitter an angry takes ahold, all spite and thorns and a gnarled lump in her throat. 

"What about you, Karen?" Joyce manages to keep her voice steady, calm on the surface and cold underneath. 

Karen blinks at her, tilting her head in confusion. "Me?"

"Well, you knew someone who died in the fire too." 

"I…a few of them, yeah." She folds her arms around herself. "It's a small town. But I didn't know any of them that well."

"No?" Joyce grits her teeth, venom sour on her tongue. "What about Billy Hargrove?"

He died saving Hop's daughter, and no one will ever know. As much as Joyce hates that everyone has an opinion about Hopper's death, she's starting to hate even more that Max will never once be told her brother was a hero.

Calling Karen out won't change anything, Joyce is just tired of being angry in secret. 

It's almost satisfying to watch the colour drain from her cheeks. Less so to see her eyes start to shine with tears. "He…taught Holly a lot. She used to be terrified of the water, you know." 

There's guilt colouring her grief. If Joyce didn't know to look for it she wouldn't have been able to tell, but it's there. It's also not enough. It's the vague regret of a woman carrying one tiny little secret, a woman who carries her past but isn't haunted by it. The rest of them have ghosts that following them every waking hour but Karen doesn't seem to be aware of hers. 

"I know what you were doing!" Her voice cracks this time, strains under the weight of everything she has to hold back. "Don't act dumb, I know you aren't," she snaps when Karen opens her mouth.  

"I—I didn't do anything—"

"Bullshit! Half the town saw you at the pool every day, drooling all over that boy, treating him like a piece of meat." That's all he was to anyone, wasn't he. Eye candy. Cannon fodder. A body for the Mind Flayer to take and use up. Joyce's eyes sting, and she jabs a finger into Karen's shoulder. "He was a child! How do you justify—"

"He was eighteen!"

"Exactly!" Joyce throws up her hands, the rage thrumming through her flares, all motion and energy and flushed cheeks. She doesn't care that her voice is getting shrill, her hands are shaking, Karen is glancing around the store nervously. "You took advantage of him, and you should have known better!"

"Joyce—Joyce, I swear I never—I have a husband for god's sake! I was just, I was just—he was just so nice, and, and I was lonely, but I never…" She breaks into tears, shoulders shaking, she presses a hand over her mouth when a sob tries to escape her. "It was a mistake," she says, voice wet and muffled by her palm. 

Joyce clenches her jaw, and grinds her teeth, swallowing some of the bile crawling up her throat. "It never should have happened in the first place. None of it." 

"I know."

"He was far too young for you."

"But—"

"A teenager, Karen! He was a teenager! In high school! He should have been worrying about zits and homework and goddamn prom, not middle aged women preying on him because they're trapped in failing marriages and trying to relive their youth." 

Karen's eyebrows shoot up, and she mouths wordlessly, tears still dripping down her cheeks. "That's…" she sputters. "At least I still have a husband." She winces as she says it, with an immediate look of regret.

"That's what you're going with? Really?"

"I'm sorry, I shouldn't have…"

"I don't give a damn what you think of me and my life. And I'm not the one you owe an apology to." 

"I'm trying to do better, okay," Karen sighs, wiping her cheek with the back of her hand. She looks tired. "I'm working on my marriage. And the kids…things have been so strained lately, but…I'm trying. I really am. It's not like I ever made a habit of going around flirting with random men!"

"What about boys."

"No—listen, it wasn't like that! He was—"

"Oh please don't say 'mature for his age'."

"I'm sorry, ma'am, is there a problem here?" Joyce's manager appears around the corner of a shelf. She'd almost forgotten there are other people in the store, but suddenly she'll aware of every eye turned in their direction. The nosy old church lady in the next isle, peering through the stacks. The pair of teenagers gaping at them from over by the watch display. 

It's not the first time she's been a spectacle, but it seems like Karen isn't as acclimatized. She pales, and her eyes go wide. "N—no," she pastes on an unconvincing smile.

"Joyce, that shelf is still bare."

"Yeah, yeah," she mutters, and mock-salutes. "On it."

Karen scurries out of the store, whispers following her the whole way out.

It doesn't feel like a victory. It might just make everything worse, who knows. There's petty satisfaction in seeing Karen embarrassed, but Joyce is sure she didn't get through to her, not really. She doesn't understand the depth of her mistake, and she probably never will. 

Joyce scratches the back of her neck. And gets back to work.

**

A week later Steve Harrington shows up on her doorstep with Billy Hargrove, bloody, bruised, and half conscious, plastered to his side. 

"I didn't know where else to go," he says all in a panicked rush. He wipes his forearm across his face and leaves a smudge of dirt over one eyebrow. Billy blinks at her, bleary, unfocused, seemingly unaware of Steve's vice grip on his waist, and the tiny, gentle stroke of his thumb against the arm he's swung firmly over his shoulders. 

Joyce's heart is in her mouth. She swallows, and tries to stay calm. There's an open, anxious plea all over Steve's face and she needs to get him through this somehow. 

"You did good, honey, bring him inside."

Will's asleep, and Jon is at work, but the door of her bedroom creaks and Jane pops her head out as Steve is hauling Billy into the living room. 

She goes wide-eyed. Then teary. "Max," she says after a beat, and slips back into Joyce's room, presumably to make a phone call. 

"You stay with him, okay?" Joyce pats Steve's shoulder. He's tense. Joyce wonders where exactly he found Billy, and what he had to do to get him here. 

Steve nods jerkily, an perches on the coffee table across from the couch he laid Billy down on, bouncing his leg. Staring. Flexing his fingers over and over again, fists pressed to his thighs.

There's something there and Joyce doesn't have time to unpack it.

She grabs a bowl from the kitchen. Fills it with warm water. Watches the water swirl, splash, droplets clinging to the plastic sides. Her vision is a little fuzzy. She's a little light-headed. 

Billy is alive. 

Somehow.

It's odd, seeing him in person again. He used to scare her. She can vaguely remember it. What it was like before. When he was an unknown, a new kid projecting danger as far as he could. It's like seeing behind an optical illusion. Figuring out how a magic trick works. Realizing that he was just a moth with a flashy pattern, hoping not to get eaten. 

But wherever he's been, he's lost weight, lost that mask he used to wear everywhere. He's cracked open and bleeding on her couch, looking every bit the scared kid he always was. 

Her heart aches.

Steve hastily folds his arms across his chest when she walks back into the room, a first aid kit tucked under her arm and a clean cloth floating in her bowl of water. 

"Is he doing alright?" Joyce asks softly, glancing between the two of them. Billy startles at the sound of her voice, and Steve folds his lips between his teeth, looking pained.

"He…um." He doesn't even glance in Joyce's direction. Not for a second. She was under the impression these two weren't friends, but maybe she was wrong. "I'm not sure."

"Okay." She plonks the bowl down next to Steve, and sits on the couch, keeping a careful distance between her and Billy. He's shaking like a leaf and she doesn't want to spook him even more. "Help me get him cleaned up a little? It'll be easier to tell if he needs medical attention."

God, she needs a cigarette. Her nerves are fried and it's taking everything she's got not to just collapse right now. She's been awake for nineteen hours and the real estate agent that was supposed to contact her today flaked, and none of that even matters right now because she just wants to do something stupid like wrap both these boys up in soft blankets and mother the hell out of them.

Steve takes the cloth, pinching it between two fingers and eyeing it like it's a bug crawling in his lunch. His movements are stilted, unsure, but Billy lets him wipe the mud from his face without incident while Joyce roots through her kit. She keeps it better stocked than she used to. And thank god for that. 

Though Billy's injuries don't seem too severe, Joyce notes as Steve continues to clean him up. The way he's moving his hands might mean trouble, he winced his way through Steve's ministrations and now he's keeping them curled in his lap, stiff and shaky, bruises darkening his knuckles. But other than that they seem to mostly uncover scars. 

"I, um. This water is…" Steve gestures at the bowl of murky water. His gaze flicks over Billy, jumping from his hands to his eyes to the scars crisscrossing out from under his shirt. He jumps up, suddenly, water sloshing onto the carpet as he picks up the bowl. "I'll be right back," he announces, voice high and strained.

Joyce blinks at his retreating back. Then turns to Billy, whose gaze is lingering on the doorway Steve disappeared through. "So, you two are close, huh?"

He startles, and recoils, and shakes his head. "Not really." His voice is croaky, low and dry. She should've gotten him water to drink too.

He's fidgeting, anxious, unable to meet her eye, like a kid caught doing something they shouldn't. 

"Well, he seems to care about you." 

She doesn't expect the tears that well up in his eyes, spilling over without warning. He ducks his head like he's trying to hide it, but she's already seen. And there's no hiding the way his shoulders shake as he tries to steady his breathing. 

Her heart breaks for him. Like it has been, again and again, for weeks now. 

"Oh, honey," she says quietly, sadly, and he finally looks up at her, eyes shiny, cheeks wet. They look nothing alike, not really, but she's struck by an image of Will, three years old and bawling his eyes out over a chipped ashtray. The same feeling wells up in her chest, the same overpowering need to scoop him up in her arms and keep him away from anything that's ever hurt him. 

She slides over and pulls him into a hug. 

"You're okay now, it's okay." 

He's tense, and trembling, and she thinks maybe she did the wrong thing here, but then he shatters, with a tiny, wounded noise, collapses against her, tucked into the crook of her neck like Jonathan used to when he was having trouble sleeping and she'd have to carry him for hours while he dozed. 

He's okay. She'll make sure of it.

~tag list @spreckle @growup-thatbeautiful @prettyboy-like-you @suddenlyinlove

[dangerously-human]

The thing about this week's primary doctor appointment is I did walk out with almost everything I asked for - a referral for sleep testing, an appointment for blood work to get back on my existing meds, a suggestion for a nutritionist to meet with as a first step to sorting out my recurrent weight issues (I do not trust that field and the likelihood that I'll go is pretty low, but we'll see), even a script for Strattera... but based on the doctor's reticence and tbh kind of nastiness around the Strattera, I don't know if I should actually take it. The thing is that nothing in this world scares me worse than a depression relapse. I can do minor ones, I do those all the time in fact, but the idea of that as a med side effect scares the shit out of me, because now we're putting me back in the place I was when I was on antidepressants, you feel? And I'm very very scared of the effects of going off of mental health meds - knowing that I usually can't stay on anything consistently - having done my fair share of suicidal spins in college accidentally going off SSRIs cold turkey. And then when I tried to express that and ask what I should do to keep an eye out for it, and she said I should just be able to tell if my mood gets bad and I said well listen, I know I have a history with anxiety and depression and being autistic, I don't always notice a change right away, for her to then say, you have to be in therapy again, and you should probably go back on Lexapro, and probably your symptoms are just depression and I shouldn't even be giving you Strattera in the first place, that's when I really melted down. So you can understand where I might be a tinge concerned about taking this. Even though I actually think it will make my life a lot more manageable, on multiple fronts. Even though I'm old enough that the risk of depression as a side effect isn't so high anymore, and in fact this medicine works as a low-level antidepressant anyway. Even though I've gotten much better at staying on meds where there will be an immediate impact to quitting - I haven't had any issues with propranalol, for instance, just the ones that need blood work. And I guess, even though I'm scared, I'm also really excited by the prospect of being able to focus again in a way I haven't had for 10+ years, and maybe even keeping up with life outside of work and school. If I treat the ADHD, theoretically it would become much easier for me to stay on top of all my meds anyway. My mom suggested that I make an appointment with my old therapist to ask for her advice, and she also thought I should get back on thyroid meds first to see how that helps my attention - but the executives were dysfunctioning even before I went off that, and also it'll take a couple months for the Strattera to kick in, which would be minimally helpful for grad school purposes if I don't start now. So, where does that leave me? Idk, honestly. I guess the first step is just to pick up all my pills from the pharmacy, and then I think and pray about whether and when to take them. I wish I had a doctor I trusted enough that this didn't feel like a big decision.

[alj4890]

Can't Help It

(Tobias Carrick x F!MC) in a Choices Open Heart One-Shot

Tobias Carrick Appreciation Week

Day 5: Dating

A/N Going back to my HC for this one where Tobias and Chris start dating when they first meet in Book 2 in the diner. Also bringing in my OC's that are his closest friends and fellow ladies' men.

Masterlist

JJ Foley's Bar and Grill, happy hour

"About time you showed up." Will quipped.

Tobias sat down across from his two friends. He grimaced slightly over that type of greeting while reaching for a menu.

"I thought you were off today." Dean added.

"I was." Tobias replied. "Sorry I'm late. I lost track of the time."

Dean and Will shared a puzzled look.

Deciding to drop the matter for more important endeavors, the two pointed out a table of ladies.

"We thought it only fair to have you along before we went over." Dean explained.

Will leaned back in his chair, a flirty smile appeared as he glanced over and caught the eye of a blonde. She whispered to her group of friends, causing them all to look over at the trio of men.

"I'm not in the mood." Tobias grinned at his friends. "But by all means, go talk to them.

Will's chair hit the floor with an audible thud. His eyes widened while Dean sputtered into his pint glass.

"Not in the mood?" Will repeated.

Dean pointed a finger at Tobias. "Who are you and what have you done with our friend?"

Tobias shrugged, still smiling. "I'm still me."

He glanced over at that table once more.

"There's nothing over there I'm interested in."

"Nothing over there--" Will dropped his head in his hands and gestured weakly towards Tobias. "He's killing me."

Dean couldn't believe what he was hearing. "You do see what's over there, right?"

He held up three fingers. "How many fingers am I holding up."

"Three." Tobias chuckled.

Will lifted his head, narrowing his eyes in concern upon their friend.

"We haven't seen you in a couple of weeks. What's been going on?"

"And we know it isn't work." Dean added.

Tobias took a deep breath and slowly released it.

"I've met someone." He admitted.

"You've what?!" Will exclaimed in horror.

"How dare you?" Dean uttered.

Tobias burst out laughing. "Guys, I promise when you meet her, you'll understand."

"Meet her?" Dean sputtered. "You actually want us to meet her?"

"Oh God." Will whispered dramatically. "It's happened. You went and decided to hang up your single shoes, didn't you?"

Tobias and Dean stared at Will in amused confusion.

"Single shoes?" Tobias snorted.

"What the hell are single shoes?" Dean asked between snickers.

"Forget the shoes!" Will ordered, knowing it didn't make sense to himself either. "We have a huge problem here. Our brother in arms has been shot down and captured by a woman."

Tobias grinned. "It's true."

Dean shook his head, refusing to accept that the one friend he knew who would always enjoy the single life could just up and change practically over night.

"Look, Chris is coming here so she can meet you guys." Tobias told them. "Act nice, okay?"

"Act nice?!" Will threw his hands up in defeat. "Next you'll be telling us she's your girlfriend."

Tobias's smile grew larger.

"Stop!" Dean pinched the bridge of his nose. "No more, please."

He studied his oldest friend and noticed the telltale signs of a man completely smitten.

"She's why you were late." He observed.

Will looked up in horror when Tobias actually squirmed over that.

"In my defence," Tobias argued, "I've never been with anyone longer than a second one night stand. Since I want more with Chris, she deserves a little more thought about how we should spend our nights together."

He shrugged with no shame whatsoever. "I was looking up places I could take her tonight when I realized the time."

"Dear God, this Chris broke him." Will muttered. "The greatest ladies' man has died a swift death."

"Cool it with that ladies' man talk." Tobias hissed when he noticed that Chris had walked in. "I mean, she knows, but doesn't know just how big of one I was."

He got to his feet, waving to get Chris's attention.

Will and Dean leaned over to get a better look at this murderer of a good time.

"A redhead." Dean let out a slow whistle. "Wow."

"She's hot." Will conceded.

Chris greeted Tobias with a sweet kiss before turning to meet his friends.

"Hello." Her smile was warm and friendly after Tobias introduced her. "I've heard so much about you."

She then playfully pushed Tobias. "You didn't tell me they'd be so handsome."

Having been instantly won over with that observation, Will and Dean reverted back into their usual, charming personas.

"He didn't warn us just how beautiful you'd be." Dean's dimpled grin that made me a lady secretly sigh appeared.

"Nor did he tell us how intelligent you are." Will complimented with a hint of mischief. "Any chance you accidentally picked the wrong guy? Dean and I are much more fun than the good doctor here."

"Is that so?" Chris pretended to consider changing up men.

Tobias cleared his throat and cocked an eyebrow at her in playful warning.

"I think I'll stick with my original pick." She squeezed his hand.

Leaning closer to his friends, she loudly whispered with a wink, "But be on standby."

After placing their drink orders, the pair found themselves approving of Tobias's reason for not flirting with anyone else. They realized that they should have known it would take someone like this to make him willingly give up his old lifestyle.

Chris's warm, fun loving personality charmed them. Her humor and easy going manner made them wonder where she'd been all their lives. Then, she sealed the deal by proving she'd be one excellent wingman.

"Hey," she leaned closer to whisper to them. "There are two fine ladies in the back corner who haven't been able to take their eyes off of you."

The two men glanced over their shoulders and saw she hadn't exaggerated. The come hither looks they were receiving caused them to excuse themselves.

"I hate to leave a beautiful woman for another." Will winked at her.

"But since you are sadly taken, we'll go nurse our sorrows with those two." Dean added.

Chris blushed, shaking her head in amusement. "Enjoy yourselves."

They waved farewell to the couple, still grinning as they walked away.

Tobias watched them go, chuckling over the fact that they'd turned to putty once Chris showed up. He never doubted they'd love once they met her.

"So?" Chris turned towards him with a flirty smile. "Are you here with someone or does a girl have a chance to get lucky?"

"Sorry." Tobias leaned closer to her. "Not only am I here with someone, I'm about to leave with her."

"Damnit." Chris snapped her fingers. "I was so certain you'd be single."

"Not anymore." He got up after paying their tab, and tugged her out the door.

Once outside, the two wrapped an arm around the other's waist.

"What would you like to do now?" She asked. "I don't have work tomorrow, so I can actually stay out late."

"About that." For the first time, Tobias appeared a bit bashful. "I knew you'd be off, so I made a couple of plans for us."

"You did?" She thought he looked adorable while he discussed possible date ideas he'd thought about.

"I was thinking dinner, then perhaps a walk around the Commons." He smiled at her. "The flowers are blooming. I know you said the other night that you used to walk around different gardens of Inverness this time of year. Maybe the gardens here will give you a sense of home."

Chris felt herself melt that he'd thought of something to help with her occasional homesickness.

He squeezed her close. "It'd be a shame to waste a beautiful spring night indoors."

She cupped his cheek and tenderly kissed him.

She could feel him smile right before she ended the kiss.

"I take it you like my date idea?" He asked.

"I love it." She kissed him again. "I wouldn't mind if you planned more dates in the future."

"More dates?" He sighed with a twinkle in his eye. "I guess I could be persuaded to plan a few more for you."

"Just a few?" She teased.

He stopped her, pulling her into his arms. His head dropped down to rest against hers, while a tender smile played about his lips.

"If I say I intend on planning many more nights together, there'll be no living with you."

"Look at you." Chris laughed in the midst of another kiss. "Already talking about living with me."

Tobias became flustered at the thought. To be honest, he was shocked with how he didn't feel the slightest bit of panic at the notion of one day living with her.

Stepping back, Chris took his hand to pull him on to their next destination.

"Don't worry." She teased. "I won't tell anyone." Her eyes sparkled with humor. "You'll still be a proud, card carrying ladies' man by the end of the night."

Tobias laced his fingers with hers.

"That card was incinerated the moment our first date ended." He admitted.

Winking at her, he added. "You're stuck with me, Chris."

She winked back, squeezing his hand.

"I think I can live with that."

[theminecraftbee]

Ok, so I want to ask, because I want to write something with Watchers and Pearl, what would you say are the biggest sins to her character on watcher!Grian fics? I have a few ones in mind, but I'm curious on the opinion of other person

...okay so the thing is. i think... okay. so, to start: this isn't a knock on people who like sky siblings, or like writing grian and pearl as friends who lost each other because of evo, or all of that. i want to get that out of the way. hell, look at last days! i wrote some sky siblings! i get it!

okay. that paragraph is out of the way.

so. a problem i have with watcher grian fics in general is a tendency to reduce everyone to "guy to comfort grian" or "guy who is vessel for grian angst". and to some extent THIS IS FAIR. because it is a fic about grian. so, therefore, most of how we see other characters interact... will be in the context of grian.

however.

when pearl first joined hermitcraft and people were like "oh yeah she was in evo and on grian's build team". it suddenly felt like people... were only excited about her in the context of "how do we add this to the watcher grian canon". they made her grian's sibling, but only would characterize her in the context of "she is grian's buddy". and the type of pearl-related watcher grian angst i dislike... well. it almost always tends to focus on how sad grian is that he can't remember pearl. or how scared he is to tell pearl about what happened. and. pearl's existence in those fics revolves around how she makes grian feel and... nothing else.

and for a little bit, it felt like all the pearl headcanons weren't pearl headcanons. they were grian headcanons. pearl was just there to add to the world of grian. and it soured me. it soured me a lot. and the thing is, as i said: pearl and grian ARE friends and i DO get the sibling headcanons but oftentimes it felt like they were done solely to make grian a more interesting character, with no regard for pearl, who is plenty cool on her own, away from grian, you know?

anyway the fandom isn't as bad about that now - soup group helped a lot with this, and then double life also helped a lot with disabusing people of a lot of the worst of this. people having new groups and themes and things to do with pearl and pearl being less new helps. the biggest headcanon about pearl is no longer a headcanon about her relationship with a completely different person.

but like. you know. gestures vaguely. i still remember and so it's one more thing that makes me more wary of that genre.