#tw: loss of parent

[sunnydayzes]

The silence that came over the room after she spoke about her mother was deafening. It was almost as if Lyla had stolen the woman's breath away and she didn't know what to say in response. But, even mentioning what had happened aloud had created a tightening in her chest as the sadness started bubbling up to the surface again. She hated thinking about what had happened, and giving it a voice just made it even more real.

"Do you have a job? Can you pay rent?", the woman asked calmly, her features had softened since her confession, but she still seemed to be all business. Lyla couldn't really blame her. People had to make a living one way or another and her tragedy didn't stop the world from spinning - even though she had felt like it did.

"I....don't." She said, watching the woman's face quickly change. "But I will start looking. I'm sure I can find something. People need help all over this town.", Lyla said, reasonably, somehow finding a way to muster up a little bit of confidence.

There was another long stretch of silence, and then the woman let out a heavy sigh, and resumed her typing on her computer once more.

"Rent is 450 a month. It's due at the first of the month. You have a five day grace period, but anything after that is considered late. If you miss two payments in a row, you will be evicted. Do you understand?"

"Yes, ma'am.", Lyla said, trying to stop the tears that were brimming in the corners of her eyes. She felt such a wave of relief wash over her. She had found herself a home; and it hadn't taken that long at all. It felt like a blessing - like her momma was somehow still watching over her like she had her whole life.

"The first month I will wave the rent plus the usual moving in fees.", the woman said, as Lyla heard the sound of a printer going off in the background. "I know what it's like to be without a family."

"Thank you.", Lyla said, a small tear dripping down her face.

"Don't thank me yet, girl. You better find yourself a job. Are you still in school?", she asked as she pulled a piece of paper out of the printer and sat it down on the desk in front of her "Read over this and sign it."

"I just started my senior year.", Lyla replied as she looked over the document that was handed to her. It was a lease agreement. It seemed like pretty standard stuff, and Lyla didn't really see anything that concerned her. She hastily signed the document, handing it back to the woman, anxious to get her hands on the keys to her new home.

"Stay in school.", the woman said gruffly as she grabbed the piece of paper back and moved over to the copier. "Trust me. If you ever want to make something out of yourself, school should be your priority."

"Yes, ma'am." Lyla replied, remembering that she had promised her mother the exact same thing. She had dreams for herself - she wanted to open up her own little bakery and sell her treats to the world. She may not have needed an education for that dream, but she knew that it wouldn't have hurt anything.

"You can stop calling me, ma'am. My name is Barbara, but you can call me Barb.", she said, and Lyla saw the woman smile for the first time since she had entered the office as she turned back to Lyla and handed her a copy of the lease she had just signed. "Congratulations. You have a home."

Lyla stared down at that piece of paper as though it was going to disappear. She couldn't believe it was that easy. She knew that it probably should have been. Maybe the woman was taking pity on her, or maybe she just saw a way to make a quick buck. Either way, Lyla didn't have to worry about sleeping on the street that night, or any night after, and that was all that she cared about.

"I'm Lyla.", she said as she held out her hand. The woman didn't shake it, as she expected. Instead, she dropped a small key into the palm of her hand.

"You ready to see your place?", she asked, and Lyla nodded her head enthusiastically. "Follow me."

[heavenbarnes]

okay hear me out— softness and gentle topics aside, how would older bf!simon go about discussing his mom & Tommy? would it ever occur? Would it be a vulnerable and gentle discussion with sins laid on the table or would it be like pulling teeth— panic attack arises and the words are spewing.

at first I’d have headcanoned it that maybe we innocently question the clinginess but I’m not so sure anymore; feels like that would just be second nature for the two.

i’ve never ventured into this topic because it’s literally so devastating that i almost considered writing it out of canon for him- but it’s time 🫶🏼 (massive tw for family loss)

the day older bf!simon tells you about his family, it’s at breakfast.

he’d made the food and you’d made the coffee, both expertly passing each other in your kitchen until you’d settled at the table.

when he told you, you had toast hanging out your mouth.

“pardon?”

“i had a family”

you weren’t really talking about anything in particular, so you made quick mental work of skimming over your conversation until you found where this was coming from.

sunny outside, nice day, should go to the farmers market, get groceries, it’ll be crowded, family day-

i had a family

had.

oh.

your heart had start to speed up in your chest and part of you was scared simon’s military precision hearing would be able to tell.

judging by the look on his face, distant, quiet- he couldn’t hear the thrumming against your sternum.

you were thankful, it meant he kept speaking.

“my mum and my brother, tommy- he had a missus too and a kid”

had.

oh god.

he wouldn’t look at you, his gaze drifted out the window and onto the birds that were floating over the fruit tree in the backyard.

you couldn’t say there was much of you to look at, a hardline of your mouth and eyes that were willing themselves not to water.

“they weren’t in a good way- but i helped them get better”

the corners of your lips quirked reflexively but it fell away just as quickly, unable to escape the voice in the back of your head that kept saying the same thing.

had.

why is every thing in the past tense?

probably for the same reason this is the first time you’re hearing this story. when is the right time to get to this part?

the moment he cuts the rope, lets you down from where he’s had you hanging- you wish you could react in any other way.

instead, your mouth hangs open while your hand does its best to cover it.

the toast goes cold, so does the coffee.

the tears break through of their own accord.

and he still won’t look at you.

“oh, simon”

your mind races in a way you’ve never felt before, thoughts you’d never had before rising to the surface.

first, you want to hurt someone, anyone- whoever you can blame for doing this to simon.

(you quickly realise he’s probably already done that)

second, you want to take him by the shoulders and tell him that this was never his fault.

that there was nothing he did or could’ve done to deserve this.

and you’re sure that there’s layers to his job and things he’s done and seen that’d make him think that cannot be true.

but you don’t care- there is no human alive that could ever deserve what you’ve just been told.

you don’t care.

you love him.

third, you start to make sense of some of simon’s behaviours.

the way he calls your name when you’re at the other end of the house, just to know where you are.

the way you can turn around at any given moment and find him closer than your shadow.

the way he calls you on deployment only to hear you tell him you love him and you’re still home waiting.

the way he cannot exist without a hand on you, without knowing where you are, without knowing you’re still his.

and there you go again, wanting to hurt whoever put him in this position.

grateful to be able to love him how he needs but angry- blind rage in knowing what he went through to get to this point.

it’s why you’re out of your seat and wrapping your arms around his shoulders the minute you hear even a sniff.

you let him ruin your shirt with tears as strong arms wrap around your waist, pulling you so close into him you wouldn’t be at all surprised if the particles shifted just enough for you to become one.

as if you weren’t already.

you’d never, never ever, questioned simon’s ever present need to be close. you’d come to accept it, enjoy it, miss it when he was gone.

it was never overbearing, never out of line, always right when you needed it.

reminding you that he was there.

that he loved you.

that he needed you.

just as much as you needed him.

and god, did he need to be needed.

did he need you to pass him the pickle jar (even when you could open it just fine)

did he need you to make him take the rubbish out (when you could do it yourself)

did he need you to call him when the car was making a funny sound (when you knew it was the fan belt)

did you need him to pull you into his lap at the end of a long day and rest his lips against the crown of your head as he rubbed slow circles into your back.

like you were doing for him now.

“simon, i just need you to know- i’m not going anywhere”

you made it to the farmer’s market, eventually. it was crowded, meaning simon’s arm never let your waist.

not that you mind.

not that you ever mind.

[loveelizabeths]

love is what we choose to remember.

love elizabeth s.

[tawaifeddiediaz]

do you ever think about how much it hurts eddie when chris expresses how much of his mother he's beginning to lose. because we know that he does his best to keep her memory alive, that they go to her grave and they talk openly about her. but there are things that eddie will never be able to replicate for him - her voice, the way she smelled, the way she'd walk towards him, how she felt when she held him close, etc - and chris will continue to lose those details even if eddie talked about shannon 24/7 for the rest of his life.

that is a sort of helplessness that i don't think anyone talks about enough, and that makes eddie's expression when he overhears chris talking to buck all the more wounded

[luvrgreyy]

LAMBS TO THE SLAUGHTER, ii

leon kennedy x religious f!reader

word count: 3k summary: realizing parents don’t always know whats best. masterlist | taglist | ko-fi

previous chapter | next chapter

18+ MDNI. DEAD DOVE. religious themes, religious trauma, neglectful/abusive parents, physical abuse(not by leon), mentions of bruises and physical injury, age gap(reader is 19, leon is 27), reader tries coffee for the first time. there will be smut in future chapters.

a/n: sorry for making you guys wait, i wasn’t really contented with the first version i made of this so i decided to redo most of it, which didn’t turn out that good either. anyway, i hope you guys enjoy, likes and reblogs are greatly appreciated.

you had returned from leon’s house, the familiar scent of home enveloping you. the floral aroma of your mother's cleaning products mingled with the rich scent of your father's coffee, yet neither could dispel the unease that clung to you. the house was empty, amplifying the loneliness that settled like a weight in your chest.

of course, the chores. you still needed to finish them before your parents returned. you rushed to sweep the kitchen floor, hastening to the laundry next. the clock ticked ominously, each second a reminder of how little time you had.

but leon’s image haunted you, an uninvited specter in your mind. you tried to forget, to focus on your tasks, but your hands trembled as you attempted to fold a shirt, the fabric slipping from your grasp. frustration welled up within you, a sigh escaping your lips, as you envisioned his eyes, his smile, the warmth that seemed so foreign in your own home.

you moved onto the dishes, hoping the mundanity of the task would distract you. but the clattering plates only evoked memories of leon’s chuckle, his voice echoing in your thoughts, a gentle reminder of the fleeting moments you shared.

and despite your efforts, the chores remained unfinished. the broom leaned against the wall, dishes piled high in the sink, and the laundry lay untouched on the living room floor. the weight of your failure pressed down on you, a physical ache that matched the emotional turmoil.

you couldn’t recall how it happened, your mind always foggy afterward. one moment you were rushing to complete your tasks, the next you were lying on the floor, pain throbbing in your head. vision blurred, you struggled to sit up, the room spinning around you. you reached out, steadying yourself against the coffee table, the cold surface grounding you in reality.

that's when you noticed them — bruises blooming on your arms, smaller ones on your knees, cuts shallow but jagged on your knees and elbows, and tiny splinters embedded in your fingers. each mark a testament to the chaos that reigned in your home.

your parents towered over you, a sight you'd grown used to. their faces were contorted into rage, though you weren't entirely sure what you had done to deserve it. their anger was a constant companion, an ever-present threat.

your father grabbed you by the hair, yanking your head back painfully. "ain't this all you had to do before we came home? 'ts not so hard, is it? don't get what you had to do that's so much more important than what we tell you." you opened your mouth, but only a groan emerged, the pain throbbing in your head, each word a dagger to your heart.

your mother knelt down, roughly grabbing your chin to force you to look at her. "don't you dare act like you're hurt, missy. ain't nothin' hurt. you just want an excuse not to do your chores." her grip tightened, nails digging into your skin.

"we'll give you an excuse, you spoiled brat."

your mother kicked you hard in the side, a shout of pain escaping your lips. your father dragged you to your feet, his grip iron on your upper arm. he wrenched you toward the staircase, each step a reminder of your helplessness.

"up to your room, young lady. don't wanna see you down here till morning." you stumbled up the stairs, each step sending jolts of pain through your bruised body.

you remember it vividly, collapsing onto your bed that night, tears pricking at your eyes, attempting to sob quietly in the darkness of your room.

a storm brewed closer, and you sat in your disheveled cream-colored dress, swinging your legs from the trunk of a tree that stood between your house and his. your face was streaked with dirt and wind-blown hair. you gazed into the distance, fingers tracing lazy patterns on your thigh, oblivious to the world around you.

the front door creaked open, but you remained unaware, lost in your thoughts.

"hi, neighbor," you heard. your head snapped down, eyes meeting his, a flicker of surprise crossing your features.

"hi," a small peep escaped your lips, your voice barely above a whisper.

he stood there, looking up at you, concern etched on his face.

"everything okay up there?" he gestured vaguely at the branches surrounding you. you opened your mouth, but no words came out. just gasps and wheezes. your lungs felt like they were on fire. and all you managed was a quiet hum, just enough for him to hear.

his attempts to climb the tree were futile, making it halfway before he stood on the ground. "you know, there's a perfectly good porch down here. the grass is really nice this time of year too." his voice was gentle, a stark contrast to the harshness you were accustomed to.

you awkwardly shifted on the branch, attempting to cover your legs, the bark digging into your thighs through your dress. "how'd you get those?" his eyes lingered on your bruises, concern deepening.

"i— i'm not supposed to talk to you," you try to avoid eye contact. "sorry."

his brow furrowed slightly at your whispered response. "oh, come on. don't be like that," he leaned against the trunk, looking up at you with intense blue eyes. "talk to me." his voice was low and gravelly, sending shivers down your spine, a strange comfort in his persistence.

"i can't," your voice barely reached his ears, but he caught it. "i'm not supposed to tell."

"not supposed to tell what?" he sounded genuinely curious and a little amused, like he thought you were playing a game. his gaze drifted over your face, taking in your flushed cheeks and glassy eyes. "honey, you can tell me anything. i'm your neighbor, remember? you even bought me cookies. we're friends now."

you glanced down, then back up, then down again. your eyes darted around, worried someone might be watching. when they flicked back up to him, your brows furrowed, eyes frightened. "please, you can't tell anyone, okay? i'd get in so much trouble if my parents found out i told you..." you trailed off, biting your lip. your hands curled tightly around the branches above your head. you trembled slightly, the fear palpable.

"i promise, i won't."

"you gotta tell me why you're so scared to talk. what's going on at home?" his eyes... they just kept looking at you, seeing right through you. you swallowed hard, mouth suddenly dry. how could you explain? they'd hate you more if you told. and leon... he'd probably think you were weird. or broken. or worse.

but he asked. and he seemed like he wanted to know. and you really didn't want to cry in front of him. so you took a deep breath and told him the truth. "my parents... they hit me. only sometimes. when i don't do what they want." tears pricked your eyes, and you bit your lip hard, trying to hold them back.

you weren't crying. you weren't crying. you weren't... a sob escaped your throat, and soon you were hiccuping and sniffling, clinging to the branches as you cried. he just looked at you as you cried. "sorry."

he didn't say anything. didn't move. just kept looking at you as you cried. this was so embarrassing. but it also felt like a relief, finally telling someone the truth. even if that someone was a boy from next door you barely knew. after a few moments, he finally spoke.

"you know i'm here for you, right? you can talk to me, about anything." his voice was gentle now, not gravelly and teasing like before. "care to come down now?"

"can't," you timidly shook your head and turned away slightly. "it's almost dinner."

the wind whipped through the branches, the only sound echoing through the neighborhood. you looked down at him, his gaze fixed on you. the tears wouldn't stop. "please don't look at me like that," you sniffled, wiping your tear-streaked face with the back of your hands, wishing the ground would swallow you whole.

his lips parted as if to say something, but he was interrupted by the door squeaking open, your mother calling out.

"dinner's ready!” the sternness in her voice made you go rigid. your eyes widened, and your hand quickly slapped over your mouth to hold back a whimper. there wasn't much time left. you clambered down the tree, wincing with each bruise pushed to its limit.

halfway down, he reached up to help, his hand grasping your arm to steady you. your feet planted on the grass, you were met with a reassuring smile. "i'll see you later, yeah?"

"okay."

you turned back to your house, swallowing the dread building in your stomach. your mother stood at the front door, arms crossed, a stern look on her face.

"where've you been?" she snapped as you approached. "dinner's been waiting, you know."

"sorry," you swallowed your words. "i— i was outside. in the garden."

"in the garden," she repeated, a hint of suspicion in her voice, masked behind false care. she scrutinized you with her piercing gaze, taking note of your messy hair, dress covered in twigs, dirt stains. the evidence was all over you, each mark a silent accusation.

"well, c'mon then. no point in standing out here all night," she snapped. "go clean up. you're filthy."

later that night, after dinner and chores, you lay in bed, staring at the ceiling. thoughts fixated on leon. the way he looked at you. the way he listened. the way he didn't judge. his presence was a balm to your wounded soul, a flicker of hope in the darkness.

hours ticked by, sleep eluding you. every time your eyes shut, images of him popped into your head. his intense gaze, the small quirks of his expression, the timbre of his voice, and that slight, warm smile. each memory a lifeline, a reminder that someone cared.

you rolled over, pulling the blanket tighter around yourself, trying to push away the strange feelings stirring within. the uncertainty gnawed at you, a constant companion.

eventually, after hours of tossing and turning, sleep came at last. but it did not bring peace. your fears came to life in your dreams, the pain and dread all too real, haunting you, a relentless reminder of your reality.

the following morning, rain pelted against your window, the sound echoing through your small room. the weather matched your mood, a reflection of the storm within. groggily, you lifted yourself off the bed, body covered in aches and bruises from the previous day.

the rain continued, drumming against the roof. you stood at your window, staring into the gloom, mind wandering back to yesterday. to leon. to the way his presence had offered a momentary respite from your suffering.

a flash of lightning illuminated the sky, followed by a clap of thunder. you flinched, heart racing. the pain in your body faded as unease washed over you, the storm outside mirroring the turmoil within, each rumble a reminder of your unrest.

your groggy mind struggled to shake off sleep's haze. you sat up, rubbing the sleep from your eyes. the nightmare's memories lingered like a bad taste. rain lashed the window, creating a steady rhythm that filled the morning air, a symphony of sorrow.

carefully, you climbed out of bed, feeling the throb in your body, and pulled on the first outfit you found, not bothering to change into something clean. your hair was a mess, eyes heavy with unshed tears, the weight of the previous day still hanging over you.

you hesitated at the door, the rain's sound intensifying. but something pushed you forward. maybe it was the need for distraction, the curiosity of seeing leon again, or just the need for human interaction. the need to feel less alone.

you made your way to his house, shivering as cold droplets soaked through your clothes. the front door creaked open at your knock, revealing leon in all his disheveled glory. he looked as tired as you felt, but seeing him lifted a weight off your chest, a small comfort amidst the chaos.

"hey," he greeted, voice rough from sleep, his eyes warming as he took in your bedraggled appearance.

"hi," you smiled awkwardly. "i hope you don't mind, i was hoping we could kind of..."

"i don’t know, talk… i guess."

he blinked, slowly registering your smile. he stepped aside, allowing you in, his presence a silent reassurance.

"mind? are you kidding me? you're soaked. come in." he led you into the living room, closing the door behind you, the warmth of his home a stark contrast to the cold outside.

you shivered again, and he noticed, throwing you a towel. "here, dry off a bit." as you wrapped the towel around your shoulders, you noticed his eyes lingering on you, his gaze seeming to strip you bare. it made you shiver for an entirely different reason, a strange warmth spreading through you.

"i was just about to make coffee. want some?" he asked, gesturing to the kitchen, his voice a gentle invitation.

"no, thank you."

"are you sure? i just brewed a fresh pot," he stands there expectantly, hands resting on his hips. his gaze bores into you, studying you. like he's trying to figure out what's going on in that head of yours. you shift uncomfortably, feeling self-conscious under his scrutiny.

"okay," he eventually drops it. "so, what're you doing here this early?" he gestured, his curiosity evident.

why did you come here? oh right. to distract yourself. and also, because you sort of wanted... to see him. "i just... i had some free time, and i thought..." you trailed off, unable to meet his eyes. this felt so awkward, so vulnerable. he filled the silence with his understanding.

"no need to explain," he said. his voice was casual, but his eyes held concern. he studied you for a moment. "i get it."

the way your hair stuck to your face, the slight trembling in your fingers, the faint tinge of pink on your cheeks. you were vulnerable, and he sensed your deep troubles. he crossed his arms, leaning against the wall, his presence a silent support.

"you're shivering," he pointed out, voice concerned. "are you sure you don't want coffee?"

you shook your head. "i don't drink coffee," you cleared your throat. "my parents don't let me."

he quirked a brow, confusion and disbelief washing over his features. but his response held no judgment, just a matter-of-fact tone, his concern evident.

"your parents don't let you?" his voice was calm, yet his words carried a subtle bite.

you nodded. the tension was palpable. the silence that followed was filled with understanding, deeper than words. he saw through you, understood what you weren't saying, his gaze a silent promise.

"you're kidding,” he continued. "what kind of parents don't let their kid drink coffee?"

he said it half-jokingly, but not to tease. he was genuinely surprised at your strict situation, an absurdity to him, his disbelief a reflection of his concern.

"it's just coffee," he muttered. "not like its hard drugs or anything,"

"yeah," you chuckled uncomfortably, the sound a weak attempt to lighten the mood.

he stepped closer, leaning down to get a better look at you, eyes searching your face. "your parents... they don't let you do a lot of things, do they?"

"no," you mumbled, eyes shifting away. "but they say it's what's best for me."

his jaw clenched, eyes narrowing as you confirmed his hunch. your relationship with your parents wasn't healthy, a truth that weighed heavily on him.

he scoffed softly, pulling back. "right," he said, voice dripping with cynicism. "because your parents clearly know what's best for you, huh?"

"of course they do," your voice cracks. "they're my parents—“

"so what? being a parent means controlling your kid’s life?" he scoffed. "bullshit."

despite his bluntness, he didn't raise his voice. he wasn't angry, just frustrated. he wanted you to see the fallacy in your logic. it was difficult for him to witness your treatment, his concern a silent plea for you to see the truth.

he paused, gaze softening. he saw how much you held back, the tension in your shoulders, the nervous fiddling with your shirt's hem, each movement a silent cry for help.

"i—" you wanted to say something, but your voice was strained, just quiet squeaks, the words caught in your throat.

his face softened, realizing pushing further wouldn't help. his concern a gentle reminder that he was there for you.

"how about that coffee? i'll even make it decaf, so you don’t get those caffeine jitters," he smiled. "sound good?"

you nodded. "yeah, okay."

satisfied, he headed to the kitchen, returning with a steaming mug. placing it in your hands, he ensured your fingers were securely wrapped around it before letting go. his actions were gentle but firm, fearing you might crumble if too rough, his presence a silent comfort.

"careful," he cautioned. "it's hot."

the rain had stopped, replaced by a gentle patter of raindrops on the windowpane. finally, you broke the silence.

"thank you," you said softly. for the coffee, yes, but for everything else too.

tags: @lottiies @arcane5019 @crowleyco @catnipchannie

[danandfuckingjonlmao]

hey uhhhhh what the fuck

and why are most of us dannies like is this why dannies are the way we are

[steddieonmywaywardson]

What about Steve’s parents who aren’t abusive or neglectful?

The Harringtons have worked their asses off for years to obtain and maintain the lifestyle they currently have. The house isn’t cheap and neither is the fancy furniture.

Things get tough when Mrs Harrington passes away due to an accident or long illness and Mr Harrington has to work harder to cover the loss of income and the horrific medical bills as well as making sure his beloved wife gets the send off she deserves.

More hours means less time away from his son. He knows Steve is hurting too but, with nobody else to turn to, and knowing his son is made of strong stuff, Mr Harrington has to go away on more business trips and for longer, just trying to keep a roof over his son’s head and not drown in debt.

Steve misses his mother, of course he does, but he understands his father is trying his goddamn best to keep the finances under control.

This isn’t the time to think about college. It can wait. He needs to work, needs to contribute. So he puts himself out there, gets any job he can. Even if it comes with a dorky sailor suit.

It’s why he cares so much about The Party. He knows just how much it hurts to lose a parent not only to death but to work as well. El, Max, Eddie, they’re just like him and Steve is going to fucking be there for them, show them that love and care and try his best to fill up some of that hole in their hearts.

And when his feelings for Eddie become something more? Well, the hole in his own heart starts to heal as well.

[softhairedhotch]

this one to me feels much more oc-like than a reader-insert (bc of all the details i added) but a few of yous said to keep it as a reader fic so i hope this is okay!! don't hate me if you can't relate to it please n thanks <3 also sorry for the weird formatting of my fics/the random bold or italics or small text idk tumblr hates me and keeps doing it!!! comfortember day five: treehouse (+day eight: grief/mourning) aaron hotchner x gender neutral reader aaron is there for you, just like he always is, after you lose your mother. word count: 2.1k warnings/content: parent loss, death of reader's mother, hurt/comfort, some emotional conversations and sad topics, mentions of crying, pet names, kissing, hugging, established relationship. lyrics that inspired this: "do not enter" is written on the doorway / why can't everyone just go away / except you / you can stay / what do you think of my treehouse? / it's where i sit and talk really loud / usually / i'm all by myself

comfortember masterlist here!

also on ao3!

the treehouse

You step out into the back garden and take a deep breath, closing your eyes as you allow the crisp air to wash over you. Aaron steps out moments after and closes the door quietly before his hand finds your lower back. 

"You okay?" He asks, his voice just above a whisper. It's almost drowned out by the sound of mourning doves overheard.

You shrug, your shoulders feeling as though they’re being weighed down by the heavy armour you’re trying–and failing–to shield yourself with. “I will be.”

“Yeah.” He looks around the garden and lets out a short, flat hum. “But no one is expecting you to be okay, you know that, right? There’s no time limit; you’re allowed to grieve.”

“I know.”

“I know you do, sweetheart. But I just wanted to remind you.” You turn to look at him and, at the sight of his genuine concern, your brave face crumbles. He wraps his arms around you immediately, pulling you close and enveloping you in his warmth. “Hey, it’s okay. It’s okay, I’ve got you. I’ve got you, yeah?” 

“Yeah,” you whisper as you cling to him, trying your hardest to hold back your tears but failing miserably. “I know.”

“Good.”

“I just don’t know what to do.” 

Aaron presses a kiss to your forehead. “You don’t have to do anything.”

You pull back and look up at him, confused. “Yes, I do. I have to… to get rid of everything and sell the, the house. And do all the paperwork and figure out what to do with her antiques and, and, and–”

“Hey, hey,” he interrupts you gently, pulling you back into a tight hug. “Don’t worry about any of that right now. I’ll do that.”

“What, no–”

“Let’s not talk about this now, okay? We’ll sort it out later or tomorrow. Give yourself some time to think about it.”

“But what do I do in the meantime? I can’t just… sit around.”

He thinks for a moment. “Show me around.”

“What?”

“Show me around the house. Tell me everything you can, anything you can remember, and I’ll listen. I wanna know what life was like for you.”

You almost burst into tears at his words. “Really? You wanna know about my childhood?”

“Sweetheart, I wanna know everything about you.”

***

You take Aaron inside the house, taking him to the living room. The room hasn’t been touched in a few days, save for a few files on the coffee table you checked earlier, and you feel sick at the thought of leaving the house behind once everything’s packed away. Then the thought of having to pack everything away makes you feel even worse and you sway on the spot. Aaron notices you falter and reaches out to squeeze your arm gently, standing beside you patiently. 

“I don’t know what I’m gonna do when all this is gone.”

“It doesn’t have to be gone,” he replies. “You can take it all.”

“And keep it where?”

“In our house, in a storage container… there’s many places.”

You think for a moment, holding back tears, before shaking your head. “No. I need to… to let it go. Not all of it, but I can’t keep everything. She wouldn’t wanna weigh me down with all her stuff.”

“Alright,” Aaron says, squeezing your arm again and leaning to press a soft kiss to your cheek. “Take anything you need. I promise we’ll find a place for it. That sound good?” 

You nod and lean into him for a moment before slowly making your way through the living room, grabbing the objects with the most significance to you and telling Aaron about them before sorting them into a box to take back to the house. You pack a few of your favourite DVDs, ones you’re sure won’t even play anymore with how scratched they’ve become, as you tell Aaron vague memories of watching them as a kid. What happened when you watched them, who you watched them with, how you felt–anything that comes to mind because you know he’s listening.

A few family photos are displayed on the TV stand, as well as a cabinet in the corner, and you relive the memories of when they were taken as you tell him all about them. He asks to look at one closer and you give it to him, watching as he smiles down at a photo of you with your old dog. “You looked happy.”

“I was,” you reply, nodding. “Some of the time, anyway.”

He gives you a small smile and hands you the picture. “I know what you mean.”

You continue to walk him around the house, showing him dents in the wall from where you hurt yourself and little drawings you hid behind drawers and peeling wallpaper. He listens intently, smiling at your happy anecdotes and comforting you when tears well up in your eyes as the worst memories cloud your mind. You show him your childhood bedroom, telling him about friends that used to come over for sleepovers and the first time you kissed someone behind the open door so no one would see. 

“My first kiss was with Haley,” he replies. “In the theatre room at our school.”

“Isn’t that where you first met her?”

“Yeah. I kissed her in the same spot I first saw her.”

“Aw,” you smile as you grab an old diary and throw it into your bag. You’ll read that later when you’re alone so you don’t embarrass or upset yourself anymore in front of Aaron. “You’ve always been a romantic, how cute.”

He blushes and presses a kiss to your cheek as he passes by, making his way to your desk and flicking through a few papers you left there when you were last over. “You think you’d want these?”

“Probably not, doubt they’re important.”

Aaron nods and begins to open the drawers, pulling out miscellaneous items and silently dividing them into piles of things you might want to keep and things you’d throw away. You watch him with a sombre smile, feeling your chest ache at the realisation that he knows you so well and that his love for you is endless. When he catches you watching him, he pauses and raises an eyebrow. “You okay?”

“I love you, you know that, right?” 

“Of course I do,” he replies, closing the drawer and walking back over to you, wrapping his arms around your waist to tug you close. “I love you, too. More than you’ll ever know.”

“Hm, I don’t know. I think I have a pretty good idea.”

“I don’t want to doubt you, sweetheart, but I really don’t think you do.” He presses a sweet kiss to your lips, channelling all his love into it. “I can’t even begin to express how much I love you. I just… do.”

You press another kiss to his lips to hide the tears welling up in your eyes. The love you feel for him is so strong it feels like you might burst. He kisses back, letting you take the lead. Pulling back, you look deep into his eyes and smile the first genuine smile you’ve been able to manage since you first heard the news. “I love you more.”

Aaron chuckles. “Sure you do.” He presses a chaste kiss to your lips with a hum. “Ready to carry on?” 

“Yeah,” you mutter, going to pull away before a thought strikes you and you let out a sharp breath. Aaron pulls you back into his arms immediately, looking down at you in concern but keeping silent to give you a moment to think. “Sorry, I just… realised that that was gonna be my last kiss in this room.”

“Is that a good thing? Or bad?”

“I don’t know,” you reply honestly, feeling out of it. “I don’t like the thought of everything we do in this moment being the last of anything, but… the fact that it’s you that I’m doing all this with… yeah, I think that’s a good thing.”

He smiles sweetly at you, love shining so clearly in his eyes, and presses a kiss to your forehead. “Then let's stay here for a little longer.”

“We should get it over with, I don’t wanna waste all your free time off work. You deserve to get some time to yourself.”

“Oh, honey,” he sighs, wrapping his arms around your shoulders and resting his head against yours. “This isn’t a waste of my time. Trust me. I want to be here, with you, for you, and that’s all that matters. Don’t think like that, okay? I’m here because I want to be, not because I feel like I have to. Does that make sense?”

“Yeah,” you whisper. “It does.”

***

“I guess that leaves the treehouse,” you shrug, feeling drained as you step back outside with Aaron following you. You stare up at the treehouse, wondering if it's necessary to go up there. “You don’t have to come up. It’s pretty small.”

“I’ll go wherever you go.”

“You’re so cheesy,” you say with a small smile, even when his words mean the world to you.

He smiles at you. “You love it.”

“I really do.” Making your way to the treehouse, you glance at Aaron and allow a small smirk to dance over your lips. “Don’t stare at my ass as I go up.”

Aaron laughs. “No promises.” 

You roll your eyes and begin climbing, risking a glance back to find Aaron’s eyes firmly on the ground and being as respectful as ever. It makes your heart skip a beat. Reaching the top of the ladder, you look at the treehouse's entrance and cringe at the big ‘DO NOT ENTER’ sign hanging beside the doorway. It was a sign you carved yourself when you were younger. When you look inside the treehouse, your heart aches as memories flood through you. It takes you a few seconds to force yourself inside but once you clamber in, you call down to Aaron to let him know he can join you.

The sound of him climbing up surrounds you as you push yourself into your favourite corner, one filled with soft padding and blankets. A few of your favourite books are scattered across the floor and pictures of you and your childhood friends cover the walls. The nostalgia hits you hard and you bite your lip to stifle a sob. 

Aaron joins you, crawling inside and looking around with interest. As he gets comfortable in the small space, his long legs curling against himself to fit, you realise it’s the first time anyone’s ever been in the treehouse with you. Or at all. 

He remains silent, waiting for you to be the first to talk. You appreciate that. 

“I used to come up here a lot,” you say after a few minutes. “To read, to think, to talk to myself out loud… everything.”

“And did it help?”

“Yeah,” you nod, reaching over to grab one of the books beside you. It’s one you’re sure you’ve read a million times over, the pages worn and yellowing and a small layer of dust covering the outside. “It was nice. Peaceful. Somewhere I was never bothered.”

“I had a place like that,” Aaron muses, smiling at you. “Not as personal as this, though. It was a bench a few blocks from where I grew up, hidden by a few overgrown trees. I liked it.”

“Did you go there a lot?”

“Whenever I could. Couldn’t go much in the winter because of the cold, though.”

You huffed out a laugh. “Same here. Still came here even if I meant I almost froze to death.”

His smile becomes sad but there's clear understanding in his expression. “Yeah.”

The two of you sit inside the treehouse for almost an hour, talking about whatever comes to mind. Aaron listens intently to every word you say, his comforting hand drawing patterns over your thigh and eventually over your side when you move to curl up against him. You feel yourself drifting off at one point when the exhaustion settles deep in your bones, feeling so safe and warm and loved and comforted beside him, but you force awake to finish back up in the house. 

Aaron follows you inside, as he always has and always will, and comforts you through everything that comes after that. He helps you pack up the house, assuring you over and over that you can take however many boxes you want back to the house you share with him. He sits with you for days after, mostly in silence when the grief catches up to you and you can hardly think, never once looking as if he’d rather be elsewhere. He holds your hand throughout the funeral, never once leaving your side or once letting you think for a moment that you’re ever alone. And even after it’s been weeks, months, years, since that moment, he’s there for you whenever you need a shoulder to cry on. Just like he always has been. 

[marisol-larosa]

My fingers curled protectively around the smooth ceramic clutched in my hands. Blood roared in my ears, somehow drowning out the sound of the waves that lapped at my toes. I could feel the wind pick up and tickle my hair across my face, while my skirt wrapped around my calves. I inhaled deeply and closed my eyes, imagining it was her. You’re doing the right thing. She tells me through the ocean breeze. This is what I wanted.

Suddenly, my thoughts are thrusted back to a time I desperately wanted to forget. It started with a little cough, nothing out of the ordinary for her since  chemotherapy had dried her throat. Then, the fever came. So fast; so high. She went from laughing and drinking her tea to cuddling under her blanket and shaking violently. I took her temperature. When I saw one hundred and three, I knew we were in trouble. I called Elliot in a panic and there he was, my mother in his arms as I followed them out of the building. We drove her to Mount Sinai, where my entire world fell apart.

Bacterial pneumonia. Sepsis. Organ failure. Gone. A week of suffering in the intensive care unit and then the light in my life was snuffed out. 

My mother was dreaming of the day she could return to Spain. She was so close. Too close to help me understand how this could happen. Instead of holding her hand on Levera Beach, I was holding her urn.

I felt a touch on my arm and came back to reality. The tide had risen over my ankles and tears trailed down my cheeks. “My girl,” Elliot murmured as his lips pressed to my shoulder. “Your dad and brother are here.”

The three of us shared crushing hugs that almost made me feel whole again. Elliot’s hand on my back and their arms around me pushed together the broken pieces of me, but only for a moment. We still had to let her go.

My dad murmured a Spanish catholic prayer. My brother told her how much he missed her. I thanked her for all of the lifelong lessons, the sacrifices she made, and for trusting me with caring for her during her final months. What a blessing it was.

I love you. I whispered as the wind took her ashes to the ocean, mixing with the salt and sand to become one with its infinity. I lost my breath as a gust whipped around me, almost like a hug. I like to think it was her. I love you too. 

☁︎  ☁︎  ☁︎  ☁︎  ☁︎  ☁︎  ☁︎  ☁︎  ☁︎  ☁︎  ☁︎  ☁︎  ☁︎  ☁︎

We flew back to Los Angeles the next day. Elliot spent the flight holding me, rubbing my back, kissing my face, throwing every ounce of comfort he could into me and all I felt was… grief. It swallowed everything else. He forced me to take sips of water because thirst had no room in the overwhelming sadness.

I spent days in bed while Elliot worked around the clock to care for me. Soup, electrolytes, baths — he did it all while I moved like the husk of the woman he once knew. 

Elliot didn’t sleep much in those days so when he did, he slept hard. It was the only way I was able to slip out of bed in the middle of the night, pack my bag, and leave. Adding another layer to my despair wasn’t in the cards, but I had to be selfless. I had to let him go.

El —

I cannot feel anything other than this all-consuming misery. I don’t want to subject you to it anymore. You deserve better.

I’m sorry.

M.

I left the note on the table, blocked his number, and disappeared into the night

[childlikegoblinqueen]

My question wasn't meant to be rude, sorry! I'm a fic writer too, I was wondering if you ever had second thoughts or something. Like, why do this when you could write your own stories? Or write nothing at all?

Oh jeez!!!! Now I feel bad if I came off as salty!

Haha.

This is a great question! Honestly, there’s a bunch of reasons.

First, I’ve never been particularly comfortable with my OCs. I love how many people are passionate about theirs and build whole facets of story into them. My job requires me to read ALL THE TIME and I am forever in awe of how writers can make characters that I genuinely care about… but I just always feel like my own ended up hollow.

Second, I had terrible insomnia after losing my parents the way I did. My therapist actually suggested that I try fan fiction and it just opened up a creative space I forgot I had.

I often think about how Dave Filoni was literally hired to “write Star Wars Fan Fiction” for Clone Wars and his OC(s) like Ahsoka Tano are now beloved in the fandom.

I guess there’s a part of me that finds relief in playing in a sandbox that has some sort of design. It’s a way to hone storytelling skills and plotting, but has scaffolding.

And the scaffolding is kind of a good place to start, even though I have no intention of writing anything to monetize it. But my brain wants to tell stories! I think a lot of us in fandom spaces feel that way? Or just in general. Maybe not?

Alex Hirsch said something at the Requiem Cafe panel about being a kid and imagining all fictional characters living in a dimension… maybe that’s a misquote, but I get the general idea because it’s not an uncommon thought. I can get REALLY deep into the weeds here, but I’ll leave it there.

In general I can say in good authority that MANY current best selling authors cut their teeth writing fan fiction. Some adapted their works into original pieces, others used their experience to sharpen their wholly original stories.

One can also consider various plays from Shakespeare, mythology, and Dante’s Inferno as fan fiction…

So

Why not write it? Especially if it makes you happy.

Thanks for the ask!

[sunnydayzes]

When she was finally alone in that tiny trailer, it was as though she could no longer hold back the grief. She sobbed violently, the sound echoing around her new bedroom. This was her senior year - it was supposed to be the best year of her life. Instead, she had a funeral to attend in five days; the same day that she was supposed to go to the homecoming dance at school.

She remembered Ms. Barbara's words; Stay in school. It was important. And while she had made a promise to her own mother that she would do whatever it took to graduate, it just seemed like that was a pipe dream at this point. The only way she was going to be able to afford the rent on this tiny trailer was if she got a job - a real one. Not the babysitting gigs that she had picked up in her old neighborhood to bring home a little extra pocket change.

She felt guilty for being angry at her mother, but she was. She felt ill-prepared to survive in the world, and she didn't really have anyone that she could turn to for advice. Her mother hadn't had any family. She had been an only child and Lyla's grandparents had passed away early on in her childhood. As for her father's family; she knew as much about them as she did the man himself, which was absolutely nothing at all.

She didn't know how long she sat there on the edge of that bed crying before she felt her body laying down. She had remembered what Barbara said about the mattress, but she was too tired to really care much about it. In the morning, she would try and find a second hand shop in town to see if she could find a new mattress, and some new clothing. She couldn't return to her mother's home; it was likely she would be taken away into foster care if it was discovered that she was living on her own and that was the last thing she wanted.

It was a little after midnight before she finally succumbed to sleep, and, unbeknownst to her, she was being watched...

END OF CHAPTER ONE

[oc-tournaments]

ROUND TWO - MATCH 7

Linnea vs Patrica Evelar vs Nelson Maxwell

LINNEA: @moons-br

PATRICIA EVELAR: @i-eat-worlds

NELSON MAXWELL: @chimkinnuget

Due to the poll between Linnea and Patricia being a tie, they both have been brought forward into the poll against Nelson. I apologise for the need for this edit, ideally it won't happen again.

VOTE BASED ON THE INFORMATION BELOW CUT!!

Propaganda Content Warnings: Parental death for PATRICIA, missing children, loss of limb for NELSON.

LINNEA:

PROPAGANDA: So she's a bard/warloc dnd character and the dm and me both have an agreement to make her fly so close to the sun that when she falls she /falls/. Her thought of endings are 1. Become a vampire in hopes to learn more. 2. Become a litch in hopes to learn more. And 3. Unwillingly Become a god of forbidden knowledge as a punishment/consequence. We've only had 2 sessions so far and she already has a curse and WILL be getting another one because it's part of her planned arc.

She had daddy issues and slight mommy issues too, she was a stand in parent for her 3 youngest siblings and her older sister is very traumatized and scared while her older brother hates her. She is willing to sell her own souls for more knowledge and is violently protective of her friends.

THEME SONG:

PATRICIA EVELAR:

PROPAGANDA: Pat was born with powers that allowed her to manipulate massive amounts of energy. As a teenager, she accidentally dropped the roof of her house on her family, killing her parents and severely injuring her sister. After experiencing three years at a “School for Powered People” where she was forced to wear suppressant cuffs that permanently damaged her wrists, and messed with her powers development. She was eventually employed by INSUPA, who saw her powers as a means to an end. They sent her on a suicide mention against the advisement of her close friend and father figure Joseph. She died at twenty one in Joseph’s arm from a catastrophic wound to the chest after her own powers tore a hole in her heart.

THEME SONG:

NELSON:

PROPAGANDA: Girlboss was on a camping trip with his son and two daughters, and randomly all three kids disappeared. He spent hours even DAYS searching for them until eventually he spiralled into madness, slowly losing his grip on reality until he lost his head when he was attacked by an animal, killing him instantly. He found himself in an empty void, his head replaced with a tv screen. He also lost a hand during the time searching for his kids.

also he was forced into a marriage and like his wife left him and only gave him weekends with the kids so that's that

THEME SONG:

[dietaggie]

todays mealspo!!🎀🎀

[compassionatereminders]

Less an ask than some thoughts I thought you might appreciate. Reading a lot of your recent thoughts about toxic positivity [which is exactly what I'd call telling people some version of "Just love yourself"] has made me think a lot about times I was really struggling, and how many people misguidedly tried to tell me some version of that. At those times, when I was struggling with the death of a parent, my first partner's suicide, gender dysphoria, and serious depression and SI connected to all that, my takeaway from those statements was always closer to "Just be OK so I can divest from caring about your life." It ended up being the opposite of helpful, reinforcing my own sense of isolation and helplessness.

Nowadays I'm less depressed and honestly I look on those people with pity. They were seeing someone suffer with stuff that they had no idea to fix, and had likely gotten a lot of similarly toxic messaging in their own lives that might just leave them woefully unprepared to cope with hardships.

Honestly, I think the people in positions to give that advice probably need it for themselves more than anyone they're inclined to preach it to. In retrospect I think if those people had known the first thing about love they would have just paused to spend some time being there with me in my suffering, maybe asked me what I wanted out of life and offered a compassionate presence. That's the hard truth that I think all that toxic "self-love" nonsense is trying to avoid: there's often no fix you can give people, and the task of a bystander is to listen deeply and respect what the suffering person thinks, feels, and wants, not what we think is best for them [up to and including if that want is for the person trying to help to buzz off because their approach isn't helping].

Yeah like... if there really was an obvious, simple solution, we would know about it. And the implication that struggling people just haven't thought of basic shit like "exercise" and "positive thinking" is really condescending even if people are "just trying to help". Because odds are that we have thought about whatever "solution" people who barely know what we're going through can come up with on the spot or after a short google search

[the-grand-gemini]

Wyll Ravengard thoughts/writing prompt:

Wyll's identity is so heavily focused on his father, which absolutely makes sense given his upbringing with only the one parent, but that doesn't mean sometimes Wyll never wonders what his life would be like if she'd been there. He doesn't necessarily miss his mother as he never had her, but there are moments of "what if". What would father be like, would his expectations have been the same, would his mother have stopped him from being sent away, would she have come with him if Ulder would not let him remain in Baldur's Gate, would she too have cast him out, would she have written to him after he left the Gate, would she make father stay in touch too? Wyll carries a sense of loss and nostalgia he has no means of placing. His mother is an empty shadow in his mind.

Which brings me to this: I can't get the idea out of my head that after Wyll is transformed he feels he's lost part of the gift that his mother gave him. Specifically his eyes. Are Ulder Ravengard's eyes also brown like Wyll's? Probably, but maybe Wyll's eyes were the same shade of brown his mother's were... He had already lost one during battle, and now his remaining eye has been touched by the Hells.

The scene that made me think of this is when Karlach is mourning the loss of the heart that her mother gave her. I feel like Wyll is still probably in relative shock over his changed form and is experiencing body dysmorphia. He would hear Karlach's words and suddenly have another moment of heart break. A thought that had not sat with him yet while too busy trying to adjust to his new form and survive their adventure. The gift that his mother gave him has been corrupted and it's his fault.

(Not that it's actually his fault given that he was a teenager when forced to take Mizora's deal, but you can't tell me Wyll doesn't feel guilty at times for "failing" to meet his father's expectations and internalized that sense of shame)

Even though he's never really met his mother as she passed before he could know her, he feels another level of loss. The body she died giving to him has been altered, the eye(s) in the mirror watching him are no longer his mother's. Maybe one day there will be some relief. His changed body is a means of stepping out of the shadow of who his father expected him to be. But for now there is loss and mourning a gift given by someone he never knew.

I just feel like Wyll doesn't get as much writing and we don't really get to deeply explore the horror of having your body altered without your consent! Which thematically everyone in the party is desperately trying to avoid having their body altered via the illithid tadpol! What we do get are a few brief lines saying that we are sorry and that he's still himself (as well as very handsome if not more so because... horns 👀💦).

I need to read about Wyll mourning himself and accepting his new body. Confronting his father for abandoning him in a time of need. Remembering his father choosing his duty to the city over his duty to him as his child. I mean he could have retired! He and Wyll could have moved to the country OR travelled the coast together fighting for others! However that didn't happen and I feel like a bigger discussion is needed before healing that bond.

You can't tell my young Wyll Ravengard, who loves his father so much he already forgave him the moment he was cast out, didn't cry his heart out alone under the night sky the first time he was on his own. That he doesn't suppress those emotions constantly, because yes he doesn't regret sacrificing himself to protect the people of Baldur's Gate, but that doesn't mean he doesn't weep knowing his father's love was conditional.

I need a discussion where he worries that Tav may choose to leave him someday if he cannot meet their expectations. He knows its unfounded, but the hurt inside himself remains.

I want to see Wyll struggle with his changed body and rediscover himself. Either with the support of a romanced Tav or just the entire team as a supportive found family there to help him.

If anyone wants to use this as a writing prompt please go ahead and tag me if you do so I can read it!

[theshadowrealmitself]

My poor friend (the one I went to the movies with the other day) apparently got into a car accident the day after and just got released from the hospital (I thought she was just taking awhile to get to my texts because she usually does that) and she says she’s fine but her mom passed away and holy shit???

I know tragedies are sudden, but still, I saw her mom that day we went to the movies, she looked so happy and healthy, I can’t even imagine what my friend is going through rn and everything I’m saying to comfort her feels so…inadequate. just. what the fuck.