#implied child neglect

[miracle-fandom]

Look, maybe I am not looking in the right places, but can we talk about how shady the Fenton's "parenting style" must look to everyone else in Amity? Maybe not cannonically, but the fandom really needs to start thinking about it.

We should talk about how easily it is to confuse vigilantism with abuse.

I want Danny with unexplained bruises every other day and the A listers assuming the worst.

I want Mr Lancer seeing Danny start struggling with school for, apparently, no reason and see him sleep on class and realize those are signs of abuse.

I want people to see how protective Sam and Tucker are and realize there's something they are protecting him from.

I need Valerie to see Danny run off at any sign of ghosts and suddenly "oh Fenton doesn't look scared of ghosts" and it clicks in her mind that maybe he's running from his parents.

I want people to see Danny do uncanny things, or have too much pain tolerance, or brush off whatever Dash came up with today and think "huh, that doesn't sound right"

I want the metaphor for child abuse in the show to become a little bit more real in the narrative. Is that too much to ask? I want them hearing the horror stories of the Fenton's cooking and start putting together that "oh, maybe they don't actually... mind experimenting on themselves" and who's to say the same fate didn't happen to Danny or Jazz?

Who's to say where evil scientists stops and child endangerment starts? And if suddenly, Amity Park has started to make Danny's life a little bit easier by making the Fenton's life harder, well, correlation and causation are one hell of a drug.

[ Check reblogs ]

[razzle-zazzle]

to the roots

7089 Words; Discolored

TW for discussions of Parental Abandonment and Child Neglect, kidnapping

HAPPY BIRTHDAY @ninja-go-to-therapy!!! 🎂🎉🎉🎉

AO3 ver

“Branch? Sweetie, is that you?”

The voice that cut across the clearing was unfamiliar, a sugary lilt that crawled up Branch’s back and had him turning around. Before him stood two unfamiliar trolls, older than him by a significant margin. They looked like they could be John Dory’s age. Branch had never seen them before in his life.

The Troll on the left had teal fur and dandelion-yellow hair, a curled mustache in a style that Branch was pretty sure was only popular when Peppy was young. Even his felt overalls looked old-fashioned in the style of the cuffs and straps, despite the fabric itself looking relatively new. The Troll to the right had lavender fur and magenta hair, crows feet clinging to her eyes and a soft smile on her face. The handkerchief tying her hair back looked to be the same cut as her dress, soft floral pattern along the hems. Even the basket on her arm had flowers sewn along the handle.

There was something familiar about them. Branch had never seen either of them before. His paws clenched and unclenched around the sticks in his paws, an indiscernible feeling clawing its way up his throat.

Branch scowled. “I’m sorry, who are you?” He didn’t know these people, didn’t know why they had seemingly come looking for him specifically. The lack of knowledge prickled against his spine, harsh and discordant. Branch fought down a growl building in his throat.

The Troll on the left smiled. “C’mon Branchy, it’s Belladonna and Daffodil! Your parents!” He stepped forwards, paws spread wide. “Surely your brothers told you about us?”

Branch froze. Once again, he looked the two Trolls up and down, taking in every detail. He could see the resemblance. Belladonna’s face was blocky like John Dory’s, her lavender fur a near perfect match to Grandma Rosiepuff. Her magenta hair had streaks of gray running through it, and was swept back with a tied handkerchief, but the swooping bangs were unmistakable, and the violet ends splayed out wildly. She smiled, small and soft like Floyd when Branch made him his favorite tea.

Daffodil was altogether more petite, narrow shoulders set just below Belladonna’s, and the teal of his fur didn’t exactly match any of Branch’s brothers. But the yellow of his hair, tinged with green at the roots, was a near-perfect match for Clay’s. He tilted his head—and wow, his eyes were the exact same as Floyd’s. Uncanny.

Branch clenched and unclenched his paws, the bark of the sticks rough against his paw pads. Reassuring. He could see the resemblance. He really could. But—

“Why’d you come back?” The question came out like an accusation, sharp in the air. That wasn’t Branch’s intent, but he couldn’t take back his tone, so it wasn’t worth fretting over.

“Why, to meet you.” Belladonna tittered. “We went back to the old tree a few years ago, and found it completely empty!” She pressed her paws together, tail limp against the ground. “The shock of it all made it clear to us what we missed by leaving for so long.” She sighed, and Daffodil took up the story.

“When we thought that you had died, we were just plain heartbroken.” Daffodil lamented, mustache drooping along with his tail. “What kind of parents were we, that we left you for so long?” He wrung his paws together. “But then we see you and your brothers performing that perfect family harmony on the Mount Rageous big screens, and we realize—”

“—That our baby boy is still alive.” Belladonna finished, eyes soft. She stepped forwards, tentatively reaching out a paw. “When we realized we had been given a second chance, well, we just had to take it.”

Branch stared at her outstretched paw. “Why?” Suspicion wrapped around his chest like an old friend. Something about this wasn’t right. Branch had literally never met his parents before—why would they come back now?

Belladonna’s head tilted. “Why?” She repeated, like the very question made no sense to her.

“Why now?” Branch grumbled, tail lashing behind him. “You never cared before.” It was an accusation spoken softly, yet still barbed and guarded.

Belladonna winced. “I know.” She said. She gestured to the basket hanging on her arm, “Why don’t you join us for a picnic? It’ll be more fun than standing around in some random clearing.” She smiled, hopeful, and suddenly Branch felt like a pinned bug. Did he go with them? Or did he retreat to the safety of what he knew, away from the uncertainty standing before him?

Branch wondered what Poppy would say. Wait, no, scratch that—Branch knew exactly what Poppy would say. He’d been in this same situation barely two weeks ago with his brothers, after all. And if they had come back…

Sighing, Branch stepped forwards. “Fine.” He decided, adjusting his hold on the sticks in his arms. “But no funny business.” As far as he was concerned, the two trolls before him were still strangers.

Belladonna and Daffodil beamed, before turning and making their way towards one of the trees. “C’mon, your father spotted a good spot to set up in the branches.” Belladonna urged, making her way up.

Branch followed his maybe-parents up the tree, reluctantly leaving his bundle of sticks behind in the crook of one of the roots in order to haul himself up with hair and paw. It wasn’t long before they were walking along the branches, Belladonna coming to a stop at a spot that she deemed appropriate.

Branch didn’t like how high up he was. He knew he could use his hair to parachute safely if he fell, but—

The branch they were on was too exposed to the sky, in Branch’s opinion. Weren’t his parents worried about birds? Even a squirrel could become a massive problem if it decided this was a good branch to run along.

But Belladonna was humming softly, the tune unfamiliar to Branch as she laid out the blanket patterned with forget-me-nots, basket open beside her. As she busied herself with setting things up, Daffodil sidled over to Branch, mirth in his eyes.

“I see you’re wearing my old vest.” Daffodil chuckled, eyes crinkling.

Branch stepped back. “I got it from Floyd.” He growled. If these two were only going to tell lies—

“And where do you think our little rosebud got it from?” Belladonna asked, from where she was unloading the basket.

“He—” Branch cut himself off. Even back then, in his fuzzy memories of his brothers all together, Floyd’s vest had been worn, faded slightly—but surely that was just because he had had it for so long, right? It had fit Floyd too well to have been made for someone else.

But Daffodil had the near exact same body type as Floyd, Branch realized.

“It suits you.” Daffodil commented. Branch waited to see if his maybe-father would say anything more, but the older troll seemed content to leave it at that.

Belladonna finished laying out the spread, the small selection of food arranged artfully upon the blanket. There was a small plate of four sandwiches, a pitcher of stoutberry juice, a bowl of fluffleberries—there was even a small selection of sandwich ingredients. As far as picnic spreads went, it was pretty impressive. Belladonna sat down, patting the space beside her, and Daffodil sat down next to her with a wide grin.

Branch clenched and unclenched his paws, and moved to sit on the edge of the blanket opposite his probably-parents. If either of them noticed the apprehension coming off of him in waves, neither commented on it.

“I guess you’ll be wanting an explanation.” Daffodil started, around bites of his sandwich.

Branch nodded, ignoring the sandwich that Belladonna offered him. She shrugged, returning the sandwich to the plate, and took up the story. “There’s not much to tell, really.” She admitted. “When we had little Dory, we weren’t ready to be parents.” She took a bite from her own sandwich, and Daffodil picked up the thread.

“I was only fifteen or so, and Bell here is only a few months older.” He picked up his own sandwich, and tore off a bite. “My mother-in-law was pretty pissed when she found out!” He chuckled, before taking the bite. “Tore me a new one.” He mumbled.

“We did love little Dory,” Belladonna continued, pouring stoutberry juice into two cups. Branch waved off the empty cup she held out to him, and she shrugged before continuing. “Really. But we just…” She sighed, her eyes darting to her bracelet. It was weirdly plain, off-white threads braided together with no charms or color. “And then Spruce came along.” She continued, “Barely two years later. We were relying so heavily on Mom to help handle things.” She shook her head, and nodded to Daffodil.

“By the time Clay’s egg was laid, we weren’t really… around.” He shrugged, taking a drink from his cup. “The stress just got to us, so we left.”

“We didn’t go far, the first time.” Belladonna added. “Just to another part of the tree, a little higher up.” She finished off her sandwich, wiping her paw off on a napkin. “Sweetie, aren’t you going to eat?” She gestured to the spread between them, sugar in her urging.

Branch shook his head. “Not that hungry.” He grunted. How could he eat when his throat was blocked off by a knot of emotions? Anxiety squeezed his gut, hope crept up his tail, and so many questions kept dying in his throat, piling up like crumpled poems in a wastebasket. His appetite was so far nonexistent that the thought of eating made him want to run away and vomit.

“Suit yourself.” Daffodil shrugged. “But you’re always welcome to try anything you like! You’re our son, after all!” He smiled, big and wide, and Branch couldn’t help but be reminded of John Dory’s smile—it had the same bombastic obnoxiousness, he felt.

“Okay, let’s get back on topic.” Branch wanted answers, dammit. “You said you left after Clay hatched?” He had to be—he needed to know, to put the story together and make it make sense if he ever wanted to even consider trying to trust his probably-parents.

Belladonna winced. “We… missed his hatching, actually.” She admitted. “Came back just days after.” She frowned, “We were only gone for a few weeks, too…” She sighed, picking up her cup.

Daffodil put a paw on her shoulder, drawing Belladonna from her reminiscing. “You should’ve seen little Dory and Spruce when we got back!” He offered. “Dory refused to talk to either of us for four days, but Spruce was so excited to show off his new baby brother!” He smiled fondly at the memory, before his face fell. “The story doesn’t get much better after that.” He warned.

Belladonna nodded. “Me and Daffy, we’ve always had a strong sense of wanderlust.” She took a sip from her cup before continuing. “Not even having three children could get us to really settle down. It became a regular thing, leaving for a little bit before coming back.” She finished off her juice, and grabbed the pitcher to refill it. “And our sons seemed fine in Mom’s care, so we didn’t really think about the effect that our running around would really have—”

At that moment, Branch’s Hug Timer went off. He slapped the flower shut, his attention firmly on the story. “Go on.”

Belladonna and Daffodil stared for a moment—a moment during which Branch noticed a lack of Hug Timers on their wrists, just Belladonna’s off-white bracelet—before Daffodil cleared his throat.

“We did try to stick around for Floyd’s egg, though.” Daffodil continued. “Stuck around ‘til our little rosebud finally hatched! When I tell you he was the cutest little thing…” He stroked his mustache, expression fond.

“But our wanderlust just kept coming back.” Belladonna lamented. “Even though we’d seen so much of the tree already, we just kept coming and going.” She popped a fluffleberry from the bowl in the center of the blanket into her mouth.

“Until Brozone,” Daffodil added, a glint in his eyes. “I showed Dory a few lyric writing tricks when he was little, before our own dreams were crushed by the whole parenting thing.” His tail flicked rhythmically. “And I know my sweet Bellady here—” He kissed Belladonna’s cheek, prompting a giggle, “—must have brought up the idea at some point or other.” Fond hunger settled in his eyes, and Branch forced his attention onto his probably-definitely-mother.

“But we never imagined our boys would take that old dream and make it happen!” Belladonna smiled wistfully. “It was the most time we spent actually being parents, just trying to help them schedule shows and encouraging them to go further.” She pressed her paws to her face dreamily, reminiscing. “It was going so wonderfully, the four of them were getting so popular…”

“Then what made you leave?” Branch asked, derisively. From the way it sounded, everything was going great—so why were his okay-definitely-parents-by-blood out of the picture after he came along? Something wasn’t adding up, and Branch didn’t know if he wanted to hear the answer or not.

Belladonna and Daffodil looked at each other, seeming to argue with their eyes before they turned back to Branch. Belladonna frowned. “This…” Her eyes closed as she exhaled sharply. “This is the worst part of the story, sweetie.” Her paw waved dismissively. “We’ve been talking for a while now, let’s take a break.”

“Wh—” Branch fought down a snarl, “You can’t just leave it at that!” He crossed his arms. “You said you’d explain. So explain.” He still needed the story to make sense, he needed to know why his parents never came up in the two years he had with his brothers, he couldn’t just—

But Belladonna and Daffodil were already standing, Daffodil coming around to offer his paw to Branch. “We have been talking for a while,” Daffodil pointed out.

“It’s not a light topic.” Belladonna added. “But we’ll tell you tomorrow, okay?” She offered, already moving to put everything back in the basket. “We’d hate to dump all of our problems on you after just meeting, sweetie.”

Branch stood slowly, ignoring Daffodil’s offered paw. “...fine.” He conceded. “But you better not back out on telling me what happened.” He threatened. He had enough to deal with—his parents keeping secrets was not something he was willing to add to that list. Not now, not ever.

“Of course!” Daffodil chuckled, putting a paw on Branch’s shoulder. Branch brushed the paw off, stepping back to get out of range. Daffodil only smiled at Branch’s actions, head tilting as he examined his son.

“You have your mother’s eyes.” Daffodil said softly. “I…” He huffed, tossing his head back. His expression crumpled, his tail flat against the ground. “We should have come back sooner, Branch. We shouldn’t have let our wanderlust keep us away for so long.”

Belladonna nodded, leaning forwards. “We really shouldn’t have. You’re absolutely perfect.” She fiddled with the bracelet on her wrist as she spoke, eyes locked firmly on Branch.

Something about her statement jolted against Branch’s carefully-cultivated intuition, a niggling doubt digging into his stomach like a worm in an apple. He swallowed, wrenching his gaze to the blanket his mother was folding up, to the light-blue forget-me-nots patterned across the lavender fabric. His tail brushed against the bark of the branch, agitated.

“We’re here now.” Daffodil declared, tail swishing behind him. “And we’re not gonna leave you, okay?” Belladonna came to stand beside her husband, everything neatly packed away into the basket on her arm. They looked like a picture-perfect couple together, like something straight out of an old photo album or painting. They looked like they could get along just fine without their children.

Branch’s tail curled in on itself, tucking against his legs. He took a breath, trying to clear the worries clawing up his throat—his brothers came back for him. He had let John Dory and Bruce and Clay and Floyd back into his life—what were two more family members into the fold?

“Okay.” Branch breathed. The trio began to trek down the branch towards the trunk, and Branch let himself fall into a comfortable silence as he followed his parents down.

When they reached the roots, Branch gathered up his sticks again, regarding his parents one last time. “Tomorrow.” He grunted. If they thought about backing out…

“Tomorrow.” Belladonna agreed, reaching into her dress pocket. She pulled out a bracelet almost—no, exactly like her own, with the same braided off-white threads. “Here,” She offered, holding the bracelet out. “A promise bracelet. So you know we want to make this work.”

Branch regarded the bracelet suspiciously. It was so plain that he couldn’t help but wonder what the catch was… but at the same time, it was so plain that Branch couldn’t think of any conceivable nefarious purpose. His eyes flicked to Belladonna’s bracelet.

Branch groaned, shifting the sticks so he could hold out his paw. Belladonna beamed, and carefully slid the bracelet onto his wrist, just below his Hug Timer. She tugged at it, and it contracted, snug around Branch’s wrist. His eyes widened.

“Pretty special, huh?” Daffodil leaned in. “Promise bracelets are charged with the same kind of energy made by a Pinky Promise.” He explained. “They’re impossible to lose.”

“So that the promises they represent can’t be broken.” Belladonna added softly, clasping Branch’s paw in her own.

Branch swallowed, jaw tightening. He’d have to check the village library for scrapbooks on promise bracelets. He withdrew his paw from Belladonna’s so that he could hold the sticks more comfortably, the bracelet a constant presence against his wrist. But it wasn’t tight enough to hurt, so Branch fought the feeling down.

Belladonna smiled, twirling in place with a giggle. “We’ll see you tomorrow!” She chirped, before she and Daffodil turned to head off to… wherever they were staying, Branch supposed. As he watched them go, a knot of hope and anxiety clung to his fur, his tail flicking behind him.

Ugh, whatever. Branch turned to return to his bunker. The picnic had been unexpected, but surely…

Whatever would come of all of this, Branch didn’t know. But he was going to get some answers, if nothing else, and that was enough to satisfy him. It’d have to be—he couldn’t allow himself to expect anything more.

+=+=+=+=+

“Something on your mind?”

Branch looked up at the sound of Floyd’s voice, clenching and unclenching his paws against the mug clasped in them. His brother was staring at him fondly through sleep-frizzed bangs, mug of tea on the table before him.

Branch glanced over to the other side of the table. John Dory didn’t stay the night every night, but here he was, puttering into the kitchen while humming an old Brozone song under his breath.

“Just thinking.” Branch responded, his gaze returning to his coffee. Thoughts about his parents had been swirling around in his head all night, muddled and mixed up with his usual worries. They claimed to be hoping to reconnect, but something about that picnic the day before just felt… weird.

But Branch’s brothers had come back, hadn’t they? And they were even making an effort to reconnect and keep in touch—Floyd was living in his bunker, after all, and John Dory was sticking around! Clay was busy helping Viva with the Putt-Putt Trolls’ end of the connecting route between the golf course and Trollstopia, and Bruce had his business and family, but they were staying in contact. Surely, if all of Branch’s brothers could come back into his life with no strings attached, then why couldn’t his parents? They’d even given him a promise bracelet—though all the examples Branch found in the library scrapbooks had had more color to them than the one he was wearing.

But… maybe it was the years of isolation. Maybe Branch was being paranoid, letting his fear trickle into his brain and poison his thoughts. But yet… if his parents wanted to reconnect, then why wouldn’t they start with the sons they actually met? Rhonda was difficult to hide—and John Dory wasn’t making any effort to do so, either—and it was well-known throughout the village that the armadillo-bus was where John Dory had taken up residence. Why wouldn’t they go there first?

Maybe they had. Maybe Branch was just getting too caught in his own head. He did that a lot, it felt, worrying over what everyone else was sure was nothing. And more often than not, it felt like it was everyone else who was right.

“Thinkin’ hard over there, Bit—Branch?” John Dory prompted, plate in one paw as he grabbed a chair to pull out.

“What were our parents like?” Branch glanced up at the end of his question. He immediately regretted blurting it out—but he couldn’t take the words back and bury them, no matter how much he wanted to.

It was a long moment before John Dory responded, face harsh and still like a statue, snarl building in the back of his throat.

“Awful.” John Dory grunted, knuckles white from gripping the back of the chair. “The absolute worst.” He set his plate down on the table with more force than necessary, sending a few bits of egg flying onto the table. “Always ducking in and out of our lives whenever it was convenient for them—” John Dory cut off with a snarl, whirling away from the table with savage force. “GAH! They just—I—Oh, I hate them so much!” He threw his paws in the air, tail smacking the table leg as it lashed in agitation. “If they ever show their sorry faces around here, I’ll—AAGH!”

As John Dory stomped off, his breakfast apparently forgotten, Branch released the breath he didn’t realize he was holding. His paws clenched and unclenched around his mug, new worries fluttering around in his head. Floyd took a conspicuously long sip of tea, staring at nothing in particular. His tail was curled around the legs of his chair, discomfort radiating off of him in waves.

Branch wished he’d kept his mouth shut. Familiar panic ebbed in like an old friend, and he had to fight down the hackles his body had raised. Right. So his parents hadn’t gone to John Dory first, then—and for good reason, if the way John Dory had been muttering as he stormed off was any indication.

Branch forced his attention to slide away from the encroaching anxiety and onto Floyd, who was staring resolutely at the table. Branch almost opened his mouth, ready to ask if Floyd had any clarification—he shut his mouth. Nope. He’d already made one brother blow up, there was no way Branch was going to incur a repeat with the others. He’d just sit here, then, in his own little stress-filled bubble, and regret ever opening his stupid mouth.

“Soooo,” Floyd began, cutting through the silence more awkwardly than John Dory at his most bombastic. “Did Poppy make that bracelet for you?” He tried, bringing Branch’s attention back to the white promise bracelet hugging his wrist.

“Sure.” Branch responded, lifting his mug to his mouth and taking a long sip of coffee. He was not about to bring up his parents again—one brother blowing up at him was enough.

Silence reigned for another long moment. Branch half-considered blurting the truth out then and there, and dismissed the thought.

Once again, Floyd was the first to break the silence. “Why’d you ask about…” Floyd cut himself off, reconsidering his words before he started again, “what got you so curious about our parents?” His paws remained clasped around his mug, and his eyes kept darting away from Branch every second.

Branch shrugged, swallowing down any notions of the truth. “Guess seeing Bruce with his kids got me curious.” The lie fell from his mouth easily, his gut turning at the lack of doubt on Floyd’s face. “Sorry.” Branch added. For the question or the lie, he wasn’t sure. “It was a stupid question. I never even met them.” His own tail curled around his legs nervously.

Floyd hummed noncommittally, bringing his mug to his mouth once again. The silence stretched on uncomfortably, Branch’s coffee barely room temperature when he got back to drinking it.

They sat like that, John Dory’s breakfast slowly getting cold as Branch worked his way through his coffee instead of through his thoughts. After a while of sitting in suffocating silence, Branch pushed his chair out and stood.

“I’m gonna head out,” He muttered, grabbing John Dory’s abandoned plate on his way to the sink. “You want anything?” He really hoped Floyd would come with him. He really hoped he could have some time alone. Branch shoved the knot of feelings down and focused on packing away John Dory’s abandoned breakfast in a jar to put in the fridge; John Dory could come back for it later if he wanted.

Floyd hummed noncommittally. “‘M fine.” He mumbled into his mug. “Are you?” There was something oddly pointed to his question, a sharp invitation that made Branch want to tear down his walls just long enough to spill everything—

Branch shut the fridge with more force than was perhaps necessary. “Just peachy.” He grit out, unable to bring himself to turn around to face his brother. “I…” He sighed, heavy and tired. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to yell. I just…” He fumbled for the words, staring at his closed fridge.

“It’s okay.” Floyd’s voice was quiet, “We can talk about it later.” He offered.

Branch grimaced. “Yeah.” He mumbled, tail twisting anxiously. “Later.” Deep down, he knew that if he pushed it off he would never stop—

Branch shook his head. He’d talk about it with Floyd later. He would. He just… his parents had promised the rest of the explanation today, his bracelet snug around his wrist as a reminder, and Branch wanted to hear that, first. Then he’d be able to tell Floyd about them coming back.

Yeah. It would all work out. Branch made his way to the elevator feeling considerably lighter than moments before, a sense of calm starting to finally settle in his chest over the whole situation. His worries remained, of course, but Branch felt more ready to confront them.

He was going to get some answers.

+=+=+=+=+

Belladonna and Daffodil had already set up by the time Branch made it up the tree around lunch time. The spread was similar to last time, with the same pitcher and bowl of fluffleberries—but with a plate of sprinkleberry pie instead of sandwiches. Branch swallowed at the sight of it, his traitorous mind darting to Poppy—why hadn’t he told her about his parents coming back? He’d certainly had enough opportunity, but it had seemingly never come up in the twenty-four or so hours since they had first approached him.

Whatever. Branch shook off the worry and forced himself to sit down on the edge of the blanket, brushing his paw over the promise bracelet. Belladonna nudged the pitcher his way, and Branch poured himself a cup of stoutberry juice. Daffodil cut a slice of pie and offered the plate to Branch, who took it after a moment of hesitation.

For a few moments, none of them said anything, just sitting there on the picnic blanket eating. Branch picked at his slice of pie slowly, unable to eat much past the rising anticipation. The bracelet was a constant reminder around his wrist, always noticeable.

“So.” Branch started, clenching and unclenching his paws around his cup.

“So.” Belladonna jokingly repeated, grabbing a fluffleberry from the bowl.

Branch glared. Belladonna smiled pleasantly, unperturbed by her son’s annoyance.

“You promised an explanation.” Branch continued, setting his cup down. His tail was twitching rapidly behind him, and it was taking all of his energy not to pull out a stick and start whittling. “About why you disappeared after…” He swallowed, the words getting caught in his throat. “After my egg was laid.”

“We did.” Belladonna agreed. She popped another fluffleberry into her mouth and chewed it slowly, seemingly contemplating her words before she swallowed. “We wanted to stay.” Belladonna said. “We were going to.” She sighed.

“We were so excited!” Daffodil continued, setting down his empty plate. “We’d had your egg on one of our… excursions.” He went back to the pie to cut himself another slice.

Belladonna nodded. “And the moment we realized we were with egg, we went right back to Mom’s pod with all the boys.” She clasped her paws together. “You were going to be perfect, we just knew. We showed your egg to little Dory—”

“And that was the beginning of the end,” Daffodil growled. “After everything that we had done for him, for all of them, he just—” He cut himself off with a huff, digging back into his slice of pie.

“You have to understand, sweetie.” Belladonna’s face softened, for a moment looking like the fifty-seven year old that she was. “We didn’t leave because of our wanderlust, we left because Dory cut us out.”

Branch froze, nearly dropping his cup of stoutberry juice. “What?” His voice came out quieter than he intended, in the sudden heaviness of the air. John Dory had… but that didn’t… “What do you mean, cut out?” Why would John Dory ever…

Branch was at a loss. His tail was flat against the ground, his paws gripping the cup tightly, the promise bracelet tight around his wrist. His half-eaten slice of pie remained forgotten in front of him as the world seemed to tilt.

“It was some silly fight,” Belladonna waved off. “I can hardly even remember what it was about! But, eh, Little Dory was always so headstrong…” She wrung her paws together. “Once he had an idea in his head, there was no changing his mind.” She shook her head with a shrug, as if to dismiss the thought.

Branch nodded. He hadn’t gotten the chance to know his older brother for as long as his parents had, but from what he had seen? Yeah, John Dory was stubborn. He lifted his cup back to his mouth for another sip.

“He got it from you, babe.” Daffodil teased, tail flirting back and forth as he leaned in towards Belladonna. “Shame he didn’t get your sweet sense of humor.” He purred, his paw sliding up Belladonna’s arm. “But maybe if we try again…” He pressed a kiss to his wife’s wrist, slowly making his way up her arm with quick smooches while Belladonna giggled.

“Charmer.” Belladonna pushed at Daffodil’s face with her paw, hiding her smile behind the other. She turned back to where Branch was struggling not to inhale the juice he’d managed not to spit back into the cup. “Oh, your face!” She snickered, covering her mouth with both paws.

Branch’s tail thumped the ground in annoyance as he coughed, his near-empty cup back to sitting on the blanket. “What’s wrong with it.” He hated being laughed at. He hated not knowing why. He also hated almost choking on his drink, but that was a given.

“It’s okay to be grossed out by your parents flirting, son.” Daffodil chuckled. “All kids do it.” He stroked his mustache, reminiscing. “Ah, I remember the night when your mom and I were bringing Floyd’s egg into the world… the look on Spruce’ face when he walked in on us… ah, if only Bell here had locked the door instead of the cuffs—”

“Okay okay that’s enough!” Branch held out his paws, horrified. Ew ew ew, he did not need to hear that!

“See?” Daffodil grinned. “Perfectly normal.”

“Back on topic,” Branch urged, desperate to get away from watching his parents try to undress each other with their eyes, “John Dory just… cut you out?” It made a terrible kind of sense, as much as Branch hated the thought.

Belladonna nodded. “Took your egg and gave us the boot.” She confirmed.

“Told us we weren’t welcome around anymore.” Daffodil added, “That he had things ‘handled’.” He picked his plate back up to scrape the remains of the pie into his mouth, and Belladonna spoke next.

“We did try to come back.” She took Branch’s cup and refilled it without asking. Branch didn’t have the energy to make a thing of it, numbly accepting the refilled cup. “But Dory chased us off every time.” There was something almost bitter in her lamentations, some sour chord hidden in her voice.

Daffodil shrugged. “We gave up, after the first few tries.” He added. “Gave into our wanderlust and managed to leave the tree entirely.” He brushed crumbs out of his mustache and sighed.

“We should have come back sooner,” Belladonna lamented. Her mouth spread in a small, tentative smile, her tail flicking behind her. “But… we’re here now,” She affirmed, “And we’re not wasting this chance.”

“Even if John Dory tries to chase you off again?” Branch asked, taking another drink from his cup. His slice of pie was pretty much a lost cause, at this point, with the way his stomach was churning.

Belladonna chuffed. “Oh, no, that won’t be a problem.” She waved off, “Not where we’re going.”

Once again, the world seemed to tilt, the air heavy around Branch as his mother’s words hit him. “But—you said you were sticking around?” No, no, he shouldn’t have gotten his hopes up, he was just going to get left again—

“Of course!” Daffodil assured. “You’ll be sticking with us! It just won’t be here.” His words did not abate Branch’s rising uncertainty in the slightest.

“We can’t tie ourselves down to one place,” Belladonna offered, scooting across the blanket to be closer to Branch. “And I know my Mom is dead…” Her face fell, for a moment, before she recollected herself. “But we want you to come with us, see the world.” She held out her paws invitingly. “We’ve even got songs put together for you to sing onstage.” She sounded so pleased with herself.

“Yes, a family tour!” Daffodil spread his paws invitingly, mustache twitching. “You and us, traveling around, playing songs for the crowd… the perfect way for our little family to bond!” His voice was proud and eager, his tail waving rhythmically behind him.

But something about his explanation caught on Branch’s intuition. “Just me?” He asked, paws clenching and unclenching around his cup. The bracelet was starting to feel like a chain, tight and heavy on his wrist.

“Well, there’s no way Dory would ever agree,” Belladonna waved her paw. “And we came back for you, sweetie.” There was something in her eyes that had Branch bristling ever so slightly, some hunger he couldn’t explain, and didn’t want to think about.

“It’d be a lot less crowded with just three of us, too!” Daffodil chuckled. “And I’m sure your brothers aren’t looking to be performing anytime soon—we saw the events on Mount Rageous, after all.” He nodded, stroking his mustache. “Floyd could use a nice break.”

“Are you joking?” Branch’s voice came out harsher than he wanted. He didn’t care. ���I just—they just came back into my life, and you want me to leave?” He stood, itching to throw his cup at the blanket.

“It’d only be for a few months.” Belladonna uttered, gesturing for Branch to sit back down. “We just want to get to know you again, baby.”

But Branch remained standing. “No way.” He said, squeezing the cup in his paws. Clench, unclench. “I’ve got a life here—” He chuckled darkly, catching his lashing tail in one paw. “Not like you’d know.” He added, bitter.

“Branch, please.” Belladonna’s voice was sharp, almost sour; the contrast from her sugary sweetness was a prickle under Branch’s fur. “We wanna make you a star—is it really too much to ask?”

Branch stumbled back, hackles raising. “You—” He didn’t have the words. In what world could his parents possibly think this would go over well? “You said you wanted to connect.” He managed, clutching his cup tightly, eyes darting to his promise bracelet.

“And we do,” Daffodil stood, offering a paw to Belladonna to help her up. “But Branchy, there’s no way we can stick around here—”

“Because John Dory will just chase you off again!” Branch shouted. “That’s it, isn’t it? Why you’re sneaking around and trying to make me come with you on some—some desperate attempt at fame!” He shoulders heaved, and he waved his cup around wildly as he spoke, spilling a bit of juice in the process. He couldn’t believe this. How could he have possibly let himself think that there wouldn’t be strings attached? He should have known when the bracelet first tightened against his wrist—nothing came for free. Not for him.

“Branch, you need to understand,” Daffodil started, “We really do want to know you, but if Dory finds out—”

Branch held up a paw, expression thunderous. “Don’t.” He snarled. “Save your excuses.” If John Dory would really be so belligerent about their parents—and after what happened this morning, Branch didn’t doubt that one bit—there had to be a reason. “You want me to come on tour with you? Then make amends with John Dory first.” He walked over and shoved his cup into Belladonna’s hands, before turning towards the trunk.

Branch turned back one last time, regarding his parents. Anger bubbled up his throat, but resignation kept his mouth shut. Of course there were strings attached, an underlying motive. What else was there to expect? Branch could never be so lucky—not like this.

With a snarl, Branch grasped the bracelet, “And you can keep your tacky brace—”

It wouldn’t come off.

“This stupid—” Branch growled, digging in his claws, but the bracelet didn’t budge. If anything, it almost felt like it got tighter. “Oh, fuck this.” Branch groused. He turned his attention back to his parents. “I have scissors at home, and when I’m done your tacky bracelet is going in the trash!” He shouted. “Just like my trust!”

Oh, that was stupid—why did he say that? Branch shoved down the embarrassment, turning away from his parents. As he started to make his way down the tree, Branch shoved any thoughts about telling his brothers about their parents’ return to the back of his mind. Belladonna and Daffodil could handle that announcement themselves. Either they’d leave and Branch would never hear from them again, or—if they really wanted in on his life—they’d put in the same effort with his brothers. Hopefully without stupid off-white bracelets that refused to come off.

Belladonna watched Branch descend the tree, face pinched in annoyance. Wordlessly, Daffodil took her arm, his tail twining in hers. She sighed, passing off Branch’s cup to Daffodil, freeing her paws to fiddle with the bracelet on her right wrist.

“He’ll come around.” Daffodil said softly, leaning up against his wife.

“I know.” Belladonna sighed. “I just hoped he’d make it easy.” Her expression darkened, before it softened again. She turned back to the blanket.

“Let’s get this cleaned up.”

+=+=+=+=+

Branch groaned as he came to. What had hit him?

His whole body felt heavy, sluggish, his head pounding like he’d been to one of Poppy’s wilder parties. The floor under him rumbled faintly, steady vibrations pounding up his spine into his already-pounding skull.

Branch glanced around, looking for Poppy so he could ask her who spiked the punch and how much he had—

This wasn’t his bunker. This wasn’t Trollstopia, or Pop Village. This was a vaguely-homey space he didn’t recognize, small but cozy and completely unfamiliar. There was a vanity against the wall across from him, two bunks to his right, and when Branch managed to force his aching head to look to his left—

There was a small kitchenette against the wall, but Branch found himself skimming over that as his horror slowly mounted. Just past the kitchenette and small booth was a driver’s seat, familiar in shape and yet so so different from Rhonda’s. And sitting in that seat was none other than Daffodil, cheerily humming as he focused out the windshield before him.

Oh god. It was all coming back now—Branch had never attended any party Poppy had thrown—he’d made it back to his bunker, brushed off Floyd’s questions, and set out again—

He’d never made it back to his bunker.

Branch moved to stand, his chest pounding with a wild fear he hadn’t felt since Poppy had come to his bunker to tell him about the Bergens returning. He needed—

Branch tried to stand again, twisting back when he failed for the second time. The slight pressure around his chest resolved itself as a harness clipped to the wall, the cord too short for Branch to scoot more than a few centimeters forwards. His body threatened to collapse in on itself, his breaths getting quicker as panic wrapped cold hands around his throat. This wasn’t happening. His parents hadn’t just—there was no way—it couldn’t—no no no—

“Shh shh,” A crooning voice, a soft paw carding through his hair. “It’s okay, sweetie,” Belladonna sang sweetly, “It’s okay. Momma’s here.”

Branch tried to pull away, to push her and the encroaching pressure squeezing his chest off, but his limbs were heavy, slow, clumsy. He pawed at the air as Belladonna pressed up against him, an arm around his back pulling him tight against her. She cooed, whispering sickly sweet reassurance into Branch’s hair as he squirmed, like this was fine and normal and not fucked up at all.

“Doncha worry, Sprout!” Daffodil called out cheerily from the driver’s seat. “You’ll thank us for this!”

Branch would not be thanking his parents for—for trollnapping him! In what world—

“Shhhhhh,” Belladonna took Branch’s paw in hers, drawing his attention to the bracelet she had given him earlier—and to the missing Hug Timer. It was the same plain off-white as before, but with faint strands of sky blue and dusky gray running through it now. Branch couldn’t fathom what it was possibly for. That his Hug Timer was missing was more worrying.

The critter-bus hit a bump in whatever road it was traveling. Branch jolted, panic rising anew like the bile climbing his throat. This wasn’t—this wasn’t real, he was just having the world’s most stressful fever dream—

“It’s okay, Guppy.” Belladonna whispered, holding Branch tightly through his panic. “Momma’s here, it’s alright, you’re okay.” She smiled sweetly, her weight pinning Branch in place in a way that was only vaguely comforting. “Momma’s here,” She repeated, voice sickly sweet.

“And she’s gonna make you a star.”

[dracocheesecake]

OK going into the messed up backstories I have for Zhen/Han and their relationship:

(Potential Spoilers for KFP4)/ Also Rewrite/Headcanons

Han can't stand to be touched. He hates it. The only times he can tolerate it come in very small doses, and then that's it, and it takes everything in every fiber of his being to not tense up when contact happens.

Zhen, on the other hand, needs love and validation and physical touch, especially from a parental figure. Little Zhen often tried to hug Han, but all Han would do was pat her on the head, rarely let her ride on his tail, or, even more rarely, give her a tiny, weak embrace that would last about a second in return. Then he would push her away.

This is horrible because Zhen later on (in no small part due to Kamara's manipulation) began to see this as Han doing the bare minimum to keep her happy/compliant to his authority when in actuality that was Han doing his absolute best and in fact going above and beyond to try to make this child feel loved, only for it to not be enough.

Kamara, on the other hand, is very careful to give Zhen just enough physical contact, while also using it as a means of control: if Zhen displeased her, suddenly there was no more gentle touches to her shoulder, no more caressing her chin or patting her cheek, no more long, loving hugs- at least, until Zhen corrected herself, or did what the Chameleon wanted; even then, it was way more than Han ever did for her- that means Kamara actually loves her, and is only disciplining her when she deserves it.

[koolkat9]

👀

AU Ask Game

ACE Family School AU

Arthur is a middle school English teacher. Matthew and Alfred, twin brothers and foster kids are both in his class. But Alfred is a troublesome student, always talking, not handing things in and overall is distracted and is a distraction to his classmates. He's on the verge of failing. Arthur tries everything, opening the door for Al to ask for help, punishing Alfred for his poor behaviour, but Alfred doesn't respond to any of it. It gets to the point that he's going to have to call home.

But then Matthew, Alfred's twin comes up to Arthur at lunch begging Arthur to help Alfred.

"I can't do that lad unless he comes to me," Arthur says.

“B-But he’s…h-he’s going to be in so much trouble when Ms. Lynda (name possibly subject to change, it's just a place holder) finds out she’s going to…”

Matthew is on the verge of tears and Arthur isn't sure what to do. He was never good with crying children.

“Now, now Matthew,” Arthur chastises, “There is no need for tears. Tell your brother to come to me and I’ll try to help.”

“But he won’t listen to me,” Matthew suddenly yells, “Nobody will! A-And Alfred…He’s given up and I’m just…I’m scared.”

Arthur finally agrees to try harder to help Al and it seems to calm Matthew enough for him to head to lunch.

Monday rolls around and Arthur tries his last attempt to reach out to Al, asking him to stay after class. He lays everything out: his grades are slipping, he's a distraction in class, he better change his attitude and reach out for help if he needs or Arthur will have to call home.

Something flashes in Alfred’s eyes and Arthur feels his stomach jolt. But other than that, the boy’s posture remains defiant. “Go ahead,” Alfred taunts.

“Your brother is worried, you know,” Arthur says, going for a different tactic.

“He shouldn’t…He’s the perfect, successful one.”

Ah so that was what was wrong. “I offer help at the end of every class. If you’re struggling you should come to me with questions.”

“Why do you care?” Alfred bites back.

“Because I’m your teacher and it’s my job.” Alfred doesn't seem moved and Arthur’s patience is wearing dangerously thin. “Fine,” Arthur hisses, “I was trying to be nice, but if I hear a peep from you next class you’re getting a call home. Understood?”

Alfred just shrugs before running out of the room. 

The next day Matthew comes in at lunch, Alfred trailing behind. “Mr. Kirkland, could we go over the meaning of today’s poem again?” Matthew asks, “I don’t think I got a good grasp on it.”

Arthur is confused by this. Matthew had done so well in his journal so why was he, but then Arthur meet Alfred’s eyes. The boy has his arms crossed, but he seems to have his attention set on Arthur. Arthur makes a little ‘Oh’ sound as all the pieces fell into place. 

“Well…It’s rather simple once you know what to look for,” Arthur begins, pulling out his book of children’s poetry. “What sticks out to you. Alfred, maybe you could help your brother by pointing something out.”

Alfred complies with a huff and the three discuss the line Alfred chose. They go through the whole poem and Alfred offers some interesting readings that not even Arthur considered. But eventually the lunch bell rings and Arthur has to dismiss the two boys. He makes sure to compliment them, giving an extra compliment to Alfred who blushes slightly and runs off.

Francis, the French teacher and Arthur's rival/friend since elementary school sees all this and decides to tease Arthur a bit. “I know you said you were terrible with children, but I didn’t think you were that bad.”

“You’re losing your edge Bonnefoy. Now if you excuse me, I have a salad to get to.”

“Mon Dieu. With your cooking I’m surprised you can prepare anything. My offer is always there, let me take you out to lunch, just once.”

“Over my dead body,” Arthur growls, slamming his door closed.

So Arthur, Matthew and Alfred start regularly meeting at lunch or after school to "help Matthew." When the next test/assignment rolls around, Alfred does better than Arthur has ever seen.

Things are going a bit better for the boys now at least in Arthur's class, but the more time he spends with the boys, the more concerned he becomes for their home life. He starts to suspect they don't have support at home. If they do, it's not affective perhaps harmful given how anxious Matthew seemed about the idea of Arthur calling home. So Arthur decides to meet this guardian.

And he can immediately see why Alfred seemed so unwilling to do better. Ms. Lynda is distracted, not seeming to want to be there. The only time she actually looks lively is when Arthur let's slip about Alfred's grades being poor in the past. She seems much more aggressive assuring Arthur she'll "talk" to Alfred. But he assures her that's not necessary as his grades have greatly improved with help.

He learns Ms. Lynda sees Al as a problem child, always in trouble, distracted, not doing what he's supposed to. It kind of makes Arthur squirm because that's exactly how he felt about Al at first, but over the past couple months, he's gotten to know the boy and how capable he is. He just needed a little extra push and an environment who built him up instead of tearing him down.

At the end of the day, Matthew comes rushing into Arthur's office in tears.

“Alfred says he’s running away,” Matthew wails

“Whoa, Whoa slow down there Matthew,” Arthur says gently, handing the boy a tissue, “What’s wrong with Alfred?”

"He’s running away. We were about to walk home but…but he…he just said he wasn’t going home and th-then took off. He said it was better this way…Ms. Lynda is going to…”

“Shh,” Arthur hushes, “It’s going to be okay. I’ll call Ms. Lynda and tell her Alfred is with me, going over today’s lesson. You just go home and don’t worry about a thing.”

“O-Okay."

He probably legally had to contact the guardian, but he didn't exactly trust her and he probably should request a welfare check. But right now he had to find Alfred and make sure he was okay. He eventually finds Al at a nearby park on the swing set.

“May I join you?” Arthur asks.

Alfred throws him a glare, before picking up his speed, swinging higher and higher. Arthur let out a sigh. “Is this about the meeting?”

Alfred just kept pumping, ignoring the question completely. 

“I know I had promised you I wouldn’t call if your grades started to improve, but I was concerned about Ms. Lynda’s attitude towards you two. I had to see it for myself.”

“Did you call her this time?” Alfred sneers. 

“Yes, but she only thinks you’re getting some extra help.”

Alfred is still annoyed and jumps off the swing. But he didn't slow down enough and so he ends up falling and scrapping his knee. And he just starts sobbing, unable to hold back any more.

Arthur takes a seat beside him, putting a reassuring hand on his shoulder. Alfred latches onto Arthur, hugging him tightly and sobbing into his side.

“Why…Why do you care so much?”

‘Because it’s my job,’ echoes at the front of Arthur’s mind. The mechanical response he had been using for the past couple weeks, but the more he watched Alfred open up, the less that response became true. “Because…” Arthur begins, swallowing the lump forming in his throat, “Because I’m worried about you. You’re a bright young man Alfred and you deserve an environment where you can thrive in.”

Arthur just lets Al cry for a bit, just letting him get it all out. This seemed to be coming for awhile. Once Al is a little calmer, Arthur proposes they get ice cream and Alfred immediately lights up.

but eventually they have to return to the school and Al has to go home.

“I don’t want to go,” Alfred murmurs.

Arthur doesn't really want to send Alfred back to that house either. “I’m sorry Alfred but…there isn’t much I can do for tonight. But you have my word, I will do everything I can to help you and your brother.” 

Arthur can't sleep that night, too worried about the two boys and what will become of them after the check-in. That's when he starts considering something: he could adopt them. He tries to brush it off, but the thought won't leave him alone.

Alfred and Matt end up getting moved into a more supportive home, but amongst the shake up and the questioning my child protective services, Alfred's began to slip again, but Arthur isn't about to let him fall. He even tries to help him in other subjects. And Alfred passes.

Not long after, Arthur starts the adoption process. By winter of the following year, everything is place, so all that's really left is the trial period to see if Arthur's home is a good fit for the two boys.

When he goes to pick them up, he's nervous. Is this too soon? Will the boys even want him as their father? Well he didn't have to be their father, but would they even want him as their guardian?

The boys are delighted to see him when he comes to their new home. It's touching, but he has business to get down to. “Lads, we need to have a serious conversation.”

The twins turn to each other, brows furrowed. 

“Now…I want you to know that you have a say in what happens going forward. I don’t want you to feel pressured in any way and I don’t want you to end up somewhere you don’t want to be.”

“Stop being cryptic Sir,” Alfred whines, “It’s winter break I’m not supposed to be analyzing things.”

Arthur chuckles lightly. “Forgive me Alfred, but what I’m trying to get at is…If you would like…Would you be interested in…Coming to live with me?”

“What?” The boys gasp, almost in unison. 

“I…w-w-well…I’d like to adopt you. Both of you if you’ll–” Arthur is cut off by Alfred barreling into his stomach, almost knocking the unsuspecting Brit over. Matthew soon joins them, though he approaches them more gently.

“Do I still have to call you Mr. Kirkland?” Alfred suddenly asks.

Arthur laughed, shaking his head. “No, Arthur would do just fine.”

“How about Dad?” Matthew pipes up.

Arthur’s heart leaps into his throat “Whatever you want,” he chokes out, squeezing the two just a little bit tighter.

He takes the two home with him and finds Francis's car in the drive way. Francis has heard the news about the adoption and has decided to come over to cook a celebratory dinner since Arthur can't cook.

While the boys go look at their new rooms, Arthur and Francis are left alone in the kitchen.

“Arthur Kirkland, single father, never thought I’d see the day,” Francis chuckles as Arthur seats himself at the bar.

“Me neither.”

“It's not going to be easy–”

“Do you think I don’t know that?”

“You didn’t let me finish,” Francis tuts, “It’s not going to be easy, but I’m here for you if you need help.”

Arthur considers snapping at Francis that he doesn't need help,  but he doesn’t because he can’t deny that he’s worried and he’ll need all the help he can get. Instead he says: “Thank you…I might take you up on that.”

Now this will hopefully be a fic I start on once my other long fics finish. And I already see a sequel possibly happening where Fruk gets together.

[monkmain]

[solvskrift]

is there room for one more son | kid!dean & bobby pre-series

whumptober prompt no. 8: “I’ve got soul, but I’m not a soldier.” | overcrowded ER also on ao3!

“We really shouldn’t be here.”

Next to him, Bobby sighed, his knee jiggling up and down. “Christ, Dean. I told you, we’re not goin’ home, now shut it.”

“But Sammy – ”

“Sam’s fine, Caleb won’t let anything happen to him.”

That was true.

Dean still didn’t like it.

A nurse sped by, rushing to help an elderly woman who was coughing up a lung in the corner. Her lips were blue, eyes wide with alarm, and Dean looked away quickly. He glanced down at his own thigh instead and readjusted his achy fingers to apply more pressure. A few drops of blood squeezed out onto the floor. Dean winced; he supposed there must be blood all over the place here every day, but he still felt bad about the mess. He poked half-heartedly at it with the toe of his boot, trying to smear it into something less noticeable.

Dean looked up at Bobby out of the corner of his eye. He’d probably just tell Dean to shut up again, but Dad was really, really gonna be pissed.

“Dad says we’re not supposed to go to the hospital for gunshot wounds,” he mutters so only Bobby can hear. “They ask too many questions.”

Bobby fixed his eyes on him, jaw tightening, and Dean shrank back. “Yeah, well, your dad says a lot of things,” he said shortly.

Dean relaxed a little, Bobby’s anger clearly heading off in another direction.

Bobby must have noticed, because he sighed again - less forcefully this time - and took off his hat to scratch his head. “That’s too deep for me to stitch up, kid, not without infection likely to happen.” He replaced his cap and dropped his eyes to Dean’s leg. “I hope you know how lucky you got. He could’a hit an artery…”

“He didn’t,” Dean frowned, defensive. “It wasn’t his fault. I was just trying to show him – ”

“You shouldn’t have been trying to show him anything,” Bobby insisted. “He’s too young to handle a gun, and so’re you.”

“No, I’m not,” said Dean, sitting up taller.

“You are,” Bobby glared down at him sternly. “Your daddy just don’t wanna hear that.”

Dean glared back, feeling mutinous. “I just want Sam to be safe. He needs to be able to protect himself, in case…just in case.”

Something Dean couldn’t name crossed Bobby’s expression. His lips thinned, but his eyes looked almost sad when he said, “Well, when you two are with me, I’ll be doing the protectin’ - for the both of you. Hear me?”

Dean blinked. “Yes, sir,” he mumbled, eyes falling back to the bloody gauze.

It took another hour, but eventually a nurse ushered Dean behind a curtain onto a tiny bed and stuck about ten shots into his leg.

A doctor came in as Dean’s jeans were being cut up and, just as he had predicted, eyed them all with a distinctly disapproving expression and asked, “How did this happen?”

Bobby patted Dean’s shoulder and followed the doctor beyond the thin curtain to explain with what was probably (definitely) a lie, and Dean immediately felt the urge to call him back.

He bit down on it and clenched his fists at his sides, staring up at the faded ceiling tiles without a word.

----

They ended up insisting on Dean staying put for a few hours so they could make sure he didn’t have any reactions to the cocktail of medications they pumped into him.

Despite Bobby’s urging to just relax and worry about himself for once, Dean begged him to let him use the phone to check in on Sammy until he caved. It wasn’t until he heard Sam’s little voice on the other end, content and sleepy, that all the adrenaline finally drained out of Dean’s system and he realized how tired he was himself.

He handed the corded phone back to Bobby after Sam hung up and rolled over under the blanket they’d given him, his head sinking heavily into the pillows.

“Go to sleep, boy,” he heard Bobby say from far away. “I ain’t goin’ anywhere.”

Dean yawned, and let the heaviness carry him off to the feeling of fingers combing gently through his hair.

[thatoneautisticfnaffan]

Fetch AU where Greg is a streamer because I like the concept. This isn’t really a "serious" AU and is more for my own amusement.

Greg: I swear to God if someone in the chat calls my uncle a DILF again, I will send Fetch over to your house and it won’t end well for you-

Greg: Why do you all keep calling Fetch a "cute good boy"? He definitely isn’t. One time the neighbour’s dog bit me, so he mauled it and then dragged its corpse next to my bike and just left it there. WHAT YOU MEAN I SHOULD BE GRATEFUL??!! WHY DON’T YOU HAVE A DEAD DOG PLACED NEAR YOUR BIKE AND SEE HOW YOU LIKE IT?? Wait, Fetch I wasn’t being serious-

Greg: "Would you be able to get Fetch in the stream because he connects to your phone?" Hmm, I mean, probably. I’d rather not though because he can see… stuff on my phone and I don’t trust him to not tell all of you.

Greg: Really? That’s the best burn you can come up with? I’ve had worse things said to me when I’m talking to my Dad.

Greg: "You get no bitches" Haha. Very funny, but I have correct you because I do. *Proceeds to hold up Fetch in front of the computer* Yeah, I know you’re a male dog, but just, like, let me have this, okay, Fetch?

[nikkilbook]

Where's the Line?

Prev || Next

Isabol passed him his plate from where she’d finished filling it, and he joined her at the table. Breakfast wasn’t anything too fancy, but it was nice enough. The newlywed cottages were always stocked with enough staples to get the couples started, though most would also have some extras, like a chicken or goat, covered by the dowries. 

Though usually, the families of the couples had a few days beforehand to finish stocking the cottage. No one but he and Isabel had been up to theirs in the five days since the handfasting. All they had was a basic root cellar with what excess could be spared since the last young couple had been married. Some grain, since the last growing season had gone uncommonly well. Dried spices and herbs, though more of those could be found in the forest without too much trouble. Some preserves and other canned fruit. Sugar, salt, though not too much. Those were usually shipped in from towns in the mountains, and it wasn’t often that someone would just buy extras unless it was specifically meant for a young relative’s dowry. 

So they’d made do with porridge’s and stews for the last few days, along with some apples they’d been able to gather from the forest on their visit to their tree. Isabel had done her best to make some biscuits the other day, and they tasted all right even if they looked a bit unappetizing. She’d talked it over a bit, and she seemed pretty sure she knew what to change for the next batch. 

“What are you thinking about?”

Tristan blinked, and realized he’d been staring blankly at the cabinets for however long it took for his eyes to start feeling this itchy. He had half a biscuit in his hand, and a mouthful of food he’d stopped chewing. He jerked his head back to center, fixed his eyes on his plate, and swallowed as fast as he could around a noticeably dry throat. 

“Sorry,” he mumbled, trying very hard not to end up with a fistful of crumbs. “Didn’t mean to get distracted.”

“You don’t have to—you didn’t do anything wrong? We were just eating?” Isabol’s voice which he’d always associated with a sense of firmness, of steadiness, and a kind of knowing he’d never felt anywhere else in his life, felt brittle around the edges. “You just seemed like you... went away, in your head, just a bit. Like you were thinking really hard about something, and you stopped eating. Should I not—do you not want me to do that in the future?” Her voice was smaller than he’d ever wanted to hear it. “Am I supposed to let you come back on your own time, and not interrupt?”

Tristan had never been asked that before, and both the asking and the question were entirely too much to deal with. So he decided not to. 

“It’s market day,” he said.

Isabel blinked. 

“I was thinking. About market day.” He hadn’t, exactly. He’d been very carefully thinking around it, but it was where his thoughts were always going to end up. “So we can get different food. And the dowries.”

“Oh, um.” Isabel looked over at the cabinets he’d been staring through, and nodded. “That’s a good idea. Since nobody’s come up yet, they probably aren’t... going to....” Her brow drew down, a single furrow forming directly in the middle of her forehead, and the line of her mouth distorted as she bit the inside of her lip. She’d just started doing that back before they’d stopped seeing each other, back when they were kids. “Do you think we’d need to talk to someone from the family directly, or do you think we could get away with going to the counting house and talking to one of the clerks? That would be faster, I think, but it would mean having someone else know our business, as well as know that our families didn’t stock things.” Her nose wrinkled. “Half the town would know by the end of the day, and the other half would learn about it over the dinner table. Which I cant say I’d enjoy, and it’d surely aggravate my uncles.”

Tristan very carefully didn’t say that he suspected most of them already knew. The town had always loved any gossip that painted his family in a bad light, for all they were still willing to do business with his father and uncles. He looked at the frustration on Isabol’s face, and the knot of very-carefully-unsaid things grew a little larger in his throat. If he said he’d prefer the counting house, would that frustration swallow him? Last night, when she’d convinced him to sleep in the bed with her, she’d been softer and kinder than anyone he’d spoken to in a long time, and she’d said they were a team. That she believed what he’d said back when they were kids, even if she’d stormed off as a child. 

It was one thing to believe what he’d said; it was another to expect her to sit through it with him. 

This was where he should offer to go by himself to their families and collect the dowry gifts. Let her give him a list of what to pick up as well as any personal effects to collect from her parents’ home. This was where he should be an adult and represent his new household to the community. That was how this was supposed to go. 

Tristan hooked one thumb over the other and squeezed hard, twisting and pinching until the skin darkened to a dull red and he idly wondered if he’d break his own thumb. He did not want to try and walk up to her father’s door, especially not alone and especially not trying to pretend like he had a right to be there. He knew what they thought of him, he was beginning to understand why they thought it of him, and for all that the legal debs had all been squared, now he, the son of a liar and a cheat, had effectively stolen one of their best and brightest. He could see no reason why they would hate him any less than they had 5 days ago. 

He didn’t want to face her father and uncles; what did it make him that he wanted her to be there to see it when he ultimately would?

She had been kind to him, and seemed not to mind living and working together. She’d invited him into the bed. She had apologized. And yet a part of him, one that had burrowed deep where grabbing hands and stomping feet couldn’t reach, one that had gnawed is way out of a trap and knew who had set it, wanted her to see. To really understand what it was to be him. 

Another part, backed into the burrow of his skull and blocked from sight by the other, hoped that maybe if she were there, nothing would happen.

“If,” he whispered, his voice pitched a little higher and riding on the sigh escaping his lungs, “if we go to. The counting house. We can pick what we want instead of taking what they give us.” Could make sure things were quality, and that they got their full dowries’ worth. 

Isabel nodded slowly, her eyes focused on whatever was going through her head. “I think—yeah. That’s probably best. I’d like to go by my family’s place at some point, just to pick up some of my own things, but for the dowries, the counting house is our best bet.” She got up and went over to the door to the cottage, moving things around a bit before returning with a slate and a bit of chalk. Nudging her breakfast to the side, she sat backdown and started making notes, her head resting on her off-hand. Most of her mouth was covered, but he could still hear her muttering fairly clearly. 

“...enough to last the season, or...? Need tools as well, for… depends on how… subsistence or trade?”

Tristan felt kind of floaty, like the edges of himself that touched the chair, the table, the floor, were starting to dissolve, leaving him suspended. He should be participating, right? He should have answers to the questions she was asking. Or did she want to do it by herself? Did she want to take the lead when it came to interacting with the village? That would probably make things easier. Would give her a chance to keep some of her reputation intact, too. 

The back of the slate scrape a bit on the tabletop as Isabol spun it around to face him. “What do you think?”

The spark that lit up the back of his neck didn’t even have time to catch before he got a good look at what she’d written. Tick marks, clusters of letters that didn’t spell anything, curved lines that crossed over one another in what seemed like nonsense, but that he knew neatly represented entire words or sentences. 

He knew what merchant shorthand looked like. 

He looked down at the table, closing his eyes just enough to turn the slate blurry. There was a pain in his chest, just behind his ribs, that felt like something was pulling his bones out of alignment, collapsing them inward into his lungs. “It looks good,” he whispered, hoping it wouldn’t seem like he didn’t care. 

“Is there anything else you want to look for? And did I guess your dowry amount right?” 

Tristan bit his lip, not able to hide it this time. “It’s probably fine. We can check it again at the counting house.”

“But if—” Isabol’s voice cut off, but Tristan still didn’t look up. It was getting difficult to concentrate, because his mind was playing back the expressions of every person who’d ever handed him something in shorthand, or who’d snatched it from his hand from across a counter. Superimposing those faces over Isabol’s felt uncomfortable and surreal, but he couldn’t make himself look up. He didn’t want to know what her face looked like when she finally got disgusted with him. 

A hand slowly pushed into his vision, stopping just shy of where Tristan was white-knuckling his sleeves. It bent up at the wrist a bit, like it was getting ready to touch him, but it just stayed there. 

The memory of the night before, of her hands on his face and the tight hug she’d wrapped him up in, joined the other echoes in his head, and he slumped a little, letting her hand come in contact with his. 

“I don’t know,” he said. “I can’t read what you wrote down. I never—I’m sure the list is good, I just don’t—I can’t read it.”

Her hand felt tighter where it gripped his wrist. Not uncomfortable, not tight enough to bruise, but enough to be noticeable. Her thumb moved across the heel of his palm, leaving little static-like tingles on the surface of the skin that sunk deep into the muscle. 

“Did… I use the wrong script?” She asked, but her voice sounded like she didn’t believe it. “Does your family use a different version?”

Tristan shook his head. They both knew there was only one version—the whole point was to be able to communicate almost universally with other merchants, regardless of origin. None of the variations that did exist would have rendered a message incomprehensible.m”I recognize the shapes and some of the patterns, but I don’t —I can’t read. Shorthand, I mean. I can read regular books or lists, just not… not that.”

She was confuse. Or maybe frustrated? She was something, he could tell by the way her hand tightened around his, going stiff but keeping her thumb moving across his palm in an attempt to seem casual. He was just adding fuel to the fire—there was a breaking point, there had to be, but he didn’t want to find it, no matter how stressful it was to never know how close he was cutting it.  He shoved the words out past his teeth and hoped they made enough sense when they landed to pull everything away from the edge. 

“No one ever taught me how to read it. I tried figuring it out myself from the lists and what people gave me, but eventually I figured out that the orders didn’t always match no matter what kind of list it was, so I couldn’t find the patterns. I don’t know whose idea it was, my father or my uncles or somebody else, if they didn’t think I was fit to join the company, or if they wanted me to be a bad m-match for you, but I can’t read it, I’m sorry, I’m sure it’s a good list, I promise I tried, I just can’t read it.”

“Do you want me to show you how?”

Tristan held his breath.

“It’s okay if you don’t want to, or—or don’t want me to, I guess. I can rewrite the list in script, that’s fine, I only wrote it like this to save space and work out my thoughts. Or I could go by myself, if you want? I just thought it would make the most sense to do it together, but I didn’t know—I can tell you what’s on the list? So you’re still part of the decision. I didn’t want to leave you out—but I guess I already did, I should have talked it out while I was writing. I’m sorry about that. I didn’t mean to cut you out or anything.”

He missed some of what she said as just noise, his brain following certain threads a few stops further before realizing she was still talking, but even if he didn’t catch every word, her voice was still… comforting. She sounded a little stressed, and her words were quicker than normal, but she kept doing this—trying so hard to reassure him even if she didn’t think she knew how. Even last night, when he’d started panicking, he’d eventually been able to see what she’d been trying to do. 

She hadn’t tried to hurt him yet.

He really wanted it to stay that way. 

“Maybe you could just point things out as we pick them up for now? If you still want me to come with you?”

“Okay. Okay, okay.” Isabol nodded, repeating the word under her breath and setting the flats of her hands solidly on the table in front of her. “Is there anything you want to do before we go, or should we just get this over with so we can have the rest of the day to ourselves?”

Tristan breathed in and let it out as deliberately as he could, furrowing his brow and staring down at the table as he piled his utensils onto his plate. “Let’s go.” He focused very, very hard on the image of he and Isabol under their tree spending their evening away from everyone and everything, and not the next several hours. It didn’t matter what happened in the market, because the tree was on the other side. 

Isabol joined him in standing, tis late in the one hand and the remains of her breakfast in the other. She brushed past his shoulder and looked up at him as she scraped the rest of her food into the compost pail. “Let’s go. Together, okay?”

Dishes on the counter, he took the hand she’d reached out to him, and nodded. The tree’s on the other side. “Okay.”

Leave a tip! My Other Writing

[akalimist]

The first time Leon accidentally calls Chaewon "Eomma/Mama"

He was half asleep, maybe only four when he did it. It was when he fell asleep on the couch and Chaewon carried him back up to his room.

As she tucked him in, Leon quietly murmured, "Love you, mama," The 17 year paused for a moment, but came back to her senses instantly, a small, unsteady smile on her face as she leaned forward to press a kiss to his forehead.

She turned off the lights, flicked on the nightlight, and left the room, leaving the door slightly ajar. As she stood at the top of the stairs, she sighed, "...I'm going to need a drink."

Chaewon couldn't say that she hated the fact that Leon felt so safe with her that he called her "mama". But she also couldn't lie and say that it didn't fill her with a feeling of dread to be called that.

It scared her, the thought of being a mother. Why wouldn't it? She was only 17 years old, still just a teenager. She'd done what she could for Leon but still...It never felt like it was enough. Leaving him at home for long hours was no better than taking him to her workplace, both options were just as terrible.

What scared her the most was the fear that she might end up being like her own mother. If she one day abandoned Leon the way her own mother abandoned her, abandoned the both of them. Chaewon knew she wouldn't, she loved Leon too much to do that, but still...The fear was there. That one day, she might become such a bad mother that she'd hurt Leon the way her mother hurt her.

It was the middle of the night, and Leon wanted water. He went down the stairs, but as he looked into the living room, he saw his older sister, eyes closed as her head lolled back on the couch. As he stepped closer, he could hear what she said, "...I'm sorry, Minhyuk-ah. I'm too scared to be your mother. I can't hurt you the way she hurt us," Her words were slightly slurred, and he noticed the bottle in her hand.

Leon watched silently for a moment. Then, he moved into the kitchen and grabbed his water bottle. He climbed back up the stairs and grabbed his blanket from his bed, dragging it back down with him.

When he got back to the living room, Chaewon was fast asleep. He carefully took the bottle out of her hand and put it on the table. Climbing onto the couch, he pulled the blanket around him and gently try to toss it so it covered his older sister as well. Then, without saying anything else, he curled in against Chaewon and fell asleep.

When Chaewon woke up, she had a pounding headache. Feeling the small body next to her, she looked down to see Leon looking up at her, "Hi, noona," The little boy beamed up at her.

Chaewon was quiet for a moment, trying to keep her voice stable as she pulled him into a hug, "Morning, Hyuk-ah," She said softly. Even if she wasn't ready to be a mother, she'd love him enough for both of their parents.

Leon never called Chaewon "mama" after that. He never needed to.

[bluest-planet]

⚠️ Content Warnings for Implied Child Abuse and Neglect ⚠️

Been practicing my character interactions and conservation with some oc drabbles, last night's prompt was anger.

[girlyteengirl16]

yes ofc i’m normal and can be trust around sharp objects

[chronicsymptomsyndrome]

Nobody is “too young” to be cynical or jaded or hate their life. There is no appropriate age for that. If someone is experiencing that at any age, their mental health is at risk. Doesn’t matter how young they are, or how easy their life seems. Just because existential dread didn’t hit you until later in life, doesn’t mean everyone else gets to be so lucky.

“You think life sucks now? Just wait until you’re grown” okay grandpa what if they don’t make it to adulthood? What if it gets worse until they only see one way out and they take it? Stop being dismissive. Stop forcing your problems onto young people and start taking them seriously about things. Period.

(Inspired by this post)

[imfinereallyy]

Father Figures

pt. 2 here, and full version on ao3 here

The first time James Edward Hopper meets Steve Harrington is when Steve is thirteen years old. It is back when he is still pushing everyone to call him Chief Hopper, or at the very least James to sound more professional. It is mostly a lost cause, as he has just returned to Hawkins after his daughter Sarah's death and most people can't help but call him Jim and Hop in familiarity, in sympathy.

It didn't mean they didn't take him any less seriously though. In fact, his cold, grieving demeanor gave him quite the reputation around town. Made assholes like Lenny Byers and troublemakers like the little twerp Munson turn in the other direction when they see him. So Jim doesn't try to push the professional name too much. He knows people around here respect him.

They respect him enough to follow his word, they respect him enough to turn a blind eye when he takes an extra pill or two.

Jim doesn't think too deeply about his reputation until he meets Steve Harrington for the first time.

He gets a call from Benny. It's directly to his line at the station, instead of a general 911 call. He doesn't think much of it when he answers, most likely it was a non emergency from an old friend from high school. That's the only reason people call him most days.

"Chief Hopper. Make it quick."

"Jimmy." A deep, worried breath comes from the phone.

Jim immediately straightens. "Benny, what's wrong?"

Benny usually only calls for a laugh, or to invite him out for a drink. The guy doesn't care about too much, or ask too many questions. Hearing concern in his voice was alarming, to say the least. "Listen, Hop, there is a kid here. And normally I don't care, cause business is business, but it's two in the morning, Jimmy. And despite the kid wearing the most expensive pair of sneakers I have ever seen, he only has two dollars on him for a meal. He got all skittish when the plate landed too loudly. And I don't know..." Benny takes a deep breath before he continues. "...I just don't want to be at fault if this kid's trouble and some fancy parents come looking for him."

Jim can tell Benny wants to say something else, he doesn't push though. Jim Hopper tries to never ask too many questions.

"Alright Ben, I'll be there in ten."

———

When Jim arrives at the diner, Benny notices him and nods in the direction of the corner booth. And there, sitting with his head low and scarfing down a plate of fries is Steve Harrington.

Jim has never met the kid personally, but he knows his parents. Cold, calculating, and pretty much owns half of Hawkins. Jim is starting to understand why Benny has called him.

Jim slides into the booth across from the young boy. He's prepared to take the kid by the back of his shirt and drag him out of there. He doesn't need these kids to be causing hard-working people any trouble. But when Jim makes a thump in the booth, the Harrington kid's face snaps up in fear, and Jim's plan for an angry monologue just drops.

Because there, on Steve Harrington's jaw, is a bruise the size of Indiana itself. Jim's face remains gruff, but his body language softens. "Hey, kid. What are you doing here so late?"

Steve's posture remains stiff and small. "Sorry sir, I was just hungry and it was the only place open. I wasn't—I wasn't trying to cause trouble."

It's then, for the first time, Jim thinks that his reputation isn't one of respect. Instead, his reputation might something worse. Fear.

"Didn't think you were. Just wondering what a rich kid like you, is doing on this side of town, at this time of night." Jim doesn't say it like a question, just fact. He tries not to take it too personally when Harrington turns his bruised side in on himself.

"Would have uh—gotten something from home but we—I didn't have any food left. And by the time I was able to eat, everything else was closed."

"Able to eat—kid what are you rambling about. Let me call your parents to pick you up." Jim makes his way to stand but Steve grabs his wrist to pull him back.

"No! I mean—" he clears his throat "—not necessary sir. My parents left for a work trip tonight. I uh—don't have a number for you to call them anyway. They call me instead, they never have a solid line to contact. Nothing bad happens in Hawkins anyway, so it isn't something to worry about." The last line sounds practiced, like it is something repeated to Steve religiously enough it's become his own mantra.

Jim is starting to put it together. The waiting all day to eat. The bruise on his jaw. The lack of money for food. God, the kid probably walked six miles to get here.

Jim isn't stupid, he can connect the dots. But Jim also knows when not to push things. When not to rock the boat. When sometimes, even if it pains him, helping someone would be a lost cause. He thinks of Sarah briefly.

It's even worse when that lost cause is just a kid.

Jim decides maybe the best thing he can do for Steve at that moment is to ignore the obvious problem and offer him a bit of kindness. "Well, I can't have ya here this late. Could look bad for Benny. And we don't want to get Benny in trouble do we?"

Steve shakes his head immediately. "No Sir."

"Didn't think so. Why don't I drive you to the station? Don't worry I'm not arresting you. But we got a nice cot there, and you can get some rest. Then I'll drive you back in the morning when I clock out. Cause I'm still on duty and all. Can't be driving you back Loch Nora quite yet." Jim doesn't mention how he can see bags under Steve's eyes. He doesn't mention how it would be quicker to his house than to the station either. Jim maybe, just a little bit, wants to keep an eye on him. Even if it's only for a short time.

"It's okay I can walk—" Jim levels Steve with a look "—actually that sounds great. Thank you, Sir."

Jim nods with finality and starts to stand. "Oh and kid? Enough with that sir crap. I ain't Mr. Harrington." He almost says I'm not your dad. But that felt wrong somehow, giving Harrington senior that title.

"Okay, sir—I mean Hopper. Okay, Hopper."

---

As the years go by, James Edward Hopper keeps an eye out for Steven James Harrington (Yes he looks at his file for his full name. Yes, it makes him feel some sort of way he has his name as his middle name and not his father's. Richard would make a horrible middle name anyway). At first, it's drive-bys to see if anyone's home. Giving the kid a ride if he sees him walking. Swinging by a basketball game or two, to see how he's playing.

Then it turns into busting his ragers. Hauling him in for the night not to arrest him but to sober the kid up. Pulling him over for driving while intoxicated with that dumb Hagan boy.

Jim wants to be mad, he does. He even yells at Steve sometimes. But he can't find in him to be mean to him, not really. Not when he's pretty sure the only thing Steve has consumed in days is alcohol. Not when even though he has gotten much bigger, and the bruises are less visible, Steve never ceases to flinch when Jim grabs him.

So mostly, Jim either just drives him home or brings him in, giving him a sandwich and bed for the night.

Around when Steve is sixteen though, things get worse for Jim. He becomes more frustrated, with Steve, with his job, and with this town. He takes more pills. He neglects his job. He forgets Steve.

Then the Upside Down happens for the first time. Jim tries to better himself for Joyce and the kids. He mainly though does it for El. His second chance, his new reason for trying, his daughter.

Jim knows it's okay to get a little lost in taking care of her. That it's a good thing, and she deserves his full attention.

He does feel a bit of guilt though, after round two of the Upside Down. When Steve Harrington sits in Joyce Byer's living room, looking like he went ten rounds with a semi.

The kids are all over him (including Mike which shocks the hell out of him). Dustin is trying to stop the bleeding on his face, Lucas is holding ice against his head and even El, who Steve met for all of five minutes, is sitting beside him on the couch, holding his shoulder up. There is a look in El's eyes as she stares up at Steve. Like she can see through him, like she knows him. Like she understands him.

Jim feels his heart break a little.

He approaches Steve in a crouched position. "Hey kid, I think we better take you to a hospital. You look like shit." He is sure there is a better way to say it, but Jim Hopper is a blunt man and that was never going to change.

The redhead, Max, snorts. "That's honestly the nicest way to put it."

Steve glares, Jim can't decide if it's at him or the kids. "No. I'm okay."

Dustin shouts, "Steve you are most definitely not okay. Hop's right you look like shit—"

"Language."

Dustin ignores Steve, "—and that's just externally. Who knows what's going on internally."

"C'mon kid, I can drive ya." Jim moves to help him stand.

Steve bursts with anger and pushes Jim away. "I said no. And you're not my dad."

Jim's jaw tightens and he resists the urge to scream back: and thank god for that.

El speaks before he can yell back. "You're hurt." It's soft, it's demanding and it's so very El. Jim watches Steve crumble back into the couch.

His voice is rougher than before, but much more gentle, "No hospitals."

"Okay. At least let Joyce look at ya. She used to be a nurse." Jim puts a hand on his shoulder, careful not to jostle him.

"Okay, Hopper. Okay, Hop."

———

After that, for a little while, Jim tries to look out for Steve again. It's harder this time though. He's more independent and harder to catch sight of. When he does see him, one of the gremlins is around him, and he can't check-in. And Hop has El, and he can't neglect her in favor of Steve. He tries to balance it out, but in the end, Steve isn't his kid.

Jim finds a small loophole though, which is El herself.

He worries about her every she since she ran away and he didn't even notice. And he knows Steve, like him, has a soft spot for the kids. So under the guise of babysitting, Jim gets Steve in his cabin once a week. So someone other than Joyce or Jonathan (or horribly, mike) is spending time with her. Sure, he's not there to keep an eye out for Steve himself, but it's the closest he's going to get.

Besides, biological daughter or not, El is just like Jim. She has a habit of collecting strays. If it's not going to be him looking out for Steve, he can't think of anyone better for the job than his little girl.

———

After Starcourt, somewhere in a Russian prison, Jim thinks of Steve.

Every day, Jim thinks of El. Misses her. Longs to hear her laugh even longs to hear her yell back at him. Every day, Jim thinks of his daughter and mourns what could have been. But Jim knows she's being taken care of. Knows Joyce and the boys will love her, and take care of her. Make sure she knows nothing else but kindness.

He worries though, between those moments, about how there is no one there for Steve.

———

Months later, in Hawkins Memorial, Jim Hopper finds Steve Harrington in a hospital chair next to Eddie Munson's comatose body.

Jim has a lot of questions but doesn't get any of them out because suddenly Steve Harrington is right in front of him, sucking in a harsh "Hop," and then collapsing in Jim’s arms.

Jim holds him close, says nothing, and cries silently with him.

———

During the summer that follows, James Edward Hopper notices a change within Steven James Harrington. Despite the obvious PTSD the boy suffers, and the scars that litter his body, Steve is visibly happier than Jim has ever seen him. He laughs more, he openly cries more, and he loves more.

Steve's now living with Robin in a tiny two-bedroom downtown. He comes to family dinner with the entire party every Sunday. He shares a cup of tea (no more beer for either of them) and a cigarette every Thursday evening on the Byers-Hoppers front porch.

Most noticeably, the biggest difference Jim sees in Steve is Eddie Munson.

Jim once again isn't stupid. And despite being an ex-cop isn't a bigot (he couldn't find himself back at the force, the corruption is too much for him. And he himself, was never very good at his job). So he can easily come to the conclusion that Steve has a massive crush on Eddie Munson.

Dear. God.

It's not that he has a problem with Eddie being a boy, but it's the fact that out of all people he can choose from, Steve had to go and fall for the twerp who used to trip over his laces when running away from Jim for the third time.

Jim feels, after all the years of neglect that Steve faced, he could do so much better.

Steve is happy though for once, and Jim doesn't say anything at first. But it becomes so painful to watch. The lingering touches. The longing gazes. The nicknames (sweetheart, honey, dear god did he just say big boy—).

Nothing ever comes of it though, it's August and neither of them has done anything but pine. And Jim seems to be the only one who notices.

At first, he thinks it's cause everyone is being kind, and giving them room to explore themselves. But with everyone making jokes about Robin and Steve (from the kids) or Steve and Nancy (from Eddie), it seems like no one notices the excruciating flirting between the two.

(Except for maybe Robin, but Jim isn't quite sure Steve and she aren't one organism. He doesn't count her)

Still, Jim ignores it though. He has learned his listen from Mike and El. Getting involved makes everything worse.

That is until, the second week in August right before family dinner, when he finds Steve and Eddie early, sitting on the couch, with Eddie dabbing the blood off of Steve's face.

"What happened?" Jim is over on Steve's other side in an instant.

"Nothing Hop, it's stupid." Steve tries to shrug off, and he looks towards Eddie briefly.

Jim's vision, for a brief brief moment, is filled with unclear rage. It's enough to consume him and makes him impulsive. Jim can't help but think he got it wrong. Maybe the two are together, and Steve had fallen into a bad relationship. He knew that Eddie was trouble, but he didn't think about it being that kind.

And though he is being irrational, and being for once a little stupid, no one can really blame him when he hauls Eddie up by the collar and into his line of vision.

"Munson, did you put your goddamn hands on my kid?"

Jim can hear Joyce, El, and Will (the only other people in the house) all run out into the living room at the sheer volume of Jim's voice.

Steve sits frozen, Joyce and El yell at him to "put him down, oh my god."

And Munson? He starts to ramble.

"No. No! I would never, ever hurt anyone. Haven't we learned this by now? I can barely kill a spider. I have to put them in a cup and put them outside." Eddie chuckles nervously, waving his hands around frantically.

Jim's grip tightens and pulls him closer. He's pretty sure his vibrating at this point.

Suddenly though, Eddie becomes deathly serious. As if he just realizes what Hopper has said.

"Hop, I would lay down my life before I ever hurt Steve. There is no one in this world that deserves kindness more than him. And if I ever do hurt him, whether it be emotionally or physically, I give you full permission to beat me up. Hell, I'll probably throw myself at your fist."

Jim doesn't let go but stays silent as he listens.

"You see, Steve here decided to pull a you when some jerks wouldn't leave me alone at Family Video today. They were throwing around a bunch of slurs. Nothing I haven't heard before. And even though I could handle myself—“ Eddie gives Steve a look “Steve here always has to be the hero and decided to defend my honor. And of course, it just had to turn physical. And Steve decided to take on three guys on his own. Got to say though, he held his own. It was kinda hot honestly—"

Jim hears Steve choke a little beside them, startling him out of his frozen state.

"—And he only got a cut on his forehead from one of the dickwads class rings. I'm a little worried he has another concussion though. Believe me, Hop when I say, I am just as pissed at those guys as you."

At the end of his speech, Eddie calms down and even holds eye contact with Jim. He still doesn't let go of the twerp, despite being considerably less angry. Well, at least at Eddie.

It's Steve though that finally gets him to let go. "Dad, please put Eddie down."

Steve says it like it's nothing. Steve says it likes its the easiest thing in the world. But to Jim, to Jim it's the best thing he's gotten since El.

Instantaneously, Jim drops Eddie back on the ground and scoops Steve into a bone-crushing hug. "You got to stop scaring me like this kid. Can't lose you again."

Steve's almost his height now, so he tucks Steve's head into his shoulder and lays his head on top of his hair. He hears a muffled, wet "I'm sorry" against him.

Jim chokes back tears as he says, "No, no you got nothing to apologize for. Just be more careful. Okay?"

Steve releases himself from his hold and looks at him. "Okay, Hop. Okay, Dad."

Jim ruffles his hair without jostling his head too much. He thinks he would do anything for his kids. Including pushing along this nightmare of a pining contest.

"And if you like him I like him too."

"Huh?" Steve says confused.

"Eddie here. If you like him, then he's okay by me."

Steve goes to stop Jim, but he's already one step ahead. "But if he hurts you even in the slightest, you're watching me dig the grave I'm going to bury him in. Understand?"

Steve blushes from head to toe and nods frantically, knowing if he protests it will only make the conversation longer. The room is silent until Eddie speaks.

"Don't worry Hop, I'll dig the grave for you." Eddie's voice, despite the threat, is filled with delight, wonder, and hope.

My work here is done Jim thinks as he gives the boys one last nod and leaves the room.

And if later, if Jim sees Steve and Eddie holding hands at the dinner table he doesn't comment on it. And if he sees Eddie give Steve's knuckles a light kiss, and whisper something that almost looks like "I love you", he only smiles at the two boys. Because if one more person loves his boy, it's a win for him.

Because James Edward Hopper, thinks his son Steve deserves that and so much more.

———

okay I spent waaaay too much time on this (as per usual) but I wanted to dive in a little more on Steve and Hoppers relationship (and how it impacts Steve and Eddie). I feel like a lot of fics makes them distant friends (which is canonically correct I guess) or surrogate family with no explanation. And I like the idea of them slowing building a father son relationship. Really leaning into you choose your family. I know people have mixed feelings about Steve calling him Dad (honestly sometimes I too think it’s cringey) but sometimes I love it and that boy deserves a good father figure. Even though steddie doesn’t come in until the end, I think it all really blends together nicely. Also in my head either the boys are both out to each other, is at least it’s heavily implied or is a known safe space they are in. We do not support outing people in the house. It’s probably a one-shot, but maybe I’ll add more snippets later on. For now it felt like a good place to stop.

As always I hope you enjoyed this as much as I enjoyed writing it. I just zoned out for like two hours as I wrote it. It kinda made me emotional I’m not going to lie.

part 2 here and the full version on ao3 here

[nerves-nebula]

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pages 41-43

it’s donnies turn to be an asshole and little leo has a little baby breakdown about it. hahhhh ok im gonna go play wizard101 until like 6 AM or something.

[small-but-mightyy]

now i’m suffering, and you couldn’t care less

[wangxianficrecs]

💙 The Men They Became by pinky_b

💙 The Men They Became

by pinky_b

G, 3k, Wangxian & Nielan

Summary: When he looks at A-Yuan, he sees everything he wishes his nephews could have been: happy. Or: Lan Qiren looks back on how he raised his nephews. Kind of a character study. Kay's comments: This story is the epitome of "Lan Qiren tries". Sometimes, just doing what you do is best, is not enough. He thinks things are going well for a while after he had to take in his nephews, but the house of cards collapses at some point, both boys having to deal with severe mental health issues that have been untreated for too long. Still, he tries his best at least until Wei Wuxian enters the mix. Then, he almost loses his nephews for good... This story is just very lovely in its own heartbreaking way and everyone who grew up having complicated relationships with their parents will probably recognize some part of it in this story. Still, there's hope in this too and a happy ending after some much needed communication! I also really like how this mirrored canon. Excerpt: When he looks at A-Yuan, he sees everything he wishes his nephews could have been: happy. As he watches his grand-nephew talk with his friends and smile, laugh, he feels this weight settle in his chest, reminding him of everything he failed to do. He tries to not be too hard on himself, but he knows he failed both his nephews in so many ways it physically hurts him. He tried. He truly honestly tried to do right by them in everything he did. He sees the unrestrained grin that seems to live on Lan Yuan’s face and the crowd of friends around him, and in those things, he sees everything his boys never had. He wants to be able to give himself some grace. He was never an affectionate man, and children were never anything he saw for his future, but he thought he was doing his best with what life gave him. He wants to be able to say that he did them well. Both his nephews are smart, capable, respectable men, but he thinks they became all those things in spite of how they were raised. Sometimes he feels like the boys had to overcome growing up in his home to become the men they are now. They say hindsight is always 20/20 and he can see now that there was too much on Xichen’s young shoulders.

pov lan qiren, modern setting, modern no powers, implied/referenced child abuse, child neglect, implief/referenced self-harm, grief/mourning, parent-child relationship, mental healh issues, panic attacks, musician lan wangji, lan xichen/nie mingjue, nielan, journalist wei wuxian, complicated relationships, coming out, character study

~*~

(Please REBLOG as a signal boost for this hard-working author if you like – or think others might like – this story.)