#POV of a child

[ivyprism]

A Brother's Regrets (Tenebrous AU)

Warning: Implied bad childhood, implied terrifying powers, etc.

Uncle Draven appears!

POV is from a child!

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*You tap Draven's arm. *You ask about his childhood, you ask about Morte, you ask about their powers.

"You ask a lot of things for a human. Though, really is it any of your business?"

*His denial only fills you with Determination. *You begin to say "please" repeatedly until he says yes.

"Alright, alright, stop saying 'please'. I'll talk, I'll talk."

*You smugly smile at the skeleton. *He looks positively bemused by your antics. *...What a scoundrel you are.

"Yeah, yeah, you can be smug all you want, human. So you want to know about my stubborn little brother, Morte?"

*You nod eagerly. *You scoot closer as you look up at the skeleton.

"Mm... Well, ain't much to say about that, kid."

*You huff as he scratches the back of his neck in thought. *You begin to talk about how he and his brothers have powers over shadows and Morte was sort of evil. *How very polite of you to say about his brother.

"I'm serious, kiddo. My bro and I don't talk much anymore. Morte is too busy with whatever the fuck he does and I'm trying to help my Nite run a kingdom."

*You protest saying there has to be something to talk about from his childhood. *He stares at you before he takes a long swig from his alcohol and he puts it down. *Yay, you drove him to alcoholism....?

"So, what is there to talk about? My childhood was fine, I suppose. I mean. Lots of expectations and stress for tiny kids like me and my older brother…"

*You notice he pauses as he thinks.

"Well, things were really different when Morte was born."

*You ask him to elaborate. *You notice he sighs as he thinks about it.

"I'm not sure if a kid like you should hear that."

*You loudly argue, "I'm not a kid!" *Even though, you definitely are a kid. *He snorts and cracks a smile. *But his smile instantly fades.

"Fine, kiddo. You win."

*You watch the skeleton closely as some shadows wrap around his wrist.

"My family comes from a long line of successful and powerful shadow sorcerers." We could manipulate the shadows and the darkness at will. It was sort of our thing. My father believed that Nite would take over one day since he was more powerful with his shadow magic than mine… But then Morte was born."

*You tilt your head at the skeleton.

"Nite was powerful, don't get me wrong… But Morte? Morte was born a natural at it. He had the most powerful magic in our family, although being the youngest."

*What a twist! *....Just kidding, you knew that. *You tell Draven "I already know that."

"Yeah, everybody knows that. Morte is a beast—literally."

*The Skeleton shrugs... *You notice he's trying to distract you from the task at hand. *You ask him to go on. *He runs his hand down his face... *He sighs.

"Clearly, he would be the one to take over the kingdom, right? A talented and powerful sorcerer like that? My father… He should've been so proud, right?"

*The skeleton sighs deeply again. *You notice his eyes flicker a bit as he thinks back.

"No, he wasn't. He despised--no, he was afraid of Morte and his abilities. I had never seen my father look at someone with such intensity… I don't know, contempt? Terror? All I know is that everyone in the kingdom looked at him that way."

*He can't seem to find the right words to say... *You understand though. *I mean, how would you describe your father viscerally fearing and hating your little brother?

"So, rather than simply accepting my brother and allowing him to become the next heir, my father and the people chose to completely disregard him. He'd start preparing Nite to take over the throne, with me as his advisor, and he never showed Morte any affection."

*You grip your chest. *How alone Morte must've felt... *It makes you tear up.

"And Morte? Morte was many things, but he was not foolish. He could sense that our father despised and scared him. So Nite and I attempted to show him the love his father never showed, but it turned into a hole that began to engulf him. And a kid like that? So gifted, so fucking powerful. It was only a matter of time before Morte put my father in checkmate."

*Draven scratched his skull as he leaned back.

"Morte gained allies and, well, he became resentful. His birthright was taken away from him… I guess that's what made him who he is now… So he took it back. He recovered the power that had been stolen from him. And the kingdom and our father suffered the price for their negligence…"

*Draven sighs and closes his eyes.

"I just wish I'd done more to stop him from doing all of that… I think you could say not assisting him was my greatest regret… But, you see how he is now? He doesn't need his brother anymore."

*You stare at him as he smiles weakly. *You can see his regrets soak through that plastered smile. *A brother's regrets... *You feel there is more to the story. *However, when you open your mouth-

"That's enough for today, kiddo. Let's get you to bed. Your uncle Draven can only handle so much storytelling."

*You protest, but he begins to rush you to bed. *Well, we'll get more answers later, you fiend. *Time for bed.

-------

[dcxdpdabbles]

Danny reincarnates as Tim's twin. The only problem is that his ghost powers act up in the womb from either the gross ecto in Gotham or an artifact that Janet handled while pregnant. Because of this only Tim is 'born', the Drake's either assume one was miscarried or never knew they were twins.

Tim meanwhile grows up with a brother his parents ignore more than him. It takes Danny an embarrassingly long time to realize what's going on and fix it but by then the twins are around 4 so can't really explain to the rest of Gotham.

When they become Robin, either Nightwing and Batman are almost convinced he's like Harvey with how many times they've found him talking and discussing plans with himself. Or with how bad their collective mental health was at that time think they're going crazy.

Only Alfred knows what's going on because he's Alfred.

Tim Drake is a strange child. Ever since he was little, he would point to empty air and interact with it as if someone was standing there and responding.

At first, his parents thought it was cute that he had an imaginary friend, and Mrs. Drake even shed a few tears when Tim proclaimed that it was the brother he had at birth. The second son of the Drakes had been growing healthy in her stomach until the very end of the first trimester when he simply vanished.

Not died, not stop growing- vanished as if he was never there.

The doctors and the Drakes had no idea what happened. Test after tests were done, but in the end, they could only conclude that the second baby was gone. It was theorized that Tim may have devoured his brother in the womb, though there had been no symptoms that Janet suffered from.

When Tim was born, Janet had nearly died with a false labor that happened only ten minutes after giving birth. The nurses and doctors had been panicking because they could not understand where the contractions originated. False labor was contractions during pregnancy, not after labor, so there was nothing the body could confuse for the urge to push.

They ruled it as a freak false labor since the only other match was Janet entering second labor. Still, as much as the nurses and doctors were ready for a monochorionic monoamniotic twin, nothing came out. Eventually, Janet passed out, and her body finally finished doing whatever it was doing.

It was no surprise that this experience ended up giving Janet postpartum depression. She tried to connect to Tim, but something in her just never clicked, and Jack was beside himself, trying to care for his child while his wife drifted further and further away.

A therapist suggested Janet return to work, which seemed to do wonders for her. She took part in multiple digs and went on many trips, but eventually, Jack felt like she was never home. Worried his wife wouldn't return to him, Jack jumped on a plane while leaving Tim in the capable hands of the housekeeper.

He said it would be a short trip just to get Janet to come back and get treatment.

Jack ended up helping at the dig site, extending his stay to his once again bright and loving wife. Seeing her back to her usual self led to him booking them another trip.

Then another, and another, and antoher. Before long, the Drakes rarely spent time in Gotham, and Tim grew bigger in their absence. Janet loved Tim, but seeing him only brought back guilt that she could not love him like other mothers could so quickly. She was so excited for their baby and had loved him with her whole heart while he was inside of her, but now, seeing those big blue eyes blink up at her, all Janet wanted to do was run.

She drowned in guilt, and sometimes, it felt that she was only breathing because Jack was there for her. He dragged her back to the surface only long enough to take a breath and be dragged under again.

She missed his first steps, his first words, and his first laugh. That's why hearing him call out to Danny was so jarring. She had stopped outside his room, carrying gifts in the form of toys, hoping they would make up for the fact that she had only seen him a handful of times for a solid year.

He was playing with blogs, babbling to "Danny." She had picked out the name of her other son when she found out she was having twins. The only person Tim could have heard that name from was the housekeeper.

Janet fired her after wiping her tears. She would hire a replacement that wouldn't mock her two-year-old son. She let Tim keep his imaginary friend, figuring he would outgrow it.

Tim didn't.

Over the years, Tim became increasingly convinced Danny was with him. He even started turning in classwork under the name Danny, and when a teacher would call him, he would respond with "I don't know. Tim is better at this than me."

Sometimes, when he acted out, Tim would be the one responsible. Tim was the one who got bored quickly in class, needed to be challenged more, and preferred to follow whatever hair-brain idea he had. Photography, skateboarding, and actual crime shows were what made Tim happy.

Then, he became Danny when he showed effort in school but struggled to keep his solid, slightly above-average results. This side of her son preferred astronomy and baking and seemed confused by their wealth. Almost as if he was new money instead of the old wealth the Drakes had. Janet also heard that Danny seemed to stick his nose in whenever a bully targeted a classmate, confronting them with a bravo she could not associate with Tim.

Tim was more like her. They dealt with their opponents through clever planning instead of confirmation, which Jack preferred. He talked to himself a lot, too. The Drakes weren't even in Gotham, but their family's whispers echoed through the gala halls anyway. As young Tim walked by, there were rumors and speculations.

The elites would gossip as Tim continued arguing that the decor was worth the money and that they couldn't steal it, no matter how much food it could buy people in their charities.

He whispers, yelling at the air as Janet watches from across the hall, her stomach turning with love and repulse.

Years after his birth, she could not bring herself to stand before him for too long. Jack followed because he worried she do something to herself if he didn't.

She could not deny it now that Tim was nine. Janet realized, after a while of reading reports involving her son, that he likely suffered from a split personality disorder. Seeing it in person was entirely different.

They'll likely have to have him instituted, and the thought almost has her throwing up. She wonders if she would have caught on faster had she been a better mother and been around.

She steels herself, crossing the room to speak to her son. Out of the corner of her eye, she sees that Jack has noticed and quickly tries to make an excuse to stop her. Fortunately, depending on who you asked, the men looking for an investor don't let their husbands go that easily, so she is clear.

"No, I won't ask him for an autograph!" Tim hisses, looking at the wall to his right as if someone were leaning against it with him. Janet's resolves wabble a little at Tim's pout. There is a short pause before Tim goes red. "I can't do that! Mr.Wayne is really protective of Richard."

Dread pools into her stomach as Tim's features shift, and a grin with a mad twist settles on his lips. "I already have all the pictures I want about him. My favorite is the one I took last night."

This can't wait. Janet loves her son; she does not care what anyone says that she doesn't, but she can't allow him to harm others. Stalking will eventually lead to harm; she knows it. Those are the early signs.

She opens her mouth, only for Tim to turn to her with a coldness she hadn't noticed he always regarded her with.

She had never seen joy on his face, so she had never had a chance to compare how he looked at her and Jack to how he looked at others. How he looked at Danny.

Janet feels everything in her freeze, and a tremble grows in her arms and hands. Trying to hide it, she drowns the glass of wine in her hand in one gulp but instantly regrets it.

The world become slightly hazy that alcoholic cause, and maybe it's been a long time since she last drank. She could have sworn she was seeing double for a moment, and an exact copy of her child was leaning on the wall behind Tim.

But that wouldn't make sense. Tim's eyes weren't green.

"Son." Jack's warm presence is behind her, placing a comforting hand on her back, and she can't bring herself to speak as her husband commands. He likely feels her trembles. "It's time to leave."

The second image of Tim flickers out of sight, and Janet walks out of the Wayne Gala, wondering if her son inherited his madness from her. Neither adult notices the soft thump of the backseat, nor do they pay much attention to Tim carefully buckling the air or how the blanket he keeps back there spreads itself across Tim's lap.

Janet falls into old habits, and instead of being up to what she realized that night, she convinces Jack to go to Guatemala. They are gone first thing the following day.

Tim watches them leave from the top of the grand stairway, his eyes glowing green in heavy judgment and ice that Janet would have felt in the coldest winter. Jack is chatting nonsense to fill the silence and keep Janet grounded, but when she peeks over her shoulder to the Manor, she spots Tim in the window of his room, watching them leave with a frown.

His green eyes are gone, and she feels a chill race down her spine. There is no way he could have run up the stairs, gone down four different hallways, and gotten to the window before they could get to the waiting car.

"Goodbye, Tim. Keep the house safe!" Jack says as he opens the car door for Janet, but he's talking in the doorway. Because that's where the grand stairway is. She hears her son respond but can't tell what he is saying.

She can only gaze upwards to where Tim waves at her while clutching the curtain. His mouth doesn't move. He isn't the one speaking to Jack.

Janet sits in the leather of the car, Jack beside her, holding her hand tenderly, and she rethinks about having Tim instituted. She should hire an exorcist instead.

When they get back, of course. The car pulls away from the driveway, and Janet does her best not to look back even as the door slams shut, as if the sound was meant to tell her never to return. She closes her eyes, holds her breath, and only lets it go when they are far away from Drake Manor and her son.

Maybe one day she can be a good mother.

[ladystoneshart]

I feel so bad for myrcella like imagine you're a 10 year old chess prodigy who only wants to be cute and hang out with her friends but you end up losing like half of your face because your boyfriend's hot sister convinced your newest father figure that you would be a good president (you would)

AND ALSO you and your siblings are doomed to die in childhood because your dumbass loser mother who you haven't seen in like 2 years received a cursed prophecy from a circus magician when she was a child (???) free myrcella man wtf

[hazelira]

baby assistant at dada’s work (#2 of 2024)

The next morning, Jay found himself adjusting the tiny straps of your daughter’s pastel pink backpack while she stood on tiptoes, trying to peek at the shoes he was tying for her. Her little face lit up with excitement as she realized what the day had in store.

“Are you sure you’re ready for this?” you teased from the doorway, watching as Jay meticulously ensured every strap, buckle, and sock was perfectly in place.

He glanced at you, raising an eyebrow. “She’ll be the best assistant this office has ever seen,” he replied confidently. “Right, princess?”

Your daughter beamed, throwing her arms up. “Yes! I help Dada!” she cheered, her enthusiasm infectious.

He chuckled, lifting her into his arms. “Let’s go, then. Don’t let me down, assistant.”

When they arrived at the office, all eyes turned to the sight of the stoic and intimidating Jay walking in with his toddler perched on his hip. Her small hands clung to his shirt, and her curious eyes darted around the sleek, professional environment.

The first stop was the meeting room. Jay set her down on one of the oversized chairs, the leather swallowing her tiny frame. She kicked her feet, clearly enjoying her new throne.

“Dada, what dis?” she asked, pointing at the rows of binders and papers on the table.

“That’s work,” Jay replied, kneeling beside her. “Important stuff. But don’t worry—you don’t have to do any of it. You sit here and look cute.”

She giggled, covering her mouth with her little hands. “I can do dat!” she declared proudly.

The meeting began, and seeing Jay’s daughter in the room instantly softened the tense atmosphere. She sat quietly at first, content with the colouring book he’d brought for her. But halfway through the presentation, she got curious.

“Dada,” she whispered loudly, tugging on his sleeve. “Why dat man talk so much?”

The room went still, a few muffled chuckles escaping from Jay’s usually composed team. Jay glanced down at her, his lips twitching in an effort not to smile. “He’s explaining his work, sweetheart. It’s important.”

She tilted her head, clearly unconvinced. “But… too much words,” she muttered, causing another ripple of quiet laughter.

Jay smoothed a hand over her messy hair, his tone calm and indulgent. “That’s how work is sometimes. Lots of words.”

She scrunched her nose but nodded, returning to her colouring with a serious expression. The rest of the meeting continued with a much lighter atmosphere, the team occasionally glancing at the little girl who had somehow managed to charm their intimidating boss.

Later, at Jay’s, she sat on his desk while he reviewed some documents. She babbled happily about her favourite toys and how she wanted ice cream after work, her tiny feet swinging as she spoke. He nodded along, occasionally adding a “Really?” or “Wow!” as if her stories were the most important updates of his day.

“Dada,” she said suddenly, looking at him wide-eyed. “Do you work every day?”

He looked up from his papers, her question catching him off guard. “I do. Why?”

She frowned her little brow furrowing. “Dat’s too much, Dada. You need pway time.”

He couldn’t help but laugh softly, setting his pen down. “You’re right, princess. I’ll make sure to take more playtime.”

“Pinky pwomise?” she asked, holding up her tiny pinky.

He smiled, hooking his pinky around hers. “Pinky promise.”

By the end of the day, Jay walked into the lobby with his daughter tucked under his arm, her head resting against his shoulder. She was exhausted but happy, her small hands clutching the colouring book filled with her masterpieces.

When you met them at the door, she lifted her head slightly, her sleepy voice bubbling with excitement. “Mama! I helped Dada at work!”

You smiled, brushing her messy hair back. “You did? I bet you were the best assistant ever.”

“She was,” Jay said softly, looking down at her with a warmth in his eyes that only grew when he saw the proud smile on her sleepy face. “The very best.”

[jazzy0clock]

Starting off the new year with a new duooo

PLEASEEE I CAN’T BE THE ONLY ONEE THESE TWO HAVE POTENTIAL PLZ SHOU SPINOFF NEEDS TO BE REALL

[littlecrittereli]

just one of those days man...

THIS IS SO LOW QUALITY HELP LOL

ignore that I can't draw very well rn I'm very focused on school so not much time to doodle

[zartbird]

Abyssal Bingqiu Angst. A never ending cycle 🔄 HOORAYY (it’s 3 am)

[un-unavoidableanxiousball]

Excuse me, Mr. Loaf Man?

Masterlist²

Rating: Mature

Fandom: Squid Game

Pairing: platonic: Salesman x Reader,

Characters: Salesman, Reader, background homeless people, parents - mom and dad,

Tags: gn!child!Reader, compassionate!Salesman, still unhinged!Salesman, abusive parents, angst, fluff, comfort, 2nd person POV, Reader's POV, alternating POV, 3rd person POV, Salesman's POV, Reader is a single child, obsessed!Salesman,

Warnings: spousal abuse(implied), child abuse, starvation, force feeding, yelling, child negligence, vomiting (mention), Reader is locked in a closet as punishment, cuss word(s) (I think)

Summary: 10 year old Reader prefers spending their time in a park. They can keep themself entertained. Sometimes they see a man walking around, talking with homeless people. After a couple of times, they decide to approach him.

Word count: 6075

Acronyms: (y/n) - your name, (f/n) - father's name, (m/n) - mother's name

A/N: Pretty sure there's dubious pacing; mind any possible grammatical errors or accidental shift of Reader's gender.. Tell me if I missed a tag; I'm weird and I can't write

A/N: I was the one that made the childish drawing above on my tablet. Just for this fanfic. I just edited it a little to look like it's a child showing it (hands are from google). I tried to make reader neutral looking but I couldn't manage. But it's the thought that counts. Don't copy without tagging me.

Reader's POV

You make your way to the nearby park, again. You sort of can't wait, you hope that the kind man will be there today as well. For days you've been bracing yourself how to approach him.

On days when your mom can't immediately pick you up from school, — tuesdays, thursdays and fridays — you learned to keep yourself busy. Your favorite place is at the park. Nobody bothers you there. And one day you saw a man in a suit with bags in each hand. He went up to every homeless man and woman handing out something. You couldn't see it from so far away. No one looks at homeless people. But he does, so he must be kind.

If he's willing to talk to them then maybe he'll talk to you too? No one really likes you either. You don't have any friends. And dad certainly thinks of you as too revolting to look at.

After that day you went to the park every time mom runs late. Keeping an eye out for him. He wasn't always there. But you felt better after getting a glance of him. Also you kept shortening the distance from which you were watching him.

But now you are ready. You didn't have to wait long after arriving. You basically rush up to him and before you can chicken out you speak. "Excuse me, sir…?"

He turns to look at you, his expression a little irritated and curious at being interrupted. A raised eyebrow and a short "Yes?" is enough to make you continue.

"What do you have in those bags, sir?" you ask tilting your head.

He considers you for a moment then he opens one bag, curtly replying "Bread."

You feel your eyes widening at the amount of packaged loaves. Is that what he always offers others? You look up at him eagerly, "Can I have one, please?"

To your astonishment he agrees and lets you take it. "Gamsahabnida, sir." [Thank you, sir] With that you rush back to your spot on the bench.

You happily eat while you see him going through every person. After the last man, he then walks and stops in the centre of the pavement. He does something you didn't see before nor expect. He empties both bags to the ground, bread lands on the ground. And when a man crouching, reaches for one. He stomps on it.

"I gave you a chance, and you made your choice." His voice is loud enough for you to clearly hear what he's saying. "I'm not the one who threw these away." He points to the ground, "It's you, ladies and gentlemen."

And then he starts jumping and crushing the bread. You keep nibbling on your loaf but it does nothing to calm your beating heart at the familiar sight. You know very well it's a reasonable punishment for not eating. You don't understand how they could keep denying the bread to the point that today the kind man had enough of them. You're happy you managed to get one loaf from him.

You keep your gaze down on the ground in front of you. There's still plenty of time until mom can finally drive you home.

So you decide to do your homework. You were already half-way done when lesson ended. You were putting the last touches when a shadow falls on you and your notebook. You glance up to see loaf man staring intensely at you. Does he want to sit here?

Your cheeks flush with shame, you scramble up to pack everything. "S-sorry, sir."

He grabs your wrist to stop you from packing up further. "It's fine. I don't mind." He gives you a small smile. "If I may ask… Why are you here? Where are your parents?"

You hug your exercise book to soothe yourself. "At work. Mom doesn't pick me up until later." A bit of silence passes that you break quietly. "Thank you again for the bread. It was delicious."

In softened voice and a bit slowly the man speaks, "Did I frighten you little one? Are you scared of me?"

You're pinching and rubbing the book cover in a soothing motion. You look at the ground which is when you notice he still has the paper bags but this time containing stomped on bread.

"Not really? I was a little startled when you dumped and crushed the bread… But I get it. My parents don't like it when I refuse to eat either. But usually I have to eat it when dad tells me so; even if I don't like the taste."

"Is that so?" It's told with an edge you can't pick up.

You nod your head, your grip on the book loosens.

"How old are you?"

"…ten…" Your answer is mumbled enough that the man has to lean in closer to hear it.

"You're ten?" He whispered in disbelief. He looks around as if to see if someone finds this unbelievable as well. "…and how long will it be until your mother picks you up?" His eyes jump across your face in search of something.

"It's usually 4:48 PM. Maybe minutes earlier or later. I don't mind it much. I'm a big kid."

His eyes darkened for a moment only to be swiftly replaced by softness and calmness. He sends you a charming smile. "Then you wouldn't mind my company then?"

You shake your head and that's that.

Since Mr. Loaf Man doesn't mind, you unpack again to finish the rest of your homework. He doesn't speak to you again. Just sits there, quietly observing you. After you finish every homework you had, you decide to play around. A little hide and seek. Mr. Loaf Man even played along with you! When time neared 4:30 you already have everything in your backpack and are ready to head back to your school gate. That was the moment when he offered to walk you there. He's so kind! Of course you readily agreed.

After arriving to your school, he makes sure you'll be okay alone and walks away. You only wait six minutes after that for your mom to come. You step into the car and buckle your seatbelt.

"Did you have fun at school sweetie?"

"Yes, mom. Just like always. I even got to solve an equation and write it on the board!" You say with excitement.

"That's amazing, sweetie."

...

"Mom…?" she hums, "…what's for dinner today?"

"Maybe… Baechu Guk, hmm?" You actually like it so maybe it won't be that bad today. You will lick the plate clean! And dad will be happy. It's not your favorite but at least it's not sannakji. You felt really sick after eating that. You hate it but dad makes sure you eat it everytime it's served. You can cry and scream but dad knows how to force you to swallow it. But more often than not, you throw up afterwards. And then you don't get to eat for couple days. As a way to make up for you wasting food.

Mom parks the car before your house. You quickly get out to help her carry the grocery bag. She opens the door and you make your way to the kitchen. Not before quickly taking off your shoes. In fast moves you set everything on the table and then place things in the correct cupboards (those that you can reach).

Your mom walks in, having already hung her coat. "That's okay, (y/n). I have it from here. You go to your room and do your homework, okay? Food will be ready in half an hour." She rubs your head.

"Okay mom." You go to the front door to leave your jacket on the hanger. You hurry to your room.

You only have 30 minutes to think of a gift for Mr. Loaf Man. You need to show your gratitude. It's proper.

But you don't know what he likes… A bracelet is out, he doesn't seem like the type. Besides it's more a gift for girls. A key chain? You don't know his favorite colors though, so it's out too.

A picture maybe? Nothing goes wrong there. Maybe it's a little basic… But you might be able to give him something better later on.

But you want it to look, if not good, decent enough. It has to show your gratefulness. So minutes pass as you test out different colors and positions and something always didn't sit quite right. It turns out ugly. You ended up re-doing it every time. You couldn't decide what else to draw when mom calls for dinner.

Dad already sat in his chair, his face forever frozen on expressing frustration. You join the table as mom brings food.

First portion goes to dad then mom and then to you. You wait until dad starts eating.

"(y/n), tell your dad what you managed to do today."

You nod your head, enthusiastic to share your accomplishment. Dad might be happy too. "I got to do an exercise in front of the whole class! I solved every equation correctly."

He scoffs, "What is there to be proud of? You probably forgot to do your homework."

You lower your head and focus on eating, every ounce of excitement leaving your body.

"(f/n)!"

"What?! You know I'm telling the truth! They're incompetent! Not even the top of their class." He grunts and goes back to eating.

"They're capable enough not to need help with homework. (y/n), did you manage to finish everything your teacher gave you?"

Forgetting to swallow, you answer that yes, you did. Your mother continues, "See? They did that in half an hour."

Dad growls and bangs his hand on the table. "Are you blind, (m/n)?! Did you not see what I did? How many times have I repeated myself- No talking with your mouth full! Clearly (y/n) is a useless brat! Nothing stays in that head."

You curl in on yourself further. Wishing to become invisible in this moment. But you also hurry with Baechu Guk to avoid angering him further. And because you're going to need it. As you know you can't avoid your punishment for forgetting a rule. Thankfully this time your dad decides to punish you after dinner.

Mom cleans the table while dad grips your small arm and leads you to the punishment closet. He shoves you inside. "You should know the deal. But since you're a forgetful dumbass, I'll repeat it for you." He leans closer to your face, disgust clear on his face. "You stay here as long as the number of times you broke the rules. For every disobedience is 10 more minutes. Today marks 110 minutes, congratulations. Now, quiet!" He hissed the last part. With that he slams the closet shut. You hear him lock the closet door with a key.

You're shaking all over. Alone in the darkness, dreading how long 110 minutes will feel like. You feel your tears run down your cheeks. You hope he won't forget to get you out. You won't have time to do Mr. Loaf Man that drawing otherwise… You hope that this friday he'll be there and won't mind your company again.

earlier, Salesman's POV

He's heading toward the park where most of the homeless reside. It's the latest whim of the frontman. Social experiments. As if humanity has any hope for redemption. Especially the trash. He's confident it's the fault of player 456 for this idiocy.

Arrogance seems to be a heritable trait for winners. They think of themselves as special. Player 456 with his will to put a stop to the games and player 132… well, being chosen as the next frontman and successor by the host surely went to his head.

He arrives to the park when he hears someone run in his direction. He was ready to pay them no mind. He's far more irritateable today. He keeps walking until he hears a child's voice. "Excuse me, sir…?"

Curious what a child might want from him, he turns his head to look at them. He lets out a clipped "Yes?". Though he had no intention for it to come out unkind. Apparently today the hold on his mask is far looser than he thought.

Astonishingly the child isn't deferred by his sharpness. With a tilt to their head they ask the last question he expected. Which it shouldn't have been, considering the circumstances.

"What do you have in those bags?"

He considers for a moment what to do. Ignore, not ignore, lie or not. But he sees no harm in answering truthfully. He shifts his hold to open one of the bags so the child can see inside. He says "Bread." with more stable tone, but still has some curtness to it.

He sees their eyes widen with wonder. Their mouth goes slack in shock. They look back up at him in seconds asking if they can have one.

He agrees. One package less won't interfere with overall choice of the less fortunate. There's always more than enough bread left over. Not many choose food over a lottery ticket.

They rush off after saying "Gamsahabnida, sir!". And he goes about his routine. He approaches men, among which only one chose to take the packaged bread and immediately inhaled it. The few women there are a different matter. Within the four only one chose lottery. It always seems like females are smarter in that regard. It's never enough though.

But today, there was something about their choices that kept adding fuel to his already bad mood. He stops in the front, puts down his suitcase and the bags. Then he takes one bag after the other and spills their contents to the ground. Homeless crowd moves with confused apprehension. He pays them no mind.

He feels a twitch of apathy at the quantity. This pile of bread shows exactly why natural selection is so important. Here's proof that humanity's advancement in medicine not only helped raise quality of life, but also allowed inferior genes to survive. Some characteristics should've died out a long time ago.

"Why would you throw away perfectly good food like that?" Unbelievable. The audacity of the question. Doesn't the damn hypocrite hear himself? He declined it, preferred a hopeless chance at winning lottery over nutrition.

The revolting scum reaches for the bread. The entitlement astounds him and he won't let it stand. He crushes the bread with his shoe. But he gains no satisfaction witnessing the uncomprehending expression. "I gave you a chance, and you made your choice."

It doesn't register in their microscopic brains. His voice raises: "I'm not the one who threw these away." he point at the ground to emphasize, "It's you, ladies and gentlemen."

But he observes no shift in their expressions or postures. No change. No remorse. Nothing.

Their lack of critical thinking and absolute absence of self-awareness among them drive him into a frenzy.

He stomps and jumps with fervor, squashing as many bread buns as he can. He unleashes on these packages his tightly contained frustration and anger toward this crowd, his boss and that stupid player 456.

His energy runs out fairly quickly but he feels slightly better for it.

He presses his hands against his face, applying pressure to further ground him to the present. Tries to fix his hair then straighten his spine and tucks in the tie.

He look around to see which packages survived the ordeal. He picks up each one that did and puts them back into the bag. The ungrateful vermin don't deserve good things that's clear.

He's back hiding away behind his calm and unbothered mask. He makes a move to turn around and leave when he sees them. The same child that inquired after the bread.

They're still here? Why? If they saw his actions, why do they remain around? And… are they doing homework?!

He finds himself puzzled and his feet lead him to them automatically. He can't avert his eyes from the sight. Apparently unbothered by the scene he caused just now. He stands there casting a shadow over their book.

You startle and seem in a hurry to make space for him to sit. Except… It looks like you want to get away entirely. He doesn't want that. He takes hold of your wrist to stop you.

"It's fine, I don't mind." He aims for a reassuring smile and doesn't know if he succeeds. "If I may ask… Why are you here? Where are your parents?" Why are you alone when anything tragic can happen to you at anytime?

He notes you're a little nervous or shy but aren't hostile toward him. "At work… Mom doesn't pick me up until later." How much later? He's a psychopathic man who keeps up a facade on a daily basis just to pass as normal; and even he knows it's negligent to leave someone so small and innocent without protection. Wasn't there a saying or a quote telling children should be cherished? Is society at such a low point it's acceptable nowadays? A spark of anger lights up within him, again. Your voice brings him back from his thoughts.

"Thank you again for the bread. It was delicious." Such a polite child. He notes that you still hang on that book for dear life.

He slows his words intentionally, softens his tone to not unnerve you further. "Did I frighten you, little one? Are you scared of me?"

He observes your body, hands are shaking a little, fingers twitching at the book cover.

"… My parents don't like it when I refuse to eat either. But usually I have to eat it when dad tells me so. Even if I don't like the taste."

You answer quietly, but oh. Hearing that you not only understand his actions but your dad forces you to eat something you don't enjoy. That's a brand of cruelty that he finds distasteful. Forcing anybody to anything they're unwilling to is atrocious. At least, he manipulates and twists other's perceptions until people agree by themselves. He has enough finesse to do it the correct way after all.

"Is that so?" You only nod your head. Moreover you're not as tense anymore. Maybe that's what spurs him on to ask the next question, even if it has the ability to anger him further. "How old are you?" He leans in quickly enough to hear you say ten.

T e n .

"You're ten?" He voices his disbelief so quietly he doesn't know if he made any noise. He looks to his right then left almost looking for any possible threat because this child is ten years old and alone, left to their own devices. He's breathless for a moment, because at this discovery he feels unreasonably protective. "…and how long will it be until your mother picks you up?" His eyes take every detail of your face, hoping that it won't be long. But his hopes are crushed like the bread beforehand.

"It's usually 4:48PM…" What kind of parent leaves a child alone for 3 hours?! Truly horrible one, apparently.

"…I'm a big kid." Ohh… The instinct to kill anyone who would even dare to ruin that innocence overwhelms him for a second. He harshly tugs on his control to smile pleasantly at you, "Then you wouldn't mind my company then?"

He receives a shake of your head as an answer. It's so frustratingly easy to have your trust. How come nobody took advantage of that already, he does not know. But he will try his best to keep an eye out for you from now on.

Which he'd be doing a poor job since, at some point, you seemed to have disappeared into thin air from one second to the next. He grew alarmed instantly when he didn't see you next to him. Looking around for you or possible suspects wondering how he didn't notice anyone move. That was until he heard a giggle. He whips around to see a child's shadow behind the tree. He felt instant relief, his heart slowing it's alarming rate.

Apparently someone thought it'd be a good idea to play hide and seek without telling him. And since you're not in danger…

Well… Two can play that game.

"Little one? Where have you gone to?" Another muffled giggle can be heard. "I didn't get to become friends with you properly…" He overexaggerates his sadness. "How will I play with you when I don't even know your name little flower?" He stomps his foot dramatically, childishly, "And now you're gone and we won't meet anymore. Because I don't know how to find you…"

Now those adorable giggles turn into full blown laughter. You step away from the tree and easily run to him to hug his legs.

"You're so silly! We're already friends!" He hugs back to the best of his abilities. And says with, not even faked, surprise: "Really?! I didn't know that!"

"Besides we can meet here in the park, I come here after school, most of the time."

He feels a gentle smile on his face. Being in your presence for such a short time already make him feel lighter and his world a little brighter. Such an easy happiness. "That's good."

"Yeah, also my names is (y/n)! Now you know me." You clap your hands, excited, and go to sit on the bench again.

(y/n), what a beautiful name. I'll protect you, (y/n). No harm will come to you.

He looks at his wristwatch. 4:04. Soon you're getting home. He will walk you there.

When he asks if he can, you agree, again. Turns out he could only walk you to the school gates. Your mother picking you up with a car.

He chose to depart from you, but he stayed to observe from afar. He was displeased since it looked like the mother is malnourished as well as tired. Most of the fault lies solely on your father then. She at least looks a little overworked. It's clear your parents are unfit for the responsibility of caring for a child.

Soon (y/n) will rely on him for everything. He can't wait to meet again.

Back to Reader's POV

When you were finally let out of the closet you were tired. Emotionally drained. You couldn't draw for Mr. Loaf Man now, since you didn't have any energy. You went to the bathroom almost immediately.

Now you are laying on your bed, under the comfort of your blanket and beloved plushie. You pray you'll have time to draw something tomorrow at school. You already put your crayons in your backpack. You just need time. It doesn't even matter to you how it'll turn out. But you can't, won't go empty handed.

You fall into dreamless slumber.

And so you wake up next morning and go through the motions until you're at school. Then at breaks you sit somewhere on the sidelines, using the time to draw the most standard and boring drawing ever. First you did him then yourself. Then you drew a sun in the corner. You wrote who's who just in case. On the next break you drew the green grass and lastly the blue sky.

You're happy it's friday today. That means Mr. Loaf Man and the weekend.

When your lessons end you're in a hurry and have a slight spring in your step. You're basically vibrating with anticipation. You'll head straight to the same bench as yesterday.

But when you arrive… You gasp. He's already there waiting for you. You feel a wide grin spread on your face in happiness. When he notices you, his expression lifts as well.

"Hello (y/n). We're giddy today aren't we?"

"Yes!" You nod your head quickly a couple of times, it made you dizzy. "I have something for you, Mr. Loaf Man!" His eyes widen at that. Whether it's your nickname for him or your gift you don't know. You take off your backpack and immediately open it to reach the drawing.

"I'm sorry it's not good and not pretty enough but I was in a hurry." You hand it to him. He holds it gently as if afraid of crumbling it. He looks at it for a long time in complete silence. So much so that slowly your proud smile gets smaller and smaller. "You don't like it…?" Your voice wavers slightly under your sadness. Your blurry eyes make their way from his face to focusing on his tie.

"What-?" His voice croaks as if he didn't speak for days. "I love it."

You look up at that. "Really?" His face is unguarded. His eys are shiny, one tear already ran down his left cheek. His eyebrows are twitching as if they're unsure which way to go.

"Of course, it's just… it's been… s-such a long while since I got a gift. And one so, so lovely and meaningful as well." He open his arms offering a hug. You take him up on it. His grip on you is unyielding. "Come on, don't cry. There's no need." You hoop your arms around his neck and press your face to his shoulder. He picks you up into his lap. "I appreciate your efforts behind this, alright?" is gently whispered to your ear. You choose this moment to pat his hair, in — what you hope for — is a soothing gesture. You don't know if you succeeded since he started trembling.

He doesn't let you go for a long while. But you don't either.

When both of you are back to decently presentable — and not falling apart — you break away from each other.

"I have something for you too. Nothing as thoughtful though…" He takes the grocery bag that was next to him and reaches inside. He passes to you another packaged bread. You take it and immediately dig in. You thank him for it. "Are you going to offer food to them again? Or did you already did that today?"

He looks at you then to the homeless then back to you. "No and no. I think I'll give them a week to think over their actions, hmm?" He tilts his head in askance.

But you nod your head, "Makes sense. I do that at home too. Maybe it'll work for them too."

His eyes narrow, "What do you mean?"

"When I refuse to eat, I have to. And when i waste food, usually it's after I throw up. I don't get to eat to make up for all the wasted food." You smile up at him, "That's why I like you, sir. You're very kind and fun but you're very fair. But…" You take a thoughtful expression, "I don't get it… why refuse food? They need it after all and unlike me, it's not easily available to them. It'd be really stupid if they did the same in a week."

You focus back on the man's face only to be met with an impressed and proud expression. You feel your cheeks warm up at that look.

"You're very smart and observant, little one;" his soft voice prods at your shyness, "not everyone sees it the same way you do."

When your eyes don't lift from the ground, he speaks up again. "Do you wish to stay here or go somewhere else?"

You look up at him in question.

"What? I have some ideas…"

Salesman's POV

He finds his yesterday's behavior a little ridiculous. Moreover over a child he barely knows anything about. He couldn't put his obssessive focus towards learning more. With only their name and the fact (y/n) has horrendous parents.

Unfortunately for him, he didn't pay any attention to their mother's car registration plate. At least then he'd have a starting point. At this point in time however he can look into the school. The type of students there and the staff.

It did nothing to calm his mind.

He spent his time in bed thinking of many ways to bring them closer to him. How he should go with disposing their parents when he finally learns where you live.

The following morning he wakes from restless sleep and stayed that way throughout his day. Five people he approached to recruit and each time his hand was twitching to use the pent up energy on slapping the trash.

Arriving to the park at similar time as the day before wasn't a problem. Although he automatically sits down on the same bench. Call him overeager and impatient all you want. He has enough patience to wait for you.

And waiting for you he was. He didn't even learn if you have time to come here today.

But he shouldn't have worried, he sees your small form approaching him with clear joy. The moment he notices you, he feels his mood improve. He's not even sure if he manages to contain his own happiness over your eagerness.

"Hello (y/n). We're giddy today aren't we?"

"Yes! I have something for you, Mr. Loaf Man!" His eyes widen at that. Loaf man? However did you come up with that? And did he hear correctly..? You brought something for him?

Quickly your backpack's on the ground and a paper's in your hands. He looks at the paper and his breathing stops. A drawing.

You made a drawing for him, of him and you. "I'm sorry it's not good and pretty enough but I was in a hurry." He can't tear his eyes away from it. He gingerly accepts it from you. Your hands did this. For him. You spent enough of your time thinking about him, in good light nonetheless, that you had to put your thoughts and feelings on paper. It's the most precious thing he came across in a long time.

"You don't like it…?" He barely catches your voice. But when he registers the insecurity in it. He finally looks at you, however it does little, because he doesn't know when he started tearing up.

"What-?" His voice croaks from the sheer pressure of emotions. But he'll sooner kill himself than make you feel inadequate, unappreciated, unloved. "I love it." You have to know that.

"Really?" Fragile hope in your voice is enough to render his tailored armor useless. How does he explain?

"Of course, it's just…" he breathes deeply, "it's been… s-such a long while since I got a gift." Does he even remember the last time? "And one so, so lovely and meaningful as well." He needs to hold you. In this moment he craves to bring you as close as he can to his normally unfeeling heart. He open his arms in invitation.

You take him up on it too.

He grips you strongly. You can't leave him. Not when you demolished his foundation, unearthing emotions he never thought he could feel. You simply can't. He'll lose himself completely.

"Come on, don't cry. There's no need." He doesn't know if it's directed at you or himself. Your small arms wrap around his neck, your face tries to bury itself in his shoulder. He picks you up to hold onto you more comfortably. He presses his head against yours. "I appreciate your efforts behind this, alright?"

His thumb moves up and down on your back. He drowns in his overwhelming love for you. That's when he feels your hand. Your fingers going through his hair, petting him.

Here he is. A monster reduced into quivering mess. Wrapped around your little finger. You're such a devious yet innocent little marvel. You don't even do this on purpose. To have him ready and willing to bend to your every whim in no time at all.

It takes a long while for both of you to calm down and for him to regain his control. You break away from each other when you're sure neither of you won't fall apart all over again.

"I have something for you too. Nothing as thoughtful though…" He reaches next to him for the bag he nearly forgot about. Since he can't trust your parents about your nutrition, he'll take it upon himself. Three hours is a long time for you to grow hungry anyway. There's no harm in providing food. You take the bread from him and with a quick thank you start eating.

"Are you going to offer food to them again? Or did you already did that today?"

He looks at you. You never even talked to them and you're concerned for them. He looks at their pathetic figures, lying, wasting away in the sun. They're undeserving of your concern. He looks back at you and your questioning expression.

"No and no." He shakes his head, he doesn't even want to think about them much less approach. Even if he knows he'll have to at some point. "I think I'll give them a week to think over their actions, hmm?" He tilts his head in mimicry of your action yesterday.

And just like the other times, you don't question his actions nor motives. You simply nod your pretty head.

"Makes sense. I do that at home too. Maybe it'll work for them too."

His eyes narrow at that.

"What do you mean?" He can feel his shackles raising. Such a dangerous territory…

"When I refuse to eat, I have to. And when i waste food, usually it's after I throw up. I don't get to eat to make up for all the wasted food."

So not only is your father shoving food down your throat… He starves you for not holding it down as well. If he ever gets his hands on that repulsive monster, he'll make sure he suffers greatly for his sins.

Your large smile grounds him away from his plans. Even if that smile shouldn't be so wide after talking about your abuse. How did your innocence survive the ordeal?

"That's why I like you, sir. You're very kind and fun but you're very fair."

Him? Fair? Kind? He's flattered you think so, but he doesn't see it. It's probably because your childish view wasn't ruined. You never saw him do anything truly monstrous. He'll make sure you don't.

"But.. I don't get it… why refuse food? They need it after all and unlike me, it's not easily available to them. It'd be really stupid if they did the same in a week." Your pout is very cute and he'd probably focus on it for longer if not for what you said.

You intelligent and observant little creature, you make him feel emotions he didn't before. He's impressed how someone so young can be smarter than the common person. Maybe there's still hope after all. You might not have been acquaintanced for long, barely a day, but he feels pride for your astuteness. He latched onto you. You're his; his light in this dark world with deceptive roads and sharp curves covered with shadows. He'll nurture that intelligence to the best of his abilities.

He sees you blush at his attention, poor thing… You must be so unused to positive attention. He won't let it continue. With a softness he didn't know he's capable of, he voices the compliments. "You're very smart and observant, little one; not everyone sees it the same way you do."

When you still don't look up, he speaks again. This time on a different topic, away from his admiration. Baby steps.

"Do you wish to stay here or go somewhere else?" It works wonders. You look up with a question in your eyes. "What? I have some ideas…

…What do you think about ice-cream?" His suggestion makes your eyes light up with excitement. His world is a little brighter for it.

He'd take you to every shop and buy you anything you'd briefly glance at if that's how you'll look everytime. Just for a chance to see your smiles again.

After ice-cream, you spent the time by simply being in each other's company. You wanted to go back to the park and so you did, but this time to a different part of it. Far away from those hopeless causes. The time flew past just as quickly as the day before. But this time when he walked you to your school's gate and left to observe from afar. He remembered to memorise the licence plate.

He can get to know you to his heart's content. But first, home.

I feel like my brand of weirdness clashed with Salesman's diffrent kind of freak; but I don't think he's too OOC..?

I hope you liked it. <3 There are other parts I have in store, but they can act as stand alone. Tell me if you want me to write them.

There's no masterlist for Squid Game yet

[backpackingspace]

Okay but have we thought about how scary odysseus interacting with the gods /his knowledge about such things it must have been for his crew?

Its well known that odysseus is Athenas favorite, even before the Trojan war. But what does that look like from the outside? Are their conversations in some other plain? Does odysseus sometimes just glaze over and you just have to trust its a god speaking to him and not aome other fit? Out in the open? During the war odysseus was frequently doing really bizarre things on Athena's say so. Bit you also know your captain is a freak and lier so which is it this time? The gods will or odysseus just tucking with you? There's a little wariness there. But it's well known. And been like this forever.

But then you start encountering more monsters. More gods. They all talk to your captain. Your captain stops sleeping. Your go between for you and the captain starts committing crimes against the captain, starts bad mouthing him. More of your friends have died then in ten years of war. And every other day there's a new god talking to your captain. What mortal man has the interest of this many gods? What mortal man can get up in the gods faces to yell at them. What mortal man has the powers to overcome the witches they encounter the power to over turn gods spells? What mortal man's tongue is so gilded he convinces these powers to help them? And doubt comes creeping in.

[hitlikehammers]

💅That One Time Mommy Harrington Came Home Early and Found Her Son In Bed with A Man and Had To Square With The Reality of Her Baby Boy Growing Into a Man+Building His Own Family (Without Her)

and/or Being a Better Man of the House Than His Father Ever Could Be

🌼OR: 2/5 times Steve/Eddie talk to anyone but each other about their feelings (for each other), +1 (other time they turn around and talk to one another)

She’s slipped her heels off by the time he stands in the entryway to the kitchen.

“Mom.”

Diane Harrington is not the type of woman to be caught back-footed in conversation. And she does suppose that lasting two decades without ever catching her son in flagrante is better than most mothers can hope for. She was admittedly unexpected—their arrival wouldn’t have been until next week if all had gone to plan. Richard’s secretary—not the young woman Diane caught him with last night, shockingly enough—but the secretary always sends Steve certified letters to make sure he’s aware they’re returning to Hawkins.

So she was unexpected. And she’d heard noises, crying out, when she’d cautiously entered after her flights were delayed past nightfall—there’d been a very suspicious and unfamiliar van in her garage where she’d expected Steve’s BMW to be parked, he’d always cared so diligently for that car but it was in the drive, and had shoe-prints on the dashboard she could see through the window. That, added to foreign articles of clothing strewn like evidence of a tussle, a hard-worn leather jacket and a pair of jeans darker than anything she’d ever seen her son so much as glance at, then the baseball bat dropped, perhaps, near the front door when no one in this house had ever played—though Steve had wanted to, as a boy, but swim will get you noticed for college, Steven, Richard had always insisted—it had all sent her chasing the noises up the stairs to Steve’s room, throwing her shoulders back and forgetting that she had no implement for defense as she opened the door and heard—

Well. Heard more clearly the words accompanying the cacophony of noises, paired with the image of her son on top of another man, the two of them very much notcovered by the sheets nearly kicked clear off the mattress.

They’d frozen when they saw her—and she’d frozen in kind upon seeing them, processing in slow-motion how her son was not in fact in mortal peril, or battling an intruder.

Not…even close.

But when the boy below him had looked up and met her eyes, she’d seen absolute terror, and then her legs had remembered how to move, and she’d dashed back to the stairs with a gasp, heels clacking on each step of her mad descent.

She’d checked for wine like an instinct—none in the kitchen, and she didn’t want to go to the cellar in the basement. She honestly didn’t know if her legs would give out on her for the climb, given the way the adrenaline was leaving her swiftly, with just the shock left to drop her into a chair at the kitchen table.

And she’d stared into the middle distance with little anomalies catching her attention through a sort of syrup, through a daze: snacks Steve never gravitated toward before, but even without accounting for shifting tastes, the sheer volume is confusing.

Pizza boxes waiting to be broken down for the garbage—but likewise, far too many—a party, maybe, but then why was the house not still in full swing?

The entire wall behind the countertops snaking about the room: lined with empty bottles of Yoo-hoo of all things, like modern art, some kind of statement.

The unmistakable marks of girls in the house: hair ties and neon scrunchies wrapped at random about the room. Bottles of nail polish by the little basket meant for keys. A young girl’s lunchbox, open in the corner, sitting at an odd angle on its hinge. Like it’s out to be fixed.

The fact that the dining room table is bigger, but farther—and instead this mostly-for-show kitchen table’s been stretched to its maximum length, exceeding both the dining room’s capacity and also the space made for this one, here, with all the long-abandoned leaves added in, and chairs surrounding it from anywhere and everywhere, hardly any matching. Scuffs in the wood mostly buffed but some a lost cause. Like it’s been lived on.

Then the refrigerator, that’s never once had anything hanging on it, practically plastered now in its entirety with…Polaroids. Drawings, some maps, maybe. To-do lists, only a handful for groceries from what can be read. Colorful letter magnets, as if for a toddler. School exams with varying marks but also varying levels of difficulty—different grades, perhaps? A calendar, with so many notes. Like life was busy enough, here, that each and every day was filled to the brim.

It’s not…she doesn’t understand—

It’s in the empty blinking, the confusion, that Steve calls to her. She regrets that that’s exactly the same gaze she turns on him, at first.

It’s nothing to do with him. She just…she’s been absent too much and too long, she knows. But when her child calls for her, her first move is to look.

It always will be.

“We didn’t expect you back yet.”

He doesn’t apologize, for how she found him; what she saw, or who. She’s unexpectedly, but undeniably and expansively proud, in the face of it.

She clears her throat, still a little stuck in the molasses-slow fog of…this. All this.

All this unexpected living.

“You’re…” she swallows, blinks, wills away the clinging fingers of the trance still lingering in her eyes, on her mind; she needs to see her son—

“You’re being safe?”

Steve’s jaw drops a little, and it’s so…defined. He’s…he’s a man now, and he’s staring at her like he doesn’t trust her, not entirely, both of which break her heart a little, one way or the other.

But he looks like he distrusts her, but doesn’t want to. Like she may have hope of salvaging something.

Like he’s found something—more likely someone—that he values deeper, cherishes closer, to be wary of anything that could bring harm to them.

That…that also breaks her heart. That she’s something to be wary of, in service of the people her Steve loves.

“Why is that your first question?”

Steve asks…too blank. She’s mourned that sin of her husband’s, privately above most others—the way he’d slowly and carefully worn Steve down to fit the mold he liked best, not the shape Steve blossomed into all on his own.

The way Steve juts his hips and crosses his arms as he leans against the doorframe—so unlike Richard would have tolerated—and does it well balanced and worn-in; she wants to believe this version of Steve has taken root, has become his honest everyday self. That he’s left that limiting mold behind.

But he’s asked her a question, and is eyeing her—rightly—in anticipation of answer.

Which he deserves. And she’ll give him in honesty—not least because she really was both lucky, to have drawn out having to catch her son in the act this long, and so much more unlucky, that she’s likely been able to cheat the whole affair this long largely because she wasn’t there for the possibility, before now.

“Any questions about whether it’s serious, or how you feel about him, are irrelevant,” she tells him, keeps her tone open and warm but doubles down on both when Steve’s eyes narrow; seek out any hint of insincerity, or likely more often necessary to target, and far worse: of judgement.

“Not just because it’s not my business, so long as you’re happy,” and she means that truly; with her entire heart she means that, even if Steve doesn’t see it, or hasn’t had enough chance to know her heart enough to recognize it—her heart for him, her own boy’s happiness as her most fervent wish—but she makes her voice warmer still, expansively open from there to continue on; “but more because you’ve already more answered them.”

Steve looks at her, still so blank, blank but…somehow not the same as before. How blankness can change is beyond Diane’s ability to put into words but she doesn’t need to, really; she sees something softer, something with more forward possibilities in this blankness.

And Diane Harrington would never, could never be accused of not finding opportunities to encourage the best case scenario.

The result where maybe her son can look at her without suspicion.

“I’ve been down here almost half an hour, Steve,” she makes sure to call him by the name he’d always told his parents he preferred, and to do so without fanfare, without making a point of anything less; she’d always bristled when Richard used his full name as a rule against his wishes.

His eyes still widen, a little, when she says it like it’s a given. She should have fought Richard harder on the little things; the little things that meant everything.

Their son’s sense of himself.

But to the point, which she owes him, and so much more:

“You didn’t come rushing to explain.” It’s the most important thing, because she can read people well, wouldn’t be successful outside her marriage otherwise, just a housewife making dinner—and she thinks her son has the same gift, just maybe aimed differently, and maybe exponentially expanded, if the hints around the house are things she guessing at correctly—and she’s so impressed with how no part of Steve is apologetic. Is even hinting a considering trying to distance himself from what she walked in on. Not even for the sake of defiance—more as a matter of course: and it’s impressive to witness. How tall he stands when she’s still the threat, much as it pains her.

But because she can read people, she sees that he doesn’t see the reasons she sussed out so quick and clear, despite all the other haziness.

“You’re not embarrassed, or ashamed,” and he isn’t, at all, and she hopes she sounds nothing like expecting he should be; prays she sounds half as overjoyed as she is that this is the man he’s grown into—

“So I assume you spent that time taking care of him,” she leans in a little, tips her head forward and tries her damnedest to project that joy, for him, for what she thinks he’s found, for what she sees in his eyes, eyes she doesn’t entirely recognize anymore—her fault, again, her fault—but she can see it in anyone: love.

Her boy is in love.

And even if she couldn’t read it off him—

“And a mother may never want to see her child in such a state,” and Steve shifts, a little uncomfortable even as Diane bites her lip against a smile at how it reminds her of him as a tiny boy; “but I heard you, not just the noises but the words, before,” and she leaves it there, because they’d both know those words well enough, the love you, love you so much, would die for you, again and again, you’re my whole heart and soul, you fit just right, you’re made for me, we’re forever, we are always, I love you—

And certainly, people do say wild things in passion. But…odd as the circumstances? And as badly as she’s fumbled for the task of motherhood over the years?

Call it a mother’s intuition, nonetheless.

“So,” she claps her hands a little, finally, but more on the way to folding them, leaning her chin on the platform they make: “those questions wouldn’t be needed anyway.”

Steve doesn’t say anything; she doesn’t like that. But then, she’s not sure what she’s hoping he would say, what would even suit the moment.

She thinks she just wants to hear him speak some more.

And besides, she’s given him his answer. She…maybe she isn’t entitled, but she would still like to know for her own peace of mind:

“But you are being safe?”

It’s dangerous these days, after all.

“We are,” he answers, quicker than she expects, and it’s more a relief than she expects, too—and she’d expected it like walking back from a cliff’s edge, but still it’s more. He nods, and she accepts that that’s all she’ll get, and she doesn’t truly believe she deserves more but: something.

Something in him, things she doesn’t know and couldn’t begin to see; or else maybe something in how she looks to him, in her face, in whatever her expression gives away—he says more, he gives her little gems of who he’s become:

“He’s my first, like that,” and he lifts his chin, defensive; or no. Not that.

Defending.

And he takes the posture of it like it’s second nature; easy as breathing. She hates that there must be a reason to it, one bigger than just her absence—or Richard’s even limited presence.

She feels a need to know, and yet an equal-opposing need not to press this thing, to reawaken that initial cause. She isn’t a threat.

She needs to listen, for now. Soak up his words.

“And Hawkins is,” his one hand reaches to gesture broadly, in a world-weary way she doesn’t expect until she sees it; that’s so far beyond his years—before he tucks that hand back into the protective cross of both arms over his chest. “He didn’t have the opportunity, before, with here being…here. So.”

The words are clipped. But they’re…they’re words. Firm. Real.

Her boy is nowhere to be found in any of it, save as the foundation for this commanding force, this presence of a man, a shining, radiatingly good man, standing in front of her.

He is nothing like his father. It’s everything that she hoped could come of their absence—despite it.

Because of it.

“Good, that’s good,” she exhales, nodding to herself—her son, safe, grown, protecting himself and his lover, maybe his beloved, from the ills this life might set upon them, this good man—

Then she revisits her words and feels herself blanch a bit.

“Not good that this town is,” she gestures, and realizes: that’s what Steve had done, for the exact same thing, in the exact same way; “but,” she looks to him, beseeching a little, but his lips are quirked the slightest bit, his shoulders that little bit more relaxed against the wood.

“I got it.”

Diane nods, sniffs, and then sighs. It’s not…it’s late. She is exhausted.

And she doesn’t know how to talk to her own son.

“Noticing my absence isn’t his strongest suit,” she jumps at the easiest topic to follow on with because it’s probably obvious, but: she needs to make sure Steve knows that Richard’s not here, and not immediately on his way. Things would have looked very different, had he opened Steve’s door.

“That said, he may or may not be here soon. But in case—” she glances meaningfully to the stairs. They can’t continue to keep the door unlocked, at the very least.

“Of course,” Steve says, solemn while simultaneously appalled that she’d imply he’d even risk it, tone tightening a little. “Tonight was going to be the last time we, here, given I thought you’d be back next week.”

It’s not censure. But it feels like it should be. Or wants to be. Because…

Because Steve is the man of the house now, isn’t he? No matter whose name is on the deed. This is his domain. He’s kept it as to quickly enough be reverted for neither of his parents to notice, if they stuck to their schedules, if Diane hadn’t acted impulsively, too fed up with her husband’s indiscretions—but even if he keeps it hideable, this is Steve’s house.

Diane finds himself wanting to know all about the ways, and the whys for all the changes she sees. And all that she hasn’t, yet.

“You’ve grown so much,” she says, so soft, eyes prickling; “I’m sorry I’ve missed it.”

It’s not enough. The words are so far beyond insufficient.

“Me too,” Steve says and again: not a censure. But it should be.

It wants to be.

But the fact that it’s not maybe means he wants to meet in the middle. Maybe he’ll listen if she shows she means it, if she demonstrates how she cares, even if it hasn’t been enough—it’s never been wholly absent. It’s never been nothing.

“You never pick up the phone.”

She does not actually mean to say that, at all, and certainly not like it tumbles out: juvenile almost. Petulant.

God, but the day’s catching up to her. She’s usually so much more composed than this. More polished.

But then: this? This is her son.

Steve’s as taken aback as he rightly should be, and she knows she’s mistepped when he balks a little, when his tone hardens like he’s…like he’s very well practiced at scolding wayward children.

“Excuse me?”

Very good at scolding wayward children, somehow. She has no idea where the skillset came from but damn it all, she wants to learn. She wants to know if it’s connected to the assignments and drawings on the refrigerator. She wants to know if the scrunchies aren’t from ex-girlfriends but kids he cares about, and how they came to be under his protection, his unwavering care.

His narrowed gaze—more pertinent in the now—as she herself sits more like the wayward child.

But she’s begun the point, and it’s not in her nature to fail finishing what she starts.

“When so many terrible things have happened,” she says, voice low as her mind flickers through the devastating headlines of the past few years; “when I call to check, once I hear what’s happened, and it’s always reported with such a delay, it’s unconscionable,” she’s even called the mayor’s office about that, she shouldn’t have to see her son’s whereabouts in flames weeks later when she checks, because she does check. Because Steve doesn’t tell them, and contrary to some of her missteps: she worries.

She constantly worries because she is a mother, and she will worry until she’s quiet in her grave: she will worry until her dying breath about her son.

The fact that their town seems to court the apocalypse in regular intervals now certainly doesn’t help, but she’d worry either way.

“But I call, to see if you need,” she starts, and is a little surprised by how tight her throat is, how much feeling’s overcoming her.

But only a little surprised, if she’s wholly honest.

She takes a deeper breath, and starts again.

“I call, no one answers. The tape in the machine’s been full for over a year.”

She knows. Because the line just rings, plays the horrible out-of-space message—and Steve’s own line never had a machine. All she gets is endless ringingwhile her heart pounds every time for the fear that it’s not just because the tape’s full.

“I,” Steve starts to say, then clamps his mouth shut, but his eyes dart to the machine, or no: next to it. A…what looks like a carphone, maybe, for the size, but it’s more a metal block, really, with knobs and buttons and lights and—

Maybe whatever it is, is how the people Steve knows would need him can get in contact with him. An overgrown pager she doesn’t have the number to.

She understands it, maybe even deserves it.

That does nothing to dull the sting.

“I have learned to call the police chief,” she says, dropping it conversationally when she hopes the gravity of going that far will convey some of how serious she takes all this, feels all of this; “someone must have a dire grudge against the man, I was told one time that he was murdered!”

She absolutely does not expect the snort that escapes Steve, at that.

“You could say that,” he murmurs, a twisted, almost crazed sort of smile spreading for a few seconds. She’s never seen that look on her son, and it doesn’t last long enough to examine before he turns more serious, takes the conversation in his hands without direct prompting, which Diane will gladly call progress.

“I didn’t know you called Hop.”

Hop?

“And his wife, as necessary,” she huffs a little, set on conveying her determination to at least get some confirmation of life about her first-and-only child. “I didn’t know you were on friendly terms with local law enforcement.”

She’s not sure if that’s a net positive or negative, but the smile—maniacal as it’d leaned—at least suggeststhe former.

“He’s,” Steve’s smile is softer now, more…normal. Genuine. “He’s a lot like family. Joyce too.”

Diane aches to know how it happened to be that way. Hurts to presume part of it was because Steve’s own blood wasn’t in the picture enough. But—

“I knew Joyce Byers, when we first moved back here,” she says softly, her own genuine smile curling her lips; “I remember her as a tough woman. Resolute,” she recalls her pregnant and pushing a stroller, never stopping on her way through for groceries; “but always observant, especially of what others needed. Always kind.”

Steve’s face is unreadable, but what she can make out is the affection in it. Some things must not change in this town, then.

Enough about the past, though.

“Back to your gentleman upstairs,” Diane raises an eyebrow, but makes sure it’s a soft thing. A welcoming thing. “You are serious, yes?”

She doesn’t even have to try to sound soft or welcoming, with the words. Because she hopes very much that her son wouldn’t risk what he is for casual; she hopes even more that she’s right about reading love in him.

“I think,” Steve finally says after a long, thoughtful pause—he always had been careful with his words when they most mattered. “I think if ‘the one’ even exists?” he looks at her then; meets her eyes and oh yes.

She saw true, when she saw love.

“It’s him.” And the way Steve says it, so certain, almost makes her want to cry.

“And if it doesn’t exist,” he adds on with a shrug, like reality is relative, just semantics; “he’s it, anyway.”

She doesn’t fight the tear that drops to run down to her smile as she stands, approaches Steve cautiously—wants to hug him, hold him; isn’t sure if she’s allowed.

He doesn’t come to her. But he doesn’t move away.

“You’ll leave here?” she reaches for his hand and he reaches back. Her heart beats a little extra hard for it.

He nods. Her baby.

“When the kids graduate.”

Which makes no sense, but would explain so many of the bits and pieces she’s already picked out around the kitchen. He’s…he’s made a family.

In the absence of the one he was born in; even just looking at the trailings of it, she can tell it’s a more vibrant one.

She’s failed him, in so many ways, and yet he stillbecame this.

“Do you know where you’ll go?” she asks, her voice only a little choked.

“Not yet,” and his voice goes gentle, tender in response—he was always a softhearted child, and Richard tried to train it from him as a weakness. The man reaching for her other hand, and squeezing both in reassurance—he is anything but weak.

“We have other people to think about staying close to,” he adds, something settled and easy in the way he says it, something Diane doesn’t even think she knows or can claim at her age now, vibrant and unshakeable in her beautiful boy as he rubs his thumbs over her knuckles; “at least close enough,” he tags on, a little joke in it that she doesn’t understand, but relishes anyway to see it at all.

She may not be able to take much credit for the person her son has become, this pillar stood before her, giving simple solace where he scarcely owes her—but she still bore him from her body, she still loves him in the cells of her. She is…

It is not hyperbole to say that she’s a little in awe.

“Before you decide on the right home, the one that fits you perfectly,” she starts, ready to list off the top considerations for house hunting and finding a good neighborhood, open and accepting in all the right ways, to guide her boy as true as she can with all that she knows, but he cuts her off with a laugh, first.

His laugh is different than how she remembers it last. Freer but also somehow hard-earned. Like he was as a child, but bruised from the journey back.

Stronger for it. Worth more, but more than slightly soul-crushing, nonetheless.

“Mom,” and his voice is so warm, she may cry more for it; “he’s my home. He’s the right, perfect fit,” and he’s so earnest, so settled in that truth that she feels buoyed for it just the same by proximity. “All the rest is just,” he huffs, rolls his eyes and flicks his hand: dismissive.

Everything else is window dressing, or less than.

And she lets go of his hands then to reach for him, takes the chance and fears she was foolish when he hesitates for a second but then he gives, he hugs her back.

This man in her arms is so much more than she could have raised, even if she’d been here every moment. It’s humbling.

But it’s also beautiful.

She doesn’t want to let him go, now that she has him, but she’s reminded starkly in that moment that she couldn’t have raised him—and Richard would have crushed him by force, even if he didn’t recognize it. Her husband isn’t a wholesalely bad man, but he is a horrifyingly careless one. Wasn’t always, but has certainly gotten worse with age.

She needs to act before he gets here; in case he gets here.

Just in case.

She kisses the side of Strve’s cheek—without her heels she’s not a small woman, but she’s smaller than him—and goes to where she dropped her purse on the counter, suitcases still near the door. Her checkbook is always at the bottom, so she pulls it out, flips it open, glances at the balance ledger and confirms she can write this immediately without issue.

In the note section she writes, after pulling it free form the carbon copy:

for the perfect fit

“Then you, and your perfect fit,” she says with a smile, rounding back to where she left Steve standing, watching; “you deserve the most amazing setting for your story to unfold upon,” she hands him the check and kisses his forehead this time, now in reach as he looks down to read what he holds: “and nothing less.”

She keeps her hands on his shoulders as his jaw drops:

“Mom, this is way too,” he tries to protest, and looks honest about it—he never was so concerned with the money. Not like his father.

But they have it, whether he shares the obsession. They have it. Which means Diane can share it with him regardless.

“It’s the most I can give just now, with it drawing from the account that’s only mine,” she explains, a little apologetic, because while Steve seems to think the number extravagant, it’s less than a drop in the bucket. “I know it’s not much, but if you plan to stay here, at least for awhile, I will get you the rest as quickly as I can,” she promises him, she promises; “your trust, the money from your grandfather,” she pauses, worries her lip.

“I can’t guarantee your father won’t write you out of the will if he finds out,” she doesn’t have to say whathe’d need to find out, for that; “but as long as I’mhere, I will do what I can.”

And she means that, with all her heart. And she doesn’t mean only money. They’ve traded primarily in dollars for so long, it’s the quickest way to act, the easiest form of support but…she may be out of practice.

But she doesn’t just mean money.

“You don’t have to,” Steve starts again, sounds resigned but she doesn’t want him to even land there in accepting what’s rightfully his, and beyond that, something on,y just close to what he’s due and deserves.

“Very little of what I’ve done in life was what I had to,” she draws him close again, now, wraps arms around him; “and too much of what I’ve done was less than what I had to,” and she holds to him fiercely even before his own arms return the embrace.

“I did not do right by you, my petite étoile,” she murmurs; she always called him that. She doesn’t speak French, doesn’t even know if she pronounces it right, but she’s fairly certain he was conceived on her honeymoon, in Paris. It was her own treasured little name for him as he grew in her, as she felt him and spoke to him in her womb, as close to her heart then as he’s always stayed.

“Let me do this,” she hisses a little too desperate; or maybe not even close to desperate enough; “I’m sorry it’s so late.”

She hears Steve’s throat click around how he swallows, how he nods, doesn’t say anything.

She finds another wild and vibrant emotion to associate with her son for it: respect. Such…suchrespect.

“I’m so proud of you,” she says as if it can even scratch the surface of what feels like meeting a whole new person, in some ways, and then the boy who curled up against her when he was sick, who was soft before he was formed into doubting all that he was at his heart. “I barely know you, and it breaks my heart, but it’s my own doing,” and it is. It is her own doing.

She’s the reason she’s only just meeting Steve, a man now, with his whole heart on display like a challenge, like a warning—brazen and full enough to stand formidable. Magnificent.

“Yet I can see you’re not my little étoile anymore,” she kisses his cheek again once, twice, shaking a little with so much feeling she knew she’d buried inside for a very long time but didn’t…didn’t think it was this much.

“You,” she pulls back only enough to look him in the eyes, frame his cheeks in her palms as she declares with all that shaking feeling in her:

“You’re a full-grown sun, soleil courageux,” and she doesn’t speak French. Not a lick. Probably says it wrong.

But that cannot matter more than meaning it wholly, and then some.

“And if you find it in you to give me the chance,” she heaves a shuddery breath; “to have the privilege to truly know my brave, brave son,” she strokes back and forth over his cheekbones, cherishing him; “and where he’s put his lion’s heart?”

Because whether he grants her this or not: she needs him to know. She needs him to know that she understands that to learn her son is to learn is love. To meet Steve is to meet the man waiting in his bed.

And she wants to know both, more than anything in the world.

“And either way, wherever you land,” because she needs him to know this part too—she is not his father. Her love and her commitment is not conditional. “You’ll know where to find me,” she kisses the side of his head one more time and whispers fierce there:

“I’ll come however far I need.”

She will. She’ll trek the globe on foot if she has to. She’s wasted so much time already, she’s—

“I love you, mom.”

And with those words, those heart-swelling words, she’s pulling him back to her chest and he lets her, falls into her for the first time in so long after saying those words for the first time in so very long—

“Oh darling,” she breathes, nothing short of tearful; “I may not have shown it as I should have, or even as I wanted to in my heart of hearts,” and her heart of hearts is beating riotous in her chest, and all she can do is clutch her little star, her courageous sun all the closer to it so he knows.

“But I hope you never doubted that I loved you more than life,” and life has given her many more blessings than trials, but none among them could ever compare to her baby boy, could not even hope to try; “that allmy love in this world is fixed on you,” and it’s true—her family is mostly gone now, none close left on her side, and her husband, well.

Even if they’d all been there, with her marriage in its fullest bloom: as soon as she found she was pregnant, it was all peripheral. There was love as she knew it, and then the moment when love split into two things: her child, and then all the rest.

The rest landing kind of…kind of like window dressing.

“If you were ever unsure,” she says, hesitant because she fears the answer, the truth; steadfast because this is an opportunity to make it right, or at the least to start to: “please know now, the best I can still manage,” she tips her head to Steve’s shoulder, breathes him in like she used to—he doesn’t smell the same as a baby in her arms, of course, but there’s…there’s something there she would recognize anywhere.

“You were the love that pulled me through some very dark times, my brilliant star,” she whispers, getting teary again, lord, she hasn’t shed this many tears in years. “I love you.”

“Stevie?”

They both turn, though Steve’s slow, calmer. Diane recognizes the hair on the boy in the archway first from just the moments she’d caught them—and then the eyes.

Only slightly less terrified than before, here and now.

“Sorry, to interrupt,” the man pulls a thick bunch of hair across his mouth; “I just didn’t want you to be…”

And his eyes land on Steve, and Diane recognizes that kind of look: protective. Assessing. Making sure Steve’s okay.

Maybe her son wasn’t the only one on the lookout for threats to his love.

“Ah,” she says, looking at the boy—she doesn’t even know his name yet, but she already feels a fondness in him as she cups Steve’s cheeks again, but still looks the other, fearful boy square-on even as she speaks to Steve knowingly, but loud enough the whole room can hear:

“You found a courageous heart to match your own, hmm?”

And Steve huffs, a smile stretching his lips like he can’t help it and wouldn’t dream of wanting to, and when he reaches for the boy, that boy answers exactly the same. For love.

The perfect fit.

She offers an open arm herself, should he want to take it, suddenly overcome with a maternal instinct she hasn’t felt so strong before, for the doubling of its targets.

But before he can accept it or reject, before he’s close enough yet to decide either way, or even close enough to take the outstretched hand Steve’s beckoning him with; before any of that she whispers into Steve’s ear:

“Please tell me you’re teaching him to condition that hair. Those curls could be devastating with the proper routine.”

And when Steve catches his beloved hand, it's on a crest of laughter.

Diane has the clear feeling now that it’s not the first time this house has seen such unbridled joy, such unsheltered care in the way two hands slide into one another—has a feeling this is more routine than otherwise, but Diane hasn’t seen it. Not in a…a very long time.

It’s wondrous. It’s…

Steve’s done an incredible job with the place. He’s built an incredible life.

“Mom?” Steve shakes her back to the moment; he’s watching her, careful again but this time also hopeful. It’s a potent mix. He glances to the boy now tucked against his side, now melting into his space—she never had that with Richard.

Real love. That’s all she could have hoped for, for a boy who was born with the biggest heart for the world that she’d ever known.

One that’s only appeared to get bigger, once it was free to, and safe to, if the way her son locks eyes and gently guides his perfect fit to turn into a hand on his cheek; to let him hold, and soothe, to reassure and promise: safety.

And forever.

“This is Eddie,” Steve keeps his eyes on Eddie as he says it, and those eyes say all anyone could ever need to know: love.

Love, love, and more love to bursting.

“Eddie,” Diane says soft but with a glowing kind of joy, gratitude that Steve could have found someone who moves to make clear the way they’re suited to the genes in them.

“I’m sorry I barged into your home,” she says, because she knows what she’s seen and she meant what she felt: this is Steve’s house. And Eddie and Steve belong to each other. “But it’s an absolute privilege to meet you.”

It’s the right thing to say, if the dimples hiding behind the fear mean what she’d suspect, and then the skepticism softens into unmitigated trust in Eddie’s expression at Steve’s side: it’s the way those dimples pop in the end as Eddie looks at her and takes her hand, too, that makes it clear as day.

Granted: she always was good at reading people.

1: Gareth // 2: Mrs. Harrington // 3: Wayne // 4: Chrissy // 5: ??? // +1: ???

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[valtsv]

funniest thing i probably did as a kid was on the rare occasions i got invited to stay over at someone's house i would feel an obligation to do something to show my gratitude because my parents had drilled into me that this was not only polite but a necessity when you're a guest in someone's home, so the first time i ever got invited to a sleepover i woke up the next morning, walked downstairs into the kitchen and started making everyone breakfast

[pixlokita]

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[dcxdpdabbles]

John Constantine doesn't usually like to get involve with beings from the Infinite Realms. They are too chaotic to predict most of the time, makes it harder to trick them. But there is one contact Constantine has and that is Ember. Constantine knew Ember as a human, when he was in his punk rock band Mucous Membrane. They had some good memories together before both their lives went to shit. The only thing Ember asks in return for her help is that Constantine has to play a set with her. No one in the JL or JLD know about this until Constantine has to pull out his Ember card.

"I know someone who can help." John's voice rises over the chatter of multiple conversations, effectively silencing everyone. As one, the group of volunteer defenders- not heroes, John refuses to label this lot as heroic when most of them agree with the crazy shit the governments around the world get away with- turn to stare at him.

He smiles lazily, uncaring of the hundred pairs of eyes that run over his body. A few of the costume-wearing vigilantes grimace when they catch sight of who's spoken, but John recognizes that some of the lingering looks are appreciative, so he peens just a little.

He's a handsome one, he knows, but it's nice to be reminded.

"You know someone who can help?" Zatanna repeat though her words are edged with doubt. It would have been hurtful, but they were in the middle of an "off" of their on-and-off relationship, so it's no surprise. "Someone who could help stop a black hole from sucking in the earth?"

"It's not really a black hole, is it?" He counters, waving his hand at the screen, which is still flashing red and displays the word 'Emergency' across it. The three speesters —Barry, Wally, and Bart —were running around it, attempting to slow down the formation with their own vacuum, but they wouldn't be able to keep it up forever. "More of a portal made of dark matter that some loony scientist ripped open because his wife left him, isn't it?"

"No." Hal breathes heavily, looking utterly horrified from behind his mask. "That's not how dark matter works-"

"Yeah, so we need someone dead enough they can go in and stabilize it, but alive enough that they can use Batman's machine, yeah?" John cuts off the pilot. He's not in the mood to listen to a sky bus driver re-explain everything that Batman just said (though to be honest, John did tone him out). "I know a ghost who can help."

"A ghost," Bruce repeats, his voice steady. That's what he always liked about the detective. No matter what came out of John's mouth, the man always took it in stride and somehow managed to look in control and steady.

That made him so fit that John often fantasizes about breaking Bruce's careful control. He sends the man a flirty little grin, but Bruce doesn't so much as blink. "I thought ghosts weren't able to interact with the physical world."

"They're not usually able to." Zatanna scowls, looking upset. She crosses her arms, sending John a narrow eye and an accusatory glare. He thinks it's unwarranted since she was the one who asked for their relationship to end. He's allowed to flirt with Bruce, come on, it's Batman. "Not unless that ghost has a contact with a living or found some place so drenched in ectoplasm it may as well be on the other side."

"What kind of contract?" Clark questions. John wiggles his eyebrows back at the Kypotian suggestively and has to bite back a grin at the blush that rises on the man's cheeks.

What an innocent little farm boy.

"The sexy kind," John declares smugly, just to make Clark flush darker. It's hilarious when he succeeds. " I'm joking! Ha, no, it's more like a favor between two friends. Ember and I go way back. I knew her in life-"

"That's dangerous!" Zatanna snaps seemingly at her wits' end. "You shouldn't be messing with spirits you knew in life. They tend to get corrupted!"

"Meh, Ember has always been corrupted," John shrugs, not caring that his ex's eyes go wide with horror. "We grew up together. We were even the original members of our own band before her Pa got a new job in America, and he moved the whole family across the pond. She got bullied bad by the stupid rich kids over here until a fire took her life. Her soul came back home to jolly old England, not even an hour after her death. I found her drumming on her guitar in our old hideaway, glowing and flouting. It's actually how I found out I had magic. Anyway, Ember made a pact to always be my friend before she flew into the sunset- and I mean that literally, a natural portal opened up into the Realms. She sent postcards."

"She can help?" Bruce cuts in, obviously trying to get John back on track. At the magic user's nod, the man seems to settle, uncoiling his muscles. It's gratifying that someone on Batman's level trusts John's expertise so much. Say what you will, but Bruce never doubts his comrades' abilities. "Good. Call her."

John grins, pressing his hand against his mouth and blowing out a kiss. "Ladies, Gents and Gits, are you ready to rock!?"

A woman's voice screams back, "Yeah!" causing a few people to jump

"I can't hear you!"

"Yeah!"

"I'm Johnny Con-Job on mic and this fine piece of arse is Ember! Listen to those strings~!" John screams, mimicking a mic while a fast past air guitar riff rips through the air. The noise is coming from everywhere and nowhere, leaving the many volunteer defenders to twist and turn, trying to pinpoint its origin.

Ember burst into the scene, her flaming hair whipping around her whole body as her means of travel before shrinking back onto her head. She's playing fast, angry, and grinning like a devil.

Someone in the crowd lets out a loud scream of joy, "Oh my god, it's Ember McLain!"

John's lips twitch with amusement but he's too busy singing the familiar words that they once wrote together while hiding out from his shitty father and her shitty mother. Both were just a couple of troubled teens no one thought would amount to anything, so they had to believe in themselves and each other back then.

He remembers thinking he would one day marry this girl. Life wasn't fair to those troubled like them.

Once their song ends, Ember lets out a whoop, flouncing down to John's level and punching him in the arm. He grins at her, trying not to notice how she looks exactly the same as she did sixteen years ago when the fire took her and he aged on without her.

"You git! How's it going?!" She laughs, punching him again. Ember's hair is a healthy flame, reaching to the middle of her back, which suggests she has likely enchanted a few humans lately. He's glad. She needs all the stabilization she can get. Her eyes roam his face before snorting "You're old as shit now."

"I'm thirty-two," He scoffs mockingly offended

"Wow, twice my age...." His words trail off as a familiar loneness sinks into her expression, and he wants to kick himself. Right, they were the same age once upon a time. Her face clears up long enough for her to smirk, "I bet your knees hurt from watching other people jump."

John gasps for real this time, but he doesn't have a chance to rebut because Bruce steps up, explaining what was happening to the superstar.

Ember gives him her full attention, nodding along to the plan. She's going to help because she knows the request is coming from John when he summoned her.

"You know Ember McLain!?" Someone hisses into his ear. He turns to the person fully prepared to gloat that, yeah, he knows the rock/pop star that was sweeping the nation, only to gape at the sight of Diana-Wonder Woman for Pete's sake- a starstruck gaze.

For a moment, his tongue doesn't work as Diana grips his upper arm. "My sisters and I used to listen to her music on repeat back home. Do you suppose you can get me an autograph for them?"

John doesn't know how to say no to Wonder Woman, so he finds himself asking his childhood friend, who is preparing to go into a portal made of science, if she can sign five hundred or so cards for free. She squints at him but shrugs. "Only if you can beat up Phantom for me."

"I told you, I'm not going to fight a child, Em."

"Even though he deserves it?!"

[clockworkreapers]

they need a break....

[cleaveslice]

every time santos, whitaker, and javadi interact, it sounds like two older siblings who got put in charge of their younger one because their parents are out of town.

[itzprismosblog]

Teru’s pov: