#TW: child neglect

[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.

[certified-pumi]

Unloved Beloved

One person already shared their idea for @itsabouttimex2’s platonic yan AU, “Not The Beloved” (go check it out if you haven’t already) so I’m here to share mine too, inspired by their “Not The Beloved” fic. An ‘what if’ scenario if you will.

warnings: spoilers for lmk season 5, gender neutral reader, child neglect, parentification, favouritism, yandere platonic/familial characters, kidnapping, likely OOC writing.

Following close to canon, Xiangliu was the one responsible for MK’s egg hatching prematurely. Thus, also allowing for the Shadowpeach family to finally have their perfect monkey baby!

One day for whatever reason, Xiangliu ends up on the Flower Fruit mountain. Recognising where he is, he decides to pay a quick visit to the little harbinger that he had set free.

He didn’t have to look for long, as he noticed two small, monkey silhouettes on the beach. Approaching them, he immediately recognised MK, the little ball of sunshine as energetic as ever. He played with who appeared to be another monkey, only somewhat much taller than him in stature.

However, upon closer inspection, Xiangliu realized that it wasn’t another monkey that MK played with. As the young child took off their hood, the demon was met with a pair of innocent, large eyes that stared back at him.

A human.

Curious enough, he approaches you both. Despite your cautiousness about this strange new face, you easily let your guard down once he convinces you that he’s an old friend of Sun Wukong’s.

He quickly learns that you’re MK’s older sibling and Wukong’s and Macaque’s adopted human child. When Xiangliu asks about your parents’ whereabouts, he’s surprised to learn that both of them are away. “And you’re taking care of the little one all by yourself? Your brother sure seems lucky to have such a reliable older sibling,” he comments. He doesn’t miss the way you try to hide your frown and then nod along.

Naturally, Xiangliu doesn’t stick around for too long. He leaves and once your fathers return, you mention your father’s “old friend” visiting and describe him as best as you can.

Not recognising anyone by that description, Sun Wukong and Macaque brush it off as you having an imaginary friend.

As for Xiangliu himself, he had to admit that he didn’t expect for Sun Wukong and his mate to be present at the right time to adopt the future Harbinger of Chaos. Or that the Great Sun Wukong would also adopt a human child beforehand. Knowing the potential risk to his plans if the Harbinger was being raised by the Monkey King and the Six Eared Macaque, the nine headed demon decides to drop by more frequently.

He knew that he couldn’t directly approach baby MK. The fact that Sun Wukong and his spouse were fussing over him would mean that he had no opening for talking to the mystic baby monkey without having to talk to them.

And that’s where you come in like a blessing.

By befriending and gaining your trust first, Xiangliu could indirectly learn more about what the rest of your family has been up to. He’d have to put in a little effort not to be noticed by your fathers, sure, but as long as he could use you to keep an eye on MK’s development under the Great Sage, it’ll be worth it.

In the next few years that follow, Xiangliu has observed the dynamics that were in your family in order to befriend you. To him, it became obvious fast how there was a clear favoritism directed towards the youngest child in the family. Of course, he’d use that distance that your fathers were making to let himself close to you.

Each time you were left alone with MK, Xiangliu would appear. Knowing that your parents considered his existence just as imaginary, he decided to play under that guise. He made sure to always remain friendly towards you and MK, offering to play with you both. The best part of all of it to you was that he didn’t treat you differently than MK.

Along with your friendship with Xiangliu prolonging, he started to notice how your fathers’ treatment of MK started to affect you further into your childhood. He didn’t have to intertwine or even talk to you to see it, since your fathers didn’t have to put any effort in making it more obvious.

Whenever he’d attempt to talk to you alone, you’d have to apologize, saying that you’re too tired to talk. The reasons being going to school and then having to babysit MK. It seemed that your fathers completely forgot how the demon toddler’s stamina was much more vast compared to that of a human child.

 And when you weren’t tired, it was during the times that you had your fathers drag you along to wherever MK wanted to go. You never had time to talk to Xiangliu anymore or to even do your own hobbies. 

And like a salt to the wound, the demon could also see all the brand new gifts that MK had each time he’d have some time to observe the boy. Compared to him, you still had your hand-me-downs from your Papa. It didn’t help that  along with them, patched slits for nonexistent ears and tail remained on those clothes. Like a cruel reminder to the reason for your father’s selfish treatment.

It was baffling how both of your fathers prioritized your brother’s feelings over your being. Your entire existence was limited to wherever your parents decided that MK needed something more.

When you tried to reach out to any other adults or to any other kids about your state at home, you were either brushed off or met with disdain. Other people in your life told you to grow out of it and stop being ungrateful. You were the adopted child of Great Sage and his loyal partner, after all. What more do you want, when you already have what many other children don’t?

The more he watched, the more that Xiangliu started to feel an ounce of remorse towards you. While he watched your social life crumble due to having to put MK’s needs before your own, he started to wonder if he made the right choice by letting the boy be adopted by two enabling monkeys.

One time, he caught you quietly crying to yourself. With no one around, Xiangliu had a rare opportunity to comfort you.

“I hate it! Everyone keeps saying how I should be grateful for being adopted by the great, famous warriors like baba and papa… but-! It’s like they don’t love me. Not as much as MK anyway,” as you sniffle, the demon reaches out to stroke your hair.

His touch is gentle while he watches you with a stern frown.

“You must really hate MK, don’t you child?” Xiangliu asks, “To be completely robbed of your freedom, all because both of your parents prioritize his wishes and needs over your own. That must’ve been so difficult for a child like you.” 

As you wipe away your tears, you look at your ‘imaginary friend’.

“I… I don’t,” you admit, “It’s not that I hate MK, it’s just… I-I don’t like how both baba and papa brush me off. When I tell them I’m too tired, I can rest only after all of us go to the arcade that MK wanted to go to. I can’t even play or go to my friends on my own! MK always wants me to play with him or else he’d get upset. And both of them hate to see him cry…”

Xiangliu was quiet as your lower lip started to wobble again. More of your tears fell, making the nine headed demon pull you in a hug.

“It’s not fair, it’s not! Why do they care more about what MK wants? He always gets anything he asks! But I want new things too! Why do I have to work for them and MK doesn’t?!” you wail. “Why is MK their favorite?! I didn’t do anything wrong!”

“Oh, I know, I know, child…” 

“It’s not fair, it’s not fair!!”

Feeling his resentment for your family growing, Xiangliu doesn’t say anything. He just lets you cry your little heart out.

Once you’re all tuckered out from crying, Xiangliu has no heart to put you back in your bed. He was still fixated on you, safe and peaceful in his arms. Your tear stained face and swollen eyes were something that he couldn’t look away from without feeling resentment.

As a so-called hero and warrior, he couldn’t help but to laugh bitterly each time Wukong referred to himself as your baba. Xiangliu saw how many clones he summoned to take care of MK the moment the boy got sick with the slightest cold. Yet he nor his partner could spare one glance at you, who was waiting for them while being late to school.

He hated the way Macaque missed your potential over the sake of training MK. While he taught the boy how to shadow travel, he completely missed the way you tried to get his attention by trying to perfect one of his signature moves. He only ever patted your head and told you not to bother with it, while going to then teach and praise MK for trying that exact same move.

It seemed that the privileges from Nuwa never left MK, despite him abandoning his shell. The more he observed the young boy, the more Xiangliu grew bitter.

Because of his parents, the boy is gonna grow up with a need to be a hero. To live up to the ideal that Nuwa and his own parents had set out for him.

All while you were used and left behind, like an unpolished gem meant as a gift for your brother.

He recognised that your brother was attached to you. He might be the only one who pays attention to you, besides Xiangliu himself. But, he is also the reason others miss seeing your true potential. You were still young and unwilling to accept that little MK was the true cause for your suffering.

But, that’s where a demon like Xiangliu can help.

He watched you be sidelined for far too long. Your fathers never gave you a chance to experience what you could’ve been, they just kept you restrained to what you should be for your brother.

Irony of it all was that once long ago, your fathers were the one who rebelled against the whole Heaven. And now, they were keeping their own child in a gilded cage while simultaneously undermining your wants and needs, just like how Heaven did to them.

Just like how Nuwa did to him.

He was done watching you suffer your fathers’ foolishness. 

Black tendrils now surround you both, it wasn’t long until Xiangliu had you both teleported from your room. And even so, when he glanced over your unconscious form, you were still sleeping and unaware.

 Far away from those disgraceful fathers, demanding younger brother and that tropical prison that you’ve been forced to call home, now with him you’ll  finally be free. Soon enough and with him by your side, you’ll be able to reach your full potential.

No matter the sudden change in his plans, Xiangliu knows that having you here with him will prove much more fruitful later down the line. And as for your family and more specifically, your brother….

It was too late for him to fix what’s already been done with MK. But he knows, he’ll be able to help you set yourself free.

By sharing with you the freedom of what only the Chaos can bring.

ending note:

It's been so long since the last time I wrote something. I hope that it wasn’t a boring read, lol.

Also, I should mention, I hadn’t finished watching season 5 so I have yet to see what else is going on, buuut I had to get this fic idea out of my system, so yeah.

Thank you everyone that stuck ‘til the end!

[sen-ya]

@heart-pirates-week || Day 3 || Penguin/Loyalty

Idk if it’s better or worse if you read this other one first

[shit-people-probably-didnt-say]

My brain came up with a situation™

Enjoy?

So, Jespers playing with Wylans hair and notices a scar just behind his hairline. He asks how he got it and Wylan explains that shortly after his Mother died (but didnt die) he was really unwell with the flu and had a massive fever

He was walking down the hall towards his room to rest and his Father started talking to him so he was stood there for a while trying to listen when he eventually passes out

He smacks his head open on the floor and instead of helping him his Father just walks around him…

Wylan eventually comes to, alone on the floor with blood all down his face

Although Jan didnt cause the injury the complete lack of care and concern has Jesper fuming. Like imagine just stepping over your severely unwell, unconscious 8/9 year old as he bleeds on the floor… (all for the “crime” of not being able to read)

Wyalns just like ‘I did say you weren’t going to like this story!’

Anyway do with this what you will

[sigyn-foxyposts]

"Scott and Maggie's Lament."

I apologize before hand for creating such a angsty thing based on Mobox87's Bart's trauma and his parents greif after Vincent took his life. These character help me cope!

[rookfeatherrambles]

doing this again. What if an au where Jon is neglected by his grandma. Not like, severely, he's still fed and clothed and given books and goes to school but she's ... not affectionate. not loving. What if that makes him really lonely in a very deep and hard to see way? What if one day he decides to run away, take his little red boat to America. Surely there will be people to love him in America! He packs a bag, and his whistle and lots of water and then casts off, and just. Floats off into the ocean. He thinks its a good idea. For about the first five hours, when land is long lost to sight and a storm's blowing in, It gets cold, it gets foggy, and the sea gets rough. Skies overhead are angry, and Jon is finally regretting this choice.

Through the fog he sees something, a light? a ship?? so he blows his whistle. He blows it with all his might and it doesn't make a sound. Standing on the edge of the little rowboat, jon is hit with a wave that unbalances him into the icy, northern seas. He's a pretty good swimmer, but the water is freezing, and it quickly saps his strength. He sinks, and sinks, into the deep black of the ocean...

And wakes up on a ghost ship. Lying on the deck, quaking with hypothermia, and he sees ghosts all around him. They crowd him, in a circle, and he can see through them.

It won't be long until he's one of them too.

Jon passes out.

Meanwhile, Peter Lukas is scratching his head as to how a fucking 8 year old boy got all the way out into open water like he did, and what the hell he's supposed to do with him now. The Tundra has its cargo and a full crew (including sacrifice) and will not be turning around to drop off a little boy. He supposes he could always make the kid an extra snack for the Forsaken if he annoys him but, he can taste the loneliness on him even from where he sits and watches him sleep. Maybe he'll keep him. Peter's life is rather monotonous, having a child on board, while slightly troublesome in the short term, could also be entertaining. Ah, the kid is waking up. Better make himself scarce... for now.

(I am doing something with this idea but it's slow going so have this)

[penelope-is-waiting]

(penelope finds tele was sitting outside shaking from how cold it was looking like was waiting for someone) oh- hi mo-Penelope (he corrects, looking around.)

-@young-telemachus

Penelope? Excuse me?

[whinlatter]

Hi! Just wanting to say I adore Beasts. Well- I adore all your fics that I have been making my way through, but Beasts has just been marinating in my brain quite happily lately! I enjoy how you don’t shy away from the complexities of what it would be like for our characters in post, pre, current, and then post again war time conditions.

I was wondering since you brought up the McGonagall vs Kingsley or more specifically Hogwarts vs Ministry and who is responsible for the youth or the abuse that said youth experienced- how would that impact the canonical abuse/neglect Harry experienced both at the Dursleys but also the fact that he had an attempt on his life every year he was at hogwarts. I have always wondered in that ever really coming to light- who would the public be saying should be held responsible? I know people in fandom tend to place all the blame neatly on Dumbledore (which I personally disagree with) but how about the ministry? Child services?

Would his abuse by the Dursleys cause an upturn in anti muggle sentiment? I remember in the fourth book when Hermione was receiving hate mail in regards to her “hurting” Harry she had people simultaneously supporting Harry for stopping Voldemort but also being wildly blood supremacist towards her in the same breath. I could imagine for Kingsley, trying to face a wildly anti muggle status quo culture, if it got out the nature of Harry’s relationship with his muggle relatives people might actually riot.

Along with the “telling each other things” part of their relationship and Harry realizing how he needs to be better at providing more emotional support for Ginny and how much support Ginny already provides for him- if the nature of his abuse or even mentioning the cupboard ever came out how that could potentially shift things. The fact that we never know for certain if Harry ever even TOLD anyone about the cupboard in canon actually blows my mind

thank you so much for this interesting question, anon, and for reading beasts and and enjoying it and having a good ol think about it (every fic author's dream, having your story camp out for a bit in someone else's head - makes me beam). have tried to answer said interesting question - on what harry’s friends, family and a wizarding public would make of his time at the dursleys, and broader wizarding cultural ideas about child welfare and protection - below!

TW: generalised, non-specific references to child abuse and neglect

your question is interesting because it raises the question both of wizarding perceptions of muggle child-rearing and norms in wizarding society about the idea of child protection. i've written a bit before about how i tend to think about harry's abuse at the hands of the dursleys, which to try and put it in context as a literary trope in a particular genre (eg. the dursleys as roald dahl-esque pantomime anti-orphan villains) that the series outgrows and then tries to sidestep dealing with. harry's abuse at the dursleys is one of the most glaring examples of the series' tonal shifts and muddy, dissatisfactory space between genre conventions: a series that begins with harry as a matilda-esque figure dealing with pantomime cartoonish child-hating baddies and by the end is busy heavily implying the fact of egregious, gruesome violence against children (ariana dumbledore, for instance). morfin gaunt's violence against his daughter merope, as depicted in HBP, is absolutely not supposed to be farcical quaint slapstick, and as such it jars with the way harry's relationship with the dursleys is depicted early on in the series, which is a much more light-hearted story of ten years of dodging frying pans wielded by baffoonish, ridiculous cariactures of suburban english tories.

the dursleys exist for the young reader to jeer at and immediately hate rather than be taken seriously as portraits of child abusers. that somewhat colours how i personally tend to approach writing about harry's views of his upbringing - eg. don't spend too long trying to make the dursley plot consistent because the author certainly didn't.

i also tend to take cues from how harry the character canonically seems to reflect on and process his upbringing (ie. he recognises it was abuse, but he also recognises he didn't deserve it, and while he is certainly shaped and affected by it, he is not singularly traumatised by it, particularly relative to all of his other terrible teenage experiences). i think harry isn’t hiding the dursleys’ treatment of him from his friends. but nor is he talking about it all the time. as of book 2 the weasleys have decided his treatment is horrific and worthy of a jailbreak, which doesn't suggest they're all in the dark about it ('they were starving him, mum!') - i think they follow his cues on how much he wants to talk about it and have filled in the blanks well enough.

what a broader wizarding public would make of harry's treatment by the dursleys if they knew about it is tricker to think through, and asks us to read between the lines of the text re wizards' expectations/understanding of child welfare and children's protection, and how they might collide with wizards' varying attitudes to muggle culture, which range from polite fascination all the way to wanting to slaughter muggles en masse and hunt them down for sport.

(here's miss trunchbull from matilda, fulfilling genre conventions as only she can, also demonstrating what is likely a popular wizarding pastime: yeeting children).

on the one hand, there doesn't seem to be any kind of child protective services in the wizarding world or responsibility on the part of the state for child welfare. when it comes to children’s health and wellbeing, the wizarding state is hands off and happy about it. a few examples:

bob ogden's visit to the gaunts, for instance, ends in arrests, but seemingly not for child abuse - morfin and marvolo go to jail for attacking muggles and ministry employees, not for abusing merope, suggesting at a minimum there isn't much appetite for prosecuting child abuse or, in an unlikely but still possible reading, there are no express laws against abusing children in the wizarding world under which marvolo and morfin could have been charged.

muriel is critical of the dumbledore family's treatment of ariana ('though to take it to the extreme of actually imprisoning a little girl in the house and pretending she didn’t exist - '), but in the same breath also reveals that ariana was never examined or treated by any healer working at st mungo's, suggesting a distinct lack of scrutiny over children's health and wellbeing.

filch, longstanding school caretaker kept on under dumbledore (who, for all fandom’s ire at him, is a progressive among wizards on all sorts of things including on education and child welfare), frequently expresses a desire to 'whip students raw' and string them up by their ankles. the day umbridge tells filch she's going to sign an approval for whipping is clearly the happiest of his life, and filch exits the text having been outdone as a child abuser only by the carrows (eg. the two who literally encourage child on child torture), which is saying something. mcgonagall calls him a 'fool' (what are you like, argus!) and then lets him supervise the evacuation from the castle. just caretaker things!

does this mean witches and wizards don’t care about child abuse? i don’t want to say a flat no to that. as the muriel point on ariana suggests, even old-fashioned wizarding elders seem to think there is a right and a wrong way to care for children, and believe there are lines that can be crossed in terms of what’s fair and right to do to children under your care. umbridge cites a concern for the vulnerable children of hogwarts in making her case for more ministry interference at hogwarts, a case that makes her popular with many in the wizarding public, which implies some cultural sense of children as innocents who need to be protected. at the same time, though, we also see even progressive witches and wizards use corporeal punishment (the weasleys smack their children for particularly severe transgressions, as many middle class british families did well up to the millennium), and poor neville gets dangled out of a sodding window and his family are supposed to be kind of goodies. as we’re also told in canon witches and wizards are hardier and more durable physically than muggles, we also might expect that may shape wizarding attitudes to what you can do to a child in punishment without lasting damage or moral qualm. so it seems that wizards do have a cultural understanding of child abuse, even if they’re a bit hazy (or more forgiving) in what counts as abusive.

but. the example you mention - a wizarding public who are happy to hate harry but also happy to ride to his defence if they think a muggleborn tart has wronged him because of their kneejerk blood supremacy - is a really good one. canon is clear that hypocrisy is wizarding's britain's bread and butter. so i can absolutely see a right-wing commentariat doing what right-wing commentariats love to do most, which is selectively care about imagined or real violence against children only when it suits their political agenda. given the wizarding press canonically implies dumbledore has sinister intentions with harry potter the troubled youth (nonce allegations abound), i don’t think it would be a surprise if an anti-dumbledore camp seized on knowledge of harry’s experiences at the dursleys as proof of dumbledore’s hypocrisy, cruelty and dishonour.

as you mentioned ginny i will indulge myself and say a few remaining words about our girl. the question of how ginny would think about harry’s upbringing, and specifically what she would make of dumbledore leaving harry to the dursleys’ neglect for the greater good, is - i’m afraid - very interesting to me. ginny lives out ‘for the greater good’ in her war in lots of different ways; for one, she has to accept the likely prospect of harry’s death because of it. now, we know ginny names her son after albus dumbledore. i don’t think this is an act of charity, but a statement of how she and harry come to think of dumbledore and the sacrifices his plan demanded of them and others around them — ie. ultimately, they accept and support them, even if they acknowledge the terrible cost incurred. it’s not a particularly popular view in fandom at the minute, because (understandably and not entirely wrongly) audiences now see the surrendering of a very young child to abusive parents as part of a broader political and military strategy as perverse. that’s a changing-cultural-tastes-genre-trope issue as much as anything. but any of our revulsion at the idea is not how these characters - or even a wizarding public en masse - would necessarily would come to think of dumbledore’s decision to leave harry at the dursleys. (thinking of sirius’ very sad, very important line from OotP here: that ‘there are things worth dying for’).

[this-earlobe-is-naked]

I’m so torn on this, because Percy especially doesn’t mention the ages of most people. The ones he does mention are at least 12/13 during the Battle of Manhattan. Obviously these are still children and it’s super gross of the gods to allow/require them to be their army (even more disgusting to think of an entire city of adults in New Rome, letting children protect/ die for them), but there’s something even worse in my mind to imagine an 8 year old in those fights. Let me know what you think, and please expound in the tags or reblogs.

[aftgficrec]

heyy i’m looking for this fic that i haven’t been able to find in forever. i read it in 2020 i think so it’s probably deleted, but it was basically about andrew’s time in foster care and how he ended up in jail, how he met aaron, how he met higgins, all the stuff. it had 2/4 chapters completed or something like that and it was titled something like “the before and the after”. like before he met neil and after. yeah. tyyyy!!

I’ve had a good look around, but I haven’t been able to find a fic that exactly meets your criteria, this one is the closest I could find.  Hope it’ll do for now, but maybe our followers have a better idea. You could also search our tags theme: juvie and theme: foster care. This fic is locked, so you need to be logged into an AO3 account to access it. - S

Doe by FoxyAtlas [Rated M, 12068 words, incomplete, last updated Jan 2022, locked]

Andrew Doe wasn't worth a goddamn thing. He did everything he could to make his foster parents want him, but he was a lost cause. He would never have a family, and he would never be wanted. Nothing he could do would change that. Or so he thought. --- The story of Andrew Minyard's life, starting at 6 and going through to the end of the AFTG series. Includes: shitty foster situations, Cass and Drake, meeting Aaron for the first time, juvie, Tilda, working at Sweetie's, hooking up with Roland, getting the offer to join the Ravens, joining the Foxes, becoming Kevin's protector, and having Neil Josten absolutely turn his life upside down.

tw: depression, tw: implied/referenced self harm, tw: implied/referenced rape/noncon, tw: implied/referenced child abuse, tw: child neglect, tw: suicidal thoughts

[frozenjokes]

sculkfan135

ao3 link

tw: medical trauma, medical needles, child neglect, child endangerment

LOOP 20

It was a disorienting thing to wake up, it always was, especially the more time that had passed since you’d died and your fellows had lived on, but for Cub this was not an issue, because at the back of his mind he knew that he was not meant to be awake.

An easy fix.

Someone who could only be Cleo leapt on him, grabbing his wrists as his fingers just barely grazed the gun at his bedside. She was yelling at him, but he wasn’t sure what she was saying or what he’d done to deserve this. The post-reset calm he felt was beginning to subside, panic like needles pushing the walls of his composure thin. It was the sculk, the sculk was taking him, it would not let go no matter how many doctors piled on top of him, holding on, holding on as if they stood a single chance against the parasite that wanted him so much more.

They thought they knew so much better than him, didn’t they. As if there was any other way to stop him other than a bullet in his brain. Cub knew. Cub knew, and he told them just as much, but they didn’t listen, they never listened because they just knew so much better than him.

“It’s in my brain,” Cub breathed, breathed because he was winded, because his doctors were fighting him and they were yelling at him and he did not understand, nor did he care to listen when he knew they knew nothing, “It’s in my brain, don’t you understand? You don’t. You don’t. It’s clear to me, it’s clear, and you can see it in there with your scans, but you can’t see my mind, you can’t see its residence. Genius idea to keep me here, in the cage where my body can’t bloom, but you’ve forgotten my mind, don’t you understand?”

It was clear to Cub. Clear as day, clear as anything, as a dog’s bark versus a cat’s meow, he understood with the clarity one might reach at their personal enlightenment, bright and overwhelming but so equally simple. For true stasis, his mind would need to loop back as his body did, no development, no learning, no achievement kept. How stupid for them not to have realized; minds still tire from loop to loop, even when bodies are rested. Brains still wither under the weight of loss, men are still driven to madness. Diseased minds still progress, they must, there was no other explanation, and there was only one true solution. But Cub did not know if he could take it anymore, or even ask another to do it for him; intrinsically, he wanted to live. There was no other choice but to live, that was clear, and the certainty of the thought calmed him. His doctors loosened their grip, and instantly, just to spite them, he thought of fighting again, of making a scene, but they weren’t trying to hurt him, not now. Stupidity wasn’t a crime, he supposed.

“Turn off the light.” he demanded, he made sure to be firm, because these useless doctors never listened, “Turn it off, I can’t hear you. Get off of me.”

His doctors receded, good, they had no value otherwise if not to listen. Cub did not reach out, but still his fingers came across something soft, soft enough to create a void as it left him, a feeling so empty that Cub had to chase the fleeting sensation. He flexed his fingers and after a moment it returned to him, more tangible, almost solid. The lights flicked off, and almost instantly he fell at ease. Gosh, clearly these doctors had never seen him before, never been in contact with his Earthen tormentors, they could follow directions, they were far more advanced peoples. Eyes half closed, the heartbeat of the closer caught his attention. Quick, erratic almost, or perhaps that was its breathing. Cub couldn’t say it made him feel anything. He just noticed.

Chasing his own quiet desires, he moved to pet whatever his drifting hand had chanced into. Slowly, it drew closer, and Cub felt very pleased at its presence. He felt very little about animals, but he’d never known doctors to keep them.

It must have been an arm at his fingers, thin and bony and not ideal for petting, but it made him curious regardless; he had only a few animals growing up, but they never made it to old age. Foxes and coyotes got the cats. They didn’t know what got the dog, but it had run off into the woods one day and never came home. Cub remembered feeling angry, young as he was. Not angry that his parents had not made much of an effort to find her, but angry she’d left in the first place, that she’d left him all alone in that quiet house. At eight years old, Cub had put forth a lot more effort into finding her than anyone else. In the chill of an early December winter, not even wearing a coat after the first snowfall, he had understood why she’d gone. The forest had so much more to offer than the drab cottage he spent most days, always assuming the grass that led into the thicker trees was just.. the edge of the world. No, the world was so much vaster than he had even imagined.

His continued venturing into the woods had been under that lost dog’s name, but one or two more trips onto the overgrown trails and he’d long forgotten her.

Cub trailed his fingers down the arm of this new animal, wondering what a doctor might keep in their office. A dog, maybe? Therapy dogs were a thing, though Cub had never known one personally. He found the hand, and knew nearly instantly this was not the case.

“Cat claws,” he mumbled, thoughtful in his examination. “I find needles to be a lot like cat claws, is that why you like them? I can’t imagine keeping them in your office is very sanitary, but what do I know. Do they keep your patients calm?” Easier to control them that way, Cub had the thought, but despite not speaking it aloud, the cat must have read his disdainful mind, pulling away to Cub’s great sorrow. Cub reached to catch it again, but only found the rough material of [his] a doctor’s corduroy jacket.

“No,” he breathed, unaware if what he was feeling was anger or sadness, “Where did you go? You used to be soft,” he furrowed his brow, his panic rising in earnest. He tried to open his eyes, but he could not see, he’d forgotten, he wasn’t meant to, he was afraid of what might happen to him if he could, if he found his glasses, but no, he was too turned around, he’d been fighting too hard, those damn doctors, he could hear them deliberating, they were talking about him, they had meant to trick him and now- Cub sat up, stopping short on his escape attempt when that softness returned to the backs of his hands, the large paw pads of the doctor’s cat returning once more. Oh. Okay.

Against the will of his racing heart, he laid back down. The paws drew back, and while Cub mourned their loss, they were not completely gone, the bed dipping at the end as a large weight crawled up. Wow. This was a big cat. Cub felt its fur between his legs as it settled on his thighs and knees, beginning to purr as if that were its civic duty. Gingerly, Cub reached to pet, his hand ending up somewhere between its chest and shoulder, Cub was pretty sure at least. Absently, his fingers traced the fur.

“It’s not your fault you’re stupid,” Cub mumbled, drifting into that unsteady peace once more, “People get stupid when they try to save themselves, and I know I’m in the way. I know you know that killing me is the only way to stop me, me specifically, but your job isn’t to kill me. It’s about understanding. I know you hate me, I’m in your way. You’re in mine. It was.. always going to be this way.”

Cub paused, considering the static of his own mind. He expected more thoughts to make their way across the scape on their own, but when he watched, he saw no words on the vast expanse. Just static. Just empty space. Was this how he was meant to be?

“You didn’t stop my infection. Did you know? Physically.. I look alright. I look the way I’ve always been since you mutilated me, inside and out. You tore off my skin with those gloves, it was my skin, I know I must have bled.. You did it with those needles too, stuck me right in the stomach, right by my belly button, I know it, I felt it and you told me, you told me like I’d ever administer the medicine by myself. You knew it. You showed Cleo how to do it too. You made them watch. They told me they didn’t but I know they were.. Cat claws.. I think if I did not know, I might mistake it for cat claws. I know.. I know what you told them. If things get bad.. if I don’t survive long enough.. Not once have they tried to force it on me, I’ll have you know. They’re not as stupid as you. The only way to really kill me.. You have to commit. You’ll never understand me. Cleo knows. That’s why they’re better than you, among many, many other reasons.”

Cub wondered if his doctors were still there. They hadn’t moved in some time.

“Two years is a long time. How about five?”

The cat could not purr as effectively as his doctors whispered to each other; Cub suspected it found them similarly irritating. He did not try to listen in. The words slid off his ears like oil to water. He heard shuffling somewhat distantly, searching through boxes neither of them had touched in.. well, five years, likely. How much dust might have accumulated in all those years? He preferred to hear the purring, so he did. As simple as that.

Unfortunately, Cub did know what was coming. He knew it as well as he knew cat claws, something he’d learned more than a little about in the past months. He felt Scar’s paws at the hem of his shirt, and he fought reality as it threatened to crash back into him, he wanted to go back, go back gobackgobackGOBACK to when he never would have known, to the woods, to the pine, to sting of winter on his nose, to the joy of chipmunks and rabbits and even the bears, he’d even take the bears, ANYTHING, anything but this-!

He screamed when they held him down, he kicked and scratched and cried and even when it was over he cried, he could feel it, his skin, did they know when they pulled that it hurt, it hurt, IT HURT, that was his skin, it was connected to his skin!

When they left him he still cried, he cried for his dog, his lost dog, abandoning him in that house, leaving him all alone, dooming him to the physical pangs of loneliness that haunted him for the rest of his childhood, the rest of his life, it was all that dog, his dog had left him and now look what he’d become!

The doctor’s creature returned to him then, whether it was that lost dog or not, Cub was wretched enough to believe anything. Dogs were less coordinated than this, but they had such sharp elbows, Cub remembered their elbows, and those calloused paws from living outside on the concrete, yes, Cub had found her finally, she’d come home after all those years of searching, after the decades that had passed when Cub had gone back home, an adult, to look for her one last time.

“I got sick, looking for you,” he mumbled, closing his eyes. He was home. Sometimes this happened, pieces of himself falling away, drifting until all that was left was a fuzzy, light mind. Or maybe it was the opposite, someone small and hurt pushing forward, demanding to be met. Thinking further than the sensations of fur on his fingers was suddenly a monumental task, but that was alright, he had his dog, he loved that dog, she was so, so soft, and more than anything he longed to bury his face in her side, but she rarely tolerated it, and right now there would be no worse fate in the world than her leaving his side.

“You knew.. You used to go with dad when he went to treat the land. He had that big wheelbarrow, I remember. Mom let me paint it with her..” Cub hummed quietly, “Treat the land, get those nice government checks. He let me help sometimes, ‘-you want to go in those damn woods so bad.’ Only half. Only use half. You only needed half to get the most of it-” Cub avoided saying the word, he’d always had trouble with it, the ‘sc’ and the ‘l’ so soon after, but not before the ‘u,’ it was too overwhelming to try many days “-enough to pass the inspections at least. The rest you could sell, ‘Off the record, of course.’ It’s like.. free money. That was pretty cool.”

“I think we were poor.. I don’t really know. We didn’t buy very much. Not my mom or my dad, they really didn’t like to buy things. Both of them liked to hunt. They’d go out together with their rifles, and sometimes they’d come home with a buck or even a bear, a black bear, that’s what, it was so cool. They didn’t let me out with them, didn’t let me touch the guns. It made me sad. They didn’t want me out with them. Sometimes I got to sit outside while they processed the meat together, even if they didn’t want you around most times.. You weren’t always a very good dog. Barking on the chain.. It was really happy when it was just the three of us out there though, god. I don’t know if they ever knew I loved it. They never told me when they got home. Never called inside to let me know. Every time they left into the woods, I just waited by the window. Sometimes I watched you, sleeping out there on those warmer spring days. You knew when they got home before I did.”

He remembered it. He remembered it so well he could have been home right now. Sitting on the couch on his knees, looking out the window and waiting. A surge of vulnerability left him grasping at the animal across his legs, wrapping his arms around it, he needed more, there was no seeing past that gaping need, and Cub pulled the creature toward him, toward his chest. It mewled softly, readjusted, but ultimately accepted its fate. Cub couldn’t see, no, he still could not see, but the internal image made him giggle softly, even if the warm feeling was short lived.

Sculk sickness came around every once in a while in their family. Two or three times a year; it wasn’t a big deal. His father had a vaccine, the cost covered by the government since he worked with sculk control on their acreage of land, but his mom tended toward getting the treatment as it came, those treatments being covered by their insurance. For Cub it was a little more complicated. Kids couldn’t take the high doses of medication that adults could, not all at once at least- it wouldn’t kill them or anything, it just wasn’t a very good thing to have all those chemicals in your system at once when you weighed so little. So instead kids took antibiotics in the form of pills, similar to what you’d take for an ear infection, at least that’s what Cub’s mom had told him. He’d never had an ear infection before.

His dad and uncle got into a lot of fights, words Cub was assaulted with even through the thick oaken door of his bedroom, head buried under his largest pillows. He’d never thought there was anything wrong with him; sculk sickness was a normal, but brief inconvenience in his life, less trouble than the common cold. His parents always seemed to know before Cub did; they all ate the same food, all contracted at the same time. Cub had gotten quite good at going to the doctor and taking those pills, he was quite proud of himself, but his uncle seemed to think they were a very bad thing.

His father’s brother was a pediatrician, he worked at the same practice Cub went for his own annual appointments, but Cub never got the sense his uncle liked him very much. His uncle wasn’t over very often, but in those days after his dad couldn’t take Cub to the doctor anymore, he was around far more often.

Cub had done something wrong. He wasn’t supposed to get sick this much, his uncle preferred he die from an easily curable sickness than give his father more of those antibiotics, Cub knew it was true, there was no other reason he’d withhold them when his father begged for just a small stockpile, just to be safe, enough to last them through to the end of the year. His uncle threatened all sorts of things; to have the property investigated, to turn his father to the police for mismanagement, child endangerment, he wanted to have Cub taken away, Cub had heard his father say it, heard his mother scream at the both of them to quiet down when their voices boomed so oppressively that the house shook.

They got the medicine, in the end. The day before his sixth birthday.

The next week, his uncle would come to the house to examine Cub, probe him for sickness. Strip away all his clothes, his privacy, his protection, move him physically, touch without asking, it only stopped when Cub cried, wailed until his father came between them, comforting him only with the words that this would be no more than a weekly occurrence, just until the end of the year. Cub had screamed.

It only took two weeks for ‘weekly’ occurrences to become monthly. Cub would not speak to anyone days after his uncle’s visits. If he was given advance warning, he hid under the covers of his parents’ bed, but they stopped giving warnings when he threw open the front door and attempted to run away.

It was only two months later he’d gotten sick again, but his mother knew before his uncle had the chance to find out, and the illness was treated quietly. As far as Cub knew, his uncle was never told.

It confused Cub when on the fourth day of his antibiotics, his father did not give him any more. The duration was usually a week, and he recognized the pills; they weren’t any different.

He’d been told he only really needed to take them until his symptoms subsided; no need to waste the rest of the pills when we might need them later. We might not be able to get any more. Cub had already known his uncle was evil, but it was an unbelievable crashing relief to hear the words from his father’s lips.

The end of the year came and went, five total visits from his uncle by the New Year, and Cub had no words to express the utter relief that he’d never have to see him again.

Life continued.. as normal. Cub was allowed to visit his doctor again in the instances he got sick, though he had violent reactions to his clothes being touched, eliciting concerned responses from the adults around him. He didn’t want to talk to any of them, any doctors, but they wanted to talk to him, they wanted to ask him questions without his parents around, to which he only screamed, clinging to his mother like they might forcibly drag him away if he did not hold tight enough. However this resolved itself, Cub never knew.

He never took a full dose of his antibiotics again. His father was just as stingy with those pills as he was with money, a trait Cub had violently inherited. He hated the sculk. He hated the sickness his family seemed so prone to- the faster it left him, the better.

Only once Cub had lied about feeling better before he really was, desperate to save that precious extra pill, but the regression came hard, and it had taken so much of their stock to kill it that Cub had been sufficiently scarred from ever trying anything like that again.

Cub was just as afraid of his uncle at the age of ten than when he was at six. Every time he showed his face in their house, the whole family turned to ruin.

No more hunting. No more sustaining that hefty portion of your food from those damn woods. It’s not safe, it’s especially not safe to medicate as often as you have to, and I can’t in good conscience let this go on any longer.

Cub remembered locking eyes with him, the spark of recognition, pity, evil. Cub had bolted out the back door.

He heard those footsteps behind him, not his mother or his father, and he ran faster, heaving, near tears, but the chase had stopped abruptly as [presumably] his father caught his uncle before he could take another step off the porch. The two of them screamed, his uncle screamed that Cub was running away, running into the woods alone, they had to get him before he went too far, Cub remembered the words that had fueled his terror, legs pumping faster. He didn’t remember what his father had said in response, he was quieter, but Cub remembered his uncle’s response:

“HE WHAT!?”

Cub was back before sunset, as per his parents’ curfew, but he lingered near the back, terror-struck when he saw his uncle’s car still sitting in the front driveway. His mother must have seen him through the window. She told him it was okay to come inside, and stricken back into silence, Cub could not respond, but he did not believe her either. He would not come inside until she convinced him it was safe, that no one was going to jump out at him, that his uncle just wanted to know Cub made it back home, that he was waiting in the car. Cub’s father had called out the front door, told his uncle that Cub was home. His uncle yelled something back, inaudible, but Cub didn’t like the regretful way his father turned back to look at him.

“He just wants to see you, and then he’ll go.”

Cub tried to run, caught by his mother. He didn’t scream as he’d forgotten how, but it was with great terror he attempted his escape, even as both parents herded him toward the front door. The second Cub was in view he was released. His mother moved swiftly to block the back door, but Cub was only interested in burying himself in his blankets, bedroom door slammed shut behind him.

There was no more hunting after that.

It was confusing for Cub, not getting sick after that. It took him a long while to understand it; he tended to take most things at face value, but this didn’t make all that much sense. If the food from the forest was making them sick, then why had they been eating it for so long? They did get sick once in the following year, but his mother had said it was unlucky, a bad patch in the garden, and while his father had been quite anxious, nothing had come from it. As always, they’d just taken him to the doctor. As always, Cub took his antibiotics until he stopped showing symptoms.

He continued to wonder, but he was never very good at formulating his questions, and any mention of the sculk or hunting put his dad in a foul mood. Both his mom and dad were distinctly unhappier in those days; Cub couldn’t bear to be around them sometimes, the oppressive nature of the house pushing him to spend far more of his time outside.

There was far more for him in the woods on their property. He peeked down rabbit holes, climbed trees looking for birds’ nests, watched bees and wasps in their hives, conquered stumps like towers and made homes for himself by weaving together bushes.

This was nothing new, but seventh and eighth grade were particularly bad years for Cub, the age where kids started growing out of their eccentricities and abandoning all things deemed childish with reckless abandon, leaving Cub even further behind than he’d felt before. Trying to join them in their sprint toward growing up exhausted him, so instead he sat and watched quietly while the ties of his already few friendships grew thinner and thinner.

He was humored in school most days. But he was never wanted.

Maybe it had always been this way. Maybe Cub was just starting to grow attuned to it. Either way, outside of school he did not talk to anyone his age, he did not go to hangouts or birthday parties, he stayed in the woods. He preferred it; really he did prefer it, but it would have been nice to have a friend who liked the same things he did.

He filled the holes in his heart with books; foraging specifically interested him, he wanted to identify every plant and tree and bit of foliage in the woods that made up his backyard. He was consumed by it those two years, ambling around with his books, matching the pictures to the trees and staring longingly at blackberry bushes- he was certain they were blackberries! It took him a while to actually work up the courage to try and eat them, only doing so after watching the birds consume them en masse with a growing jealousy in his heart, and afterwards he laid on the forest floor for a whole hour, waiting to die for the cardinal sin of eating an unknown berry in the forest.

But he didn’t die. And then he got excited. The summer leading into autumn of his eighth grade year was one of his most adventurous, and it was a small miracle he didn’t poison himself. Not because he couldn’t tell the difference between edible food and poison; no, he was just about an expert in the flora of his backyard, but because the poison looked so tempting, didn’t it? The real forbidden fruit. Cub wondered a lot about Eve from that bible story, and thought she died to a very reasonable cause. Did she die, actually? Cub sure didn’t remember, but God was not a very nice man. If God was truly good, why would the poison look so edible? Why did he put poison in their backyard in the first place?

October that year was when he got sick, at least, that was when he noticed. Maybe it was stupid thing, but Cub wasn’t super aware of his surroundings on a good day, and in relation to his body? Forget it. He hardly looked at himself in any detail when he showered or changed, how was he meant to notice the dark lines forming just under the skin of his stomach. He hadn’t even gotten a fever.

For all the times Cub had contracted sculk sickness, he had never identified it by himself. He knew what it felt like after his mom pointed it out, but she had always gotten ill at the same time he was, and she was good at spotting the lines, even when they were faint. And they were always faint; there were zero instances in his family where the sickness was not caught at its first physical manifestations.

The lines on Cub’s stomach were dark. They weren’t very long; just little things, they might have even been hair if Cub really squinted, but..

It didn’t bother him. He didn’t even feel sick; he’d rarely ever felt sick before, but surely he would have started feeling something by now, right? How long had this been here? Not more than a week, surely. Even sculk sickness after a week usually looked more severe than this, he was pretty sure. It had been a while since Cub had seen a picture.

His attention had been captured, as well as his curiosity. He was not afraid, not even a little bit; he had plenty of antibiotics, and he was even old enough for adult treatment now. He just wanted to see what it would do. Just for a week.

A week turned into a month much faster than Cub could track. Really, he hadn’t meant for it to be this way- he was going to tell someone but-

It was an utterly stupid thing. Utterly stupid.

He thought it might like him. He knew it was crazy, he knew it even at thirteen, but it wasn’t spreading- Well. It was. But sculk was fast, it was supposed to be fast acting and on Cub it was slow, it was so slow, it had hardly reached up to his chest and hadn’t even touched his back! Cub was enchanted just watching it, why was it like that? It wasn’t supposed to be like that. Why on him? Cub was going to tell someone soon, he just-

One month turned to two. It was uncomfortable now, deeply uncomfortable, Cub could feel it under his skin, it itched, it itched so badly where he could not reach, and he was starting to get sick, actually ill, feverish and puking; his parents were certain he had the flu. Usually they got their shots late December.

But Cub was afraid. He was afraid to tell anyone, he didn’t want to tell, he didn’t want them to take it away- Those thoughts had alarmed him, the switch from just Not Telling and Actively Hiding his sickness equally jarring, but Cub had never had great impulse control. However, by the time the sculk seemed to be an actual problem, he felt as though he had very little choice. Maybe that wasn’t accurate. Maybe he was just afraid of the punishment he’d face when he was found out, but.. He didn’t know. He was afraid. Afraid of losing the sculk like he feared death, and he hadn’t ever feared death before, not to this extent, but now losing the sculk seemed to be the worst thing that could ever happen to him, and he couldn’t let it happen.

And then he threw up in bed, right in front of his father. Darker than it was light, but not without the spots of silver that Cub had started likening to stars.

There was no hiding that under the covers, under baggy clothes and turtlenecks.

He was rushed to the hospital. His parents asked so many questions, most of which he could not answer. In part because he was rapidly losing the ability to speak, but beyond that, he truly just did not know how. He did not know ‘why.’ Cub accepted this fate with a heavy apathy, maybe even a soft relief that his secret had finally been found out, but internally his mind still buzzed with a sharp panic, just not sharp enough to fight back.

At least not until they tried to remove his shirt. After that, Cub stopped speaking altogether, completely silent for the following two weeks.

Two weeks. The length of time he was determined to have been sick; possibly a little longer. Too much longer, and he might have suffered irreparable damage. He was told many times he was very lucky things hadn’t progressed any further. The sentiment didn’t make him start talking any sooner.

He never corrected them. Even now, no one ever knew.

Cub did not know why. Why he failed to say something, failed to tell the truth after it was all over, continued to fail, and why, even after so much time, he still couldn’t bring any of this to words.

Whatever the reason, this was all going to his grave.

[galaxymagitech]

no one is coming (but I'm going to stay)

(Whumpuary 2025 - Day 7)

unfair fight | insomnia | "no one is coming"

For @kades-stuff, who requested Tim and Jason, comfort, and the prompts "insomnia" and "no one is coming." If you want to request a fic for another day feel free!

Summary:

After Jason reluctantly rescues Tim from torture by Two Face’s goons, Tim decides that he doesn’t want to be alone. The obvious solution? Move into his semi-murderous older brother’s apartment.

Jason is not amused, but grudgingly accepts his new roommate. He owes him one, after all.

Characters: Jason Todd, Tim Drake

Warnings: Implied Child Neglect, Referenced Torture

You can read it here or on AO3!

Jason opens the door to find Timothy Drake on his doorstep, head still bandaged from the kidnapping that Jason had (reluctantly) rescued him from just two days prior. And by the amount of blood the kid had been leaking by the time Jason got him away from Two-Face’s goons, Jason’s willing to bet there are a lot more bandages hiding beneath the kid’s overly large Superman sweatshirt. So, not only is Tim not supposed to be Jason’s problem, but he should be on bedrest.

And yet here he is, standing outside Jason’s apartment at 8 pm at night.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” Jason asks. Tim blinks at him. “I asked—”

“Can I stay?”

Huh? That takes Jason a moment to process and then he sees that the kid is carrying what appears to be a stuffed school backpack. Is he asking if he can have a…sleepover?

Yeah, no way is this for real. This has to be a hallucination or a trap or…or a practical joke. Yeah, maybe Tim’s taking a page out of Dick’s book.

Tim seems to take Jason’s silence for a refusal, rather than disbelief, because he starts rushing to reassure him. “You’ll barely notice I’m there! I can just sleep on the couch or the floor or whatever. I’ve got a sleeping bag. I’ll get my own food too—I won’t be a bother. And I’ll run comms for you if you want, or, like, I can pay you back or something. I—”

“Okay, stop,” Jason says, rubbing his forehead with the heel of his palm. Tim immediately stops talking. This is…wrong. In the Tower, the little shit wouldn’t shut up. And he’s a Robin. Robins never follow orders. But here Tim is, quiet.

And, apparently, asking to stay with Jason.

Jason could ask why Tim wants to leave the Manor, but frankly? That sounds like too much of a bother. “Yeah, whatever,” he says. He figures he owes the kid that much, at least. If Tim wants a place to stay, he’s got it. And if it makes Jason feel like less of an asshole? Well, that’s a nice benefit. “You can take the couch. Just don’t touch any of my guns. Or grenades. Or bombs.”

“Trust me,” Tim says. “I have no interest in messing around with your booby-trapped weapons.”

“Good.”

Jason steps aside and watches as Tim enter the one-bedroom apartment. Tim places his bag carefully on the main room’s couch and then sits down, slumping against the back of the couch in exhaustion.

Okay, yeah. This is way beyond Jason’s paygrade (a paygrade which is currently nothing except a load of self-righteous bullshit from Batman—Jason refuses to accept any gear and steals it instead, because Bruce might think everything’s okay, but it’s not), but sue him. He’s curious. “Why exactly are you not at the Manor?”

Tim blinks at him again. Jason’s pretty sure Tim is concussed. How did the kid even get here? Why is he Jason’s problem.

Jason’s expecting something about Bruce being overbearing or benching Tim (not that Robin should be patrolling like this, but whatever, throw away all of Jason’s hard work, see if he cares). What he is not expecting is:

“Why would I be at the Manor?”

“Because you…live there?”

“I live with my uncle,” Tim says. Jason didn’t know Tim had an uncle, but whatever.

“Then why are you not with your uncle?” Jason shakes his head, not really waiting for an answer. Instead, he goes to the freezer to get started on his pre-patrol chicken nuggets.

Look. Jason knows how to cook. The truth is, though, he’s a full-time Crime Lord with a decaying empire. He doesn’t have time to actually do it. So, chicken nuggets. Everyone likes them anyway, except for maybe stuck-up trust fund brats. It’ll be funny to watch Tim internally debate over whether to turn his rich little nose up at the chicken nuggets or choke them down out of politeness to his host.

“I don’t know my uncle very well,” Tim answers. Which is ridiculous, because he doesn’t know Jason very well, either. And his uncle didn’t break into his baby superhero clubhouse to attack him. “And he’s out a lot. I mean, just.” He looks down at the floor, eyes fixating on a faint bloodstain that Jason hasn’t been able to get out. “When Two-Face’s guys had me, I didn’t have my tracker. I just kept thinking, ‘no one is coming.’ ‘No one is coming.’ And then you were there. But I forget that, sometimes, so I don’t want to be alone.”

Jason sighs and pops the chicken nuggets in the microwave. “And you didn’t think that maybe Dick or Bruce would be better company?”

“The Manor feels like it’s alone,” Tim says. “And if I tell Bruce my uncle’s gone a lot, he’ll get…weird.”

That is…interesting information that Jason does not care about. No, he’s not making conclusions and planning to investigate this mysterious uncle. Absolutely not. Letting the Replacement stay the night (multiple nights?) here is just because he still feels kind of bad about the Tower. Sure, Tim wasn’t hurt that much, but Jason can admit that beating up a younger, shorter, less-trained boy to prove that he was better was cruel. Bullying. Whatever you want to call it. So, yeah, Jason will let Tim stay here, but that’s about as far as his good will goes.

“Plus, Dick has enough on his plate without me.”

Yeah. Dick was in and out of the manor during the two weeks Jason spent there recovering from the explosion. During Jason’s encounters with him, Dick was all cheerful and loving and overjoyed that his ‘Little Wing’ was back. But when he didn’t know Jason was watching, Dick looked distracted and almost guilty. And Blüdhaven’s been having Deathstroke problems recently, so Dick is probably waist-deep in that mess too. “Okay,” Jason says. The microwave dings. He takes two plates and divides the chicken nuggets between them, handing Tim the smaller portion. Jason can always heat up more if Tim is still hungry.

“Oh,” Tim says. “You really don’t have to give me food.”

“What, not fancy enough?”

“No!” Tim grabs the plate and starts eating them. “I just meant you didn’t have to bother. I like chicken nuggets.” Did he even wash his hands? What the hell is wrong with this kid?

“Wash your hands, idiot.” Jason doesn’t care about Tim’s well-being. But if Tim gets sick and Jason is letting him couch surf, then Jason could get sick too. And that would suck.

“Whatever,” Tim says, but he does get up to wash his hands.

Another point in favor of something being really off. Robins don’t follow orders, especially when it’s for their own good.

But Jason has patrol to get to, so after Tim finishes the chicken nuggets, he gets dressed and leaves for patrol.

***

When Jason gets back, Tim is attempting to change his own bandages. Which would be fine, except this particular set of bandages is on his back, and he’s trying to use a hand-mirror that he’s attached to the microwave handle with a hair tie.

Jason spends several seconds watching this scene in pure confusion, before he speaks. “Let me do that.”

Tim startles. “Oh,” he says distractedly. “No, I’m fine.”

“No,” Jason says, rolling his eyes. “You’re not.” If the kid gets infected and gets sepsis here, his tenuous alliance with the Bats is over. Which isn’t necessarily a bad thing, but that’s happening on Jason’s terms, not Bruce’s. So, no, Jason isn’t letting his dumbass replacement die of inadequate flexibility to tend to his own wounds.

“Really!” Tim insists. “I’m fine!”

Well, Jason can’t exactly blame Tim for not wanting his former attacker to be close enough to bandage his injuries, but Tim is literally the one who asked to stay at his apartment. “Either I help you or I’m taking you to Leslie.”

Tim shoots Jason a look of pure betrayal. “She’d tell Bruce!”

“Yeah,” Jason says. “She would.” He holds out a hand, and Tim reluctantly passes him the roll of bandages. “Sit down.”

The wounds on Tim’s back are…bad. When Jason had gotten there, the goons had been attempting to waterboard Robin, but obviously they’d tried other methods first. Jason doesn’t know what they wanted, but it doesn’t really matter. It never does. Whether they wanted information, bait, revenge, or even just stress relief, it’s Batman’s fault that a Robin was there in the first place. Jason’s fists clench and he tugs too hard on the bandage. Tim flinches.

“Sorry,” Jason mutters.

“Whatever.”

After that, Jason stops thinking and just bandages the wound as quickly as possible. “I’m going to get some sleep,” Jason says. “Don’t try to slit my throat.”

Tim crosses his arms. “I’m not you.”

Right. Jason winces. He was trying to be vaguely funny, but, well…maybe not the best wording. “I wouldn’t have actually slit your throat,” Jason protests lamely, despite knowing he very well might have.

“I needed stitches.”

“Because Catwoman got in the way and half-shoved you into the dagger.”

“Because you’re an asshole.”

“I’m the asshole who you’ve chosen to have a sleepover with,” Jason says. “I could always kick you out.”

He means to be teasing. He’d thought they were bantering. But instead, Tim goes stock still, like he’s actually afraid.

“Uh,” Jason says awkwardly. “I didn’t mean it?”

Tim blinks. Jason’s starting to think that’s his way of resetting his brain. “It’s fine,” Tim mutters.

“No, I’m, uh.” Sorry. Jason should say he’s sorry. But he doesn’t want to. Saying he’s sorry opens up the floodgates. If he says he’s sorry once, then everyone expects an apology for everything and—

“I was being rude,” Tim justifies.

Instead of apologizing, Jason just shakes his head and goes to his room.

***

Tim doesn’t leave the next morning, or the following evening, or the morning after that. Instead, he sticks around. Somehow, he gets into Jason’s files and flags a traitor, tracks down an international drug trafficker through a complicated series of shell corporations, and writes a memo on Hood’s increased city-wide approval ratings now that he’s toned down the murder to only when absolutely necessary and in his territory.

Jason scowls at the last one, but thanks Tim for the first two and says they’ll be helpful, even though he’s annoyed that the brat has access to his files. Tim seems to light up at the praise.

It’s weird, how much Tim seems to care about Jason appreciating his help. He even cooked dinner, an actual dinner, and even though it was mediocre, he hung on Jason’s every word when he asked how it was. And he’s constantly promising that he won’t be a bother if Jason lets him stay over one more night. Meanwhile, if Tim has contacted his uncle to tell the man where he spent the last few days, Jason hasn’t seen it.

So, Jason starts to investigate Tim’s uncle. He’s annoyingly boring. All his papers are in order. All his taxes are in order. All his everything is in order. Tim’s uncle is so unsuspicious that it’s actually…rather suspicious.

Not your problem, Jason reminds himself. But after a week of Tim staying in his apartment and displaying zero desire to fuck off back where he came from…Jason can admit it’s kinda maybe a bit his problem. Especially since Jason hasn’t even hinted to Tim that he should leave. (And Tim would leave, if Jason hinted. But Jason doesn’t know what’s going on with Tim’s uncle or why the kid wanted to stay here of all places, and he sort of appreciates the company, anyway.)

***

A week and a half after Tim showed up at Jason’s apartment, he deems himself ready to patrol again.

“Deems himself,” because he is absolutely not ready to patrol, and Jason doesn��t know what the fuck Batman is thinking letting Tim go out like this. But Jason’s stepping on a drug dealer’s fingers, asking him about one of his compatriots, when he catches Batman and Robin watching him from a nearby rooftop. 

Well, there goes any opportunity to shoot the guy in the forehead. Not that Jason was planning to do that, but it’s the principle of the thing.

The drug dealer gasps out an address, and Jason figures that’s the best he’s going to get, so he steps away and grapples up to the rooftop. “What do you want?”

Jason expects Bruce to ask why Tim randomly spent a week and a half living with him. But apparently, Bruce is none the wiser, because instead he tells Jason that he’s investigating a string of drug overdoses that he thinks might be connected to Jason’s current work.

It’s probably a lame excuse for supervision, but if it works, it works. Jason’s main concern isn’t punishing these people right now—it’s getting them out of his territory, and Batman has the connections to make that happen.

***

Now that Tim is going out on patrol, it’s becoming increasingly obvious that the kid is simply not sleeping.

Well, okay, he must be sleeping at some point, but at most it’s a few catnaps when Jason is out. Because Tim is never sleeping when Jason is in the apartment.

Maybe it’s a trust issue, but Tim literally came here. If he really thought Jason would murder him in his sleep, he wouldn’t have decided to be here. With that theory eliminated, Jason is completely at a loss.

He’s tried asking about it. Jason doesn’t know why he bothers, but he has tried. Answers have ranged from “I’m not tired” to “go away, I’m busy” to “of course I sleep!” to “what do you even care?” And Jason wouldn’t care. He’s not the kid’s babysitter. He’s not even technically his brother. But the bags under Tim’s eyes are growing day by day, he’s seen Tim stumble on patrol, and really, it’s getting ridiculous.

“You need to sleep,” Jason says, after he’s finally had enough. He sits across from Tim at the kitchen table, watching as Tim traces a deep score from a knife that Jason had recklessly thrown around a month back.

“I am sleeping,” Tim argues. So it’s one of those days, then.

“You need to actually fucking sleep, or you’ll get hurt on patrol.”

“Isn’t that what you want?” Jason feels his heart—not stop, but just kinda go quiet all of a sudden. The room feels like it isn’t fully there. “Sorry, I—I shouldn’t have said that. I don’t know why I said that.”

“If I wanted you to get hurt,” Jason says slowly, “I wouldn’t have rescued you.” But he knows that’s not quite true. He rescued Tim because he saw a Robin being tortured, not because he cares at all about Tim. He let Tim sleep the night because he figured he owed him. And then he let Tim stay because he wanted the company but is unwilling to approach Bruce or Dick or Alfred.

When—not if—Jason ends up back on bad terms with Bruce again, he’ll probably end up fighting the Replacement. And, well. He isn’t exactly planning to pull his punches. Or his bullets.

But at the same time, Tim has slept in his apartment for almost three weeks. They’ve cooked together. They’ve even watched both of their favorite movies on weekend afternoons before they patrolled. 

So, Jason doesn’t have any right to feel hurt by Tim’s skepticism, but he feels hurt anyway. Because somehow, he’d been beginning to think he had a brother. A friend.

“I know,” Tim says. “I’m sorry. I’m really sorry.” He shakes his head, standing up. “You’re right, I’m tired and it’s affecting me. I’ll sleep.”

“Yeah,” Jason says, a bit gruffly. “You do that.” His voice sounds hoarse, and he doesn’t know why. Tim doesn’t trust him. He doesn’t have to. It’s whatever. Jason’s apartment is just a place for Tim to stay and maintain his minimum levels of human contact. It’s fine.

Jason turns away and starts walking to his room, but he feels a hand fall on his shoulder. He turns around to see Tim, who looks seconds away from crying. And Jason has never seen Tim cry. He didn’t even cry when he was being tortured, just coughed out whatever snarky comebacks he could think of. He didn’t cry in the Tower either. “I didn’t—I didn’t mean that. I know we’re…allies, or whatever now, and you’re letting me stay, and I’m really grateful, I am.” Tim’s hand is still on Jason’s shoulder, but now it’s more like he’s clinging to him. Like he can’t bear to let Jason leave. “I know you don’t want me to get hurt. I’m really sorry of accusing you of that. I—”

“Stop,” Jason nearly shouts. “Stop. Just—stop.”

Tim stops, shutting his mouth instantly. It reminds Jason of the day Tim first showed up. (Robins aren’t supposed to follow orders. That’s why the Good Soldier display case is so galling.) The kid’s face is pale, and Jason can see tears pooling in his eyes.

Tim has stayed in Gotham for three weeks, and his uncle—who lives in a completely different city—hasn’t asked about his location once. Tim has been living with someone who has nearly killed him twice and shown absolutely no inclination to leave. Tim has repeatedly attempted to prove that he’s worth keeping around, whether by offering money, mediocre cooking, help on cases, or his own invisibility.

There’s something wrong here, more than Tim just not wanting to be alone, and Jason’s going to get to the bottom of it.

Tim’s hand is still on Jason’s shoulder. In the three weeks Tim has been here, they haven’t made physical contact even once outside Jason dressing Tim’s wounds, and yet Tim is clinging like he’s afraid to let go.

“Let’s sit down,” Jason says. They sit on opposite ends of the couch. Tim folds his socked feet up onto the cushion—brat, Jason thinks, but it’s affectionate now, and when did that happen? “I’m not kicking you out.” Thankfully, Tim doesn’t start crying at that. Jason knows how to deal with traumatized civilian kids, but no idea how to deal with his hypercompetent little brother and current roommate bursting into tears. “But Tim—where the hell is your uncle?”

“What?” Tim stares at Jason, not blinking.

“Your uncle,” Jason repeats. “The guy you’re supposed to be living with? Edward Drake? Ring a bell?”

“Oh,” Tim says, shifting uncomfortably and avoiding eye contact. “What about him?”

“At this point, you’ve practically run away from home. Like, you live here. You don’t seem to have any plans to go back to Blüdhaven. Why?”

Tim shrugs. “He’s away a lot.”

“Edward Drake is currently in Blüdhaven,” Jason says. “Supposedly, at least. I tracked his train tickets.” He really, really doesn’t know what’s going on. Jason’s current theories range from Eddie Drake having kicked Tim out (which would explain why Tim seems to be terrified of Jason kicking him out) to the guy being some mafia boss that Tim is currently in hiding from. He had theorized that Tim is just being an overdramatic teenager, but Jason has dismissed that mostly out of hand—a normal guardian would definitely do something if their nephew disappeared for three weeks. “So. Why are you avoiding him?”

“I’m not—”

“Did you kick you out?” Jason asks. If this has to become an intervention, so be it.

Tim’s eyes widen. “No! No, definitely not.” He looks down, picking at his socks. “It’s just that. That he. Well. Hekindadoesn’texist.”

Jason’s brows furrow. “I’ll need you to repeat that, Timmy.”

“He…kinda doesn’t exist?”

“Your uncle…kinda doesn’t exist.”

“Yeah,” Tim confirms, like this is a perfectly normal situation.

“What does kinda doesn’t exist mean?” This was not in Jason’s list of theories.

“You’re gonna tell Bruce about this, aren’t you?”

And, well. Jason should. Because this kinda non-existent uncle thing sounds like a long-term problem, and…Jason was not planning for a long-term roommate. If he tells Bruce, this becomes Bruce’s problem. Bruce can deal with Tim’s quantum uncle or whatever is going on. Jason can wash his hands of the whole thing.

But Tim showed up outside his apartment. Tim asked for his help. Tim said that he didn’t want to be alone, and chose to stay with him.

So, Jason reaches out and slowly wraps an arm around Tim’s shoulders. When the younger boy doesn’t seem upset, he pulls Tim closer against his side. The warmth is…strange. Jason doesn’t think he’s been this close to another person outside a fight since…since before.

I missed this, Jason thinks, and then quickly strikes the thought from his mind.

“Nah,” Jason says. “If he doesn’t know, that’s on him. I’m only cooperating with him because it would make Alfie sad if we fought.”

“Oh,” Tim says, burrowing into Jason’s side. “Thank you.”

“So…what’s going on with your uncle?”

Tim hums. “I made him up,” he admits. “Faked paperwork and everything. Legally, he’s real. But he’s not actually.” He frowns. “I wanted to live on my own. I lived on my own a lot as a kid, I thought I could do it. But it was really lonely, and I went back to Blüdhaven after Bruce was done monitoring me for a concussion, and I just. No one was coming, Jason.”

Tim said that on the night he first got here as well. No one is coming. “You could have gone back to the Manor. You could still go back to the Manor.” It actually hurts to say it. Because after spending three weeks thinking about how annoying it was that he was suddenly housing an insomniac teenage gremlin, Jason got used to having Tim around.

“I don’t want him to know about the fake uncle,” Tim says. “He’d be really upset. I might have to stop being Robin. And…everything is so far away in the Manor. I can always hear you when I’m here. But Wayne Manor is just so quiet.”

Jason gets that. “Okay,” he says.

“So, I can stay?” Tim asks.

“Yeah,” Jason says, as though it wasn’t already obvious. (But maybe it wasn’t obvious to Tim. Even if his uncle is fine—due to not existing—Jason is pretty sure that Tim’s obvious abandonment issues have to come from somewhere.)

“Thanks,” Tim says quietly, curling up even further. Before Jason knows it, Tim’s breathing has evened out.

Finally, Jason thinks. He’s sleeping. He gets up to go clean his guns, because it’s a good way to get his thoughts in order.

Halfway through Jason’s third pistol, the reason that Tim hadn’t been sleeping becomes extremely clear.

***

Jason runs into the apartment’s main room, thinking that the place has been attacked. Instead, he just finds Tim, who has fallen onto the floor and is now thrashing about, muttering incoherently.

Jason knows you’re not supposed to wake someone up if they’re having a nightmare, but Tim could get hurt like this. So, Jason tries to shake him awake by the shoulder.

Tim’s hand grasps his wrist tightly, fingernails digging in almost hard enough to bruise. Jason winces, but doesn’t let go. “You’re gonna leave,” Tim mutters deliriously. “You’re gonna—you’re—”

“It’s alright,” Jason tries saying, keeping his voice soothing. “You’re okay, you’re—"

Tim cries out, flailing and nearly hitting his head into the bottom of the couch. That’s it. Sleep is important, but not getting another concussion is even more important. “No one is coming,” Tim whispers. “No one’s…”

“Tim!” Jason grabs both of Tim’s shoulders and shakes him, hard. Finally, Tim’s eyes snap open. “It’s okay. You’re not there.” He doesn’t know where Tim thinks he is. Two-Face’s dungeon? Somewhere else? It doesn’t matter. “It’s Jason.” That could backfire, horribly. Jason isn’t exactly synonymous with safe for Tim. But apparently, Jason currently ranks low on the list of threats, because Tim’s body seems to deflate.

“You’re gonna leave,” he says quietly.

“This is my apartment, you idiot. I’m not going to leave.”

“Didn’t stop my parents,” Tim says. He blinks, seeming to come back to himself. “Sorry. That was. That was dumb.”

“Not dumb,” Jason says. Tim is pretty much the poster boy for abandonment issues. He sits down next to Tim as the younger boy pushes himself up into a seated position and scootches away to give Tim space. Tim, however, doesn’t seem to want space, because he ends up leaning against Jason anyway. Jason pretends that doesn’t make his heart swell with warmth. Even after everything, Tim wants to lean on him—in more ways than one.

“Sorry,” Tim mutters. “I didn’t—I didn’t want to wake you up. This happens a lot.”

“That’s dumb.” Jason shakes his head. “You kinda need to sleep, Tim. Nightmares or not.”

“You would totally have been mad if I woke you up when I first got here.”

Yeah. Jason would’ve. But he would’ve gotten over it. Probably. “Well, I won’t be mad, now,” he says. “You’re staying here, and you’re sleeping, instead of just napping at random times when I’m gone. Alright?”

“I might wake you up,” Tim says. “I woke my dad up a lot.”

“Was he mad?”

“He was injured,” Tim argues. “He needed his sleep to recover.”

Yeah. But it’s not like Tim can just…not have nightmares. “Well, I don’t have a job,” Jason says. “Worst comes to worst, I can sleep while you’re at school.”

“Oh,” Tim frowns. He seems to rethink his next few words, but then ends up plowing straight ahead. “I don’t go to school.”

Jason narrows his eyes. “You graduated early?”

“Nah, my dad stopped paying the tuition. And then he died.” Tim shrugs. “I’m sixteen. Uncle Eddie signed my forms to drop out.”

That idiot. Tim is supposed to be smart, and yet he’s dropped himself out of high school. “Do you even have any plans for after being Robin? Your dad stopped paying your tuition, so I’m guessing something happened with your finances. How do you even have money?”

“Trust fund,” Tim says. “And not really. I’m just gonna be Robin. I’ll be good enough, and then I won’t have to stop.”

It’s not a question of being good enough. But Jason doesn’t voice that. He’s well aware that he’d seem biased. “I’d kill to go to school again.”

“You’d kill anyway,” Tim says, not incorrectly. “And you can literally get a GED. You could even fake a diploma and go straight to college. If I need one, I can hack myself a high school diploma or GED or whatever. But I don’t need one, so it’s fine.”

“Whatever,” Jason says. Tim wants to waste his future? Not Jason’s problem. At least not right now. Currently, Jason’s problem is making sure Tim sleeps. “You should go back to sleep.”

“Fine,” Tim grumbles, climbing back up onto the couch. He’s going to fall again, isn’t he? He could hit his head. Get extra concussed.

“Just sleep in the bed,” Jason says.

Tim tilts his head. “Are you sure?”

“Yeah. Don’t touch my books, though”

“Trust me,” Tim says. “I have absolutely no interest in whatever nerd books you’re reading.” “Trust me,” Tim had said. “I have no interest in messing around with your booby-trapped weapons.” Well, Jason had seen Tim poking at one of his firearms, so maybe Tim will somehow end up into classical literature.

“You’re a nerd too, Timmy.”

“A computer nerd. At least I don’t read historical romance!”

“It wasn’t historical at the time!”

“Austen has weird sentence structure!”

“It’s called a semicolon, dumbass.”

Jason is still laughing when he turns out the lights and leaves his room.

***

Now that Tim isn’t worried about bothering Jason with his nightmares, it’s like his insomnia has been turned on its head. Because Tim sleeps everywhere. Jason finds him asleep next to the refrigerator, curled up underneath his desk, even snoozing on the apartment building’s rooftop. It’s weird, but…Jason can’t exactly complain. Tim’s eyebags are growing less pronounced by the day, and his cooking has gone from mediocre to actually okay. And neither of them are lonely anymore.

You don’t miss what you never had. Jason was satisfied, with the blood and revenge and justice.

But now that Jason’s had a brother living with him—now that they’ve cooked food and solved cases and watched movies and even had an accidental pillow fight together—Jason is terrified of losing this. Because he still cares about his territory, still cares about the city, but the main thing on his mind isn’t Red Hood. It’s whatever topic Tim was rambling about yesterday, and his plans for dinner (because Jason doesn’t have enough time to make a real dinner every night, but he can make time, and cooking is faster with two), and the book he’s going to make Tim read the next time the kid loses a bet.

Jason is happy. And it’s not going to all come crashing down. He won’t let it.

***

Jason may not live by hopping safehouse to safehouse, but he is the Red Hood, and he is pretty high-profile. He can’t afford to stay in the same place forever.

Two months after Tim showed up at Jason’s door, Jason decides that now is the time to move. He tells Tim that they’re changing apartments one afternoon, while Tim is doing his homework (Jason wore him down eventually, although he’s pretty sure Tim’s sudden willingness to go to school was less about the homework and more about his new conspiracy-obsessed “friend”).

Instead of the casual acknowledgement Jason expects, though, Tim freezes. For a moment, Tim is so still that Jason doesn’t think he’s breathing. And then—“Oh,” Tim says, sounding devastated. Is Tim really that attached to the place? It’s not like bloodstains and knife furrows are particularly good decor. “I guess. That’s fine. I mean, I can move back to my place, then.”

Before Jason knows it, he’s rushing across the room. “No! I mean, not unless you want to, Tim,” he says. “There’s an apartment a few blocks down with two bedrooms. And if Dick wants to stay over, he can take the couch.”

“You’re…not kicking me out?”

“We’re roommates,” Jason says. “Okay? You don’t need me to let you stay. And I’m not planning to leave. Got it?”

Tim smiles in response. “Yeah,” he says. “I got it.” 

[hoshi-neko-hikari]

A goat woman named Venus spotted Raiden all alone and decided to help him “Hi there sugar. Where’s your momma and and daddy?”

“Oh. Dont got any.” He said nonchalantly. Seems he was used to being neglected.

[dorkofclanlavellan]

Break In

Note 1: Requested by an anon a while back. I got inspired after waking up at 3 am and started writing. Then accidentally purged my inbox before I could copy the actual request. Note 2: This is set in the same storyline as Bruce Wayne's Sweetie (I think indirect sequel is the wording I'm looking for) Pairing: Bruce Wayne (Batfleck) x GN!Reader (referred to as Sweetie instead of y/n) Warnings: Mediocre writing skills, Bruce's anxiety over Sweetie, swearing, good ole b&e, mentions of murder, mentions of child abuse, switching POVs. I'm so sorry.

"Of fuckin' course this happens on a Monday." Sweetie swore under their breath as they drove back towards their bakery. "Just don't get pulled over, dummy."

They were almost home when they realized they'd left their cell phone and wallet in the bakery. They didn't like being late monitoring Bruce's patrols. As it was, he had already been on patrol for about an hour.

Little did Sweetie know, as they parked in their usual spot behind the bakery, that the silent alarm had been tripped.

.·:*¨༺ ༻¨*:·.

Bruce had just left the scene of a store hold-up turned to murder, determined to find the killers before the end of the night.

After he was securely in the Batmobile he noticed the alert that someone had tripped the silent alarm to Sweetie's bakery.

"Alfred, has Sweetie shown up yet?" He questioned, a tinge of worry in his voice. He didn't want to jump to any conclusions. Sweetie was the type of person to stop and help turtles cross the road and has come home late with a stray kitten before.

"No, sir, I haven't heard from them. But you know it's not unusual for them." Alfred's response would've almost reassured Bruce.

But after what the Joker did to Dick years ago, and after what he had seen at the convenience store tonight, Bruce couldn't shake the dread in his stomach.

He decided to track their phone, just to be safe, it was one of the things they'd agreed to shortly after he revealed that he was Batman to them. That along with a new security system that was connected directly to him and the GCPD.

Fear squeezed Bruce's heart when he saw that Sweetie's phone was still at the bakery and he immediately began racing towards the bakery. Hoping he wouldn't be too late.

.·:*¨༺ ༻¨*:·.

Sweetie hadn't noticed anything out of the ordinary at first but when they opened the back door of the bakery, they heard a slight rustling noise further into the bakery. Grasping the stun gun Bruce had given them Sweetie moved as silently as possible towards the light switch. When they flipped the lights on, though, the sight before them nearly shattered their heart.

A child. Couldn't be older than 13. He was crouched down by the front display case, which had been pried open with the crowbar at his side next to a dim flashlight, and was wolfing down a loaf of bread that was baked just that afternoon.

Sweetie could see the all too familiar signs that they had personally experienced. Clothes that were in just good enough condition to keep authorities from being notified. A couple of bruises at various stages of healing that could easily be dismissed as normal childhood occurrences, but Sweetie knew better. He was staring at them like a deer in headlights, trying to figure out how to escape.

Pushing back tears that had surfaced along with the memories of their own shitty childhood, Sweetie broke the silence.

"You know that bread won't fill you up very well. Why don't you take a seat and I'll make you a bowl of stew?" They said in a tone that was both gentle and let the kid know that they weren't taking no for an answer.

Sweetie walked around the still-frozen kid, behind the counter. They noticed the register was untouched, as was their wallet which was sitting on the shelf below.

They remembered the silent alarm and put in the code to let the police know it was a false alarm. They then spoke with an officer on the store's phone and assuring him that they had just doubled back to retrieve their phone and wallets and forgot about the alarm.

But knew if Bruce had seen the alert, he wouldn't be satisfied until he showed up and talked with them face to face. Sweetie turned and faced the kid who'd finally stood up but still looked ready to bolt.

"Actually, why don't you join me in the kitchen. You can tell me what you do and don't like." With that said, Sweetie walked into the kitchen and breathed a silent sigh of relief at the sound of the kid reluctantly following them.

The last thing either one of them needed was for Batman to come barging in and scaring the shit out of an already terrified kid.

Sweetie made sure to position themselves between the kitchen door and the kid while they got everything together to make stew.

.·:*¨༺ ༻¨*:·.

Bruce found himself wishing the Batmobile to move faster or at least for the bakery to not be on the other side of Gotham. The longer it took for him to reach Sweetie, the more terrified and enraged he became. If anything happened to Sweetie, the person responsible would be given no mercy.

"Sir, it would seem that the alarm at the bakery has been classified as a false alarm." Alfred's voice interrupted Bruce's dark thoughts. As Alfred read off the officer's notes on the phone call. Bruce noted that while it did sound like something Sweetie would do, he didn't believe it to be the case.

He was still going, as far as he was concerned, Sweetie had claimed false alarm under duress.

Once he finally reached the bakery, he couldn't get inside fast enough. He didn't notice the lights were on until he busted open the back door.

He was very confused when he didn't see anyone in the main area. Especially after spotting a crowbar on the floor next to a flashlight and Sweetie's phone on the counter.

Then he heard noises coming from the kitchen and followed the sounds as quickly but quietly as he could. He didn't want to risk the perp harming Sweetie if they were a hostage.

.·:*¨༺ ༻¨*:·.

"When's the last time you had a proper meal, kid?" Sweetie asked casually while chopping up a carrot for the stew.

"I get free lunches at school." The kid mumbled.

Sweetie had learned that once the kid had realized they weren't going to hurt him, he had taken on a surly demeanor that almost made them laugh. They knew the kid was putting on a tough act and they knew why. Their brother was the same way.

"My dad kept a lock on the fridge that only he had the key to. During the summer my brother and I only ate peanut butter sandwiches, instant ramen, and whatever candy bars we could shoplift." Sweetie informed the kid, which seemed to get his attention. "And if he caught us with a stolen candy bar or trying to get in the fridge, he had this paddle he made at the lumber yard he worked at for a while. It had been painted blue and wrapped in blue tape. He'd made us watch as he wrote our names on it in Sharpie. My brother tried hiding it once, my dad just used a bat on him until he revealed where he hid it. Sure it was a plastic one, not a real one but still."

Sparing a glance over their shoulder at the kid, they could see the look on his face that confirmed what they already suspected.

"Do you like celery?" They asked, changing the subject for a moment. After getting his answer, Sweetie resumed making the stew.

They heard the kitchen door open and based on the gasp and scrambling noises coming from the kid's direction, they already knew who it was.

"Batman. I'm making stew." They said, looking up at their lover's masked face which was now contorted in a look of surprise and confusion. "Would you like to join me and….what's your name anyway, kid?" They asked turning towards the boy who was now standing in the far corner of the kitchen, gawping at The Dark Knight.

The boy's eyes slowly turned towards them and his jaw moved a couple of times with no sound coming out before he managed to choke out a single word.

"Jason."

[queenladonna]

Stranger Things romanticizes Billy's mother even though she left him with his abusive father so that she could get away from Neil, and I fucking hate it.

She was selfish and didn't care enough about her son to save him or to at least stay with him.

[coolmika745]

Doug and Dale Interaction

So I found an account on Instagram of Dale Dimmadome that had posts in 2020. I am not sure if it is official and/or not or member(s) Fairly Oddparents Crew put something together but there a conversation between a Doug Dimmadome account. If it is it could add to Dale's villain origin story in A New Wish.

Dale said that his dad left him to become an entrepreneur and took all of the money with him. Doug is basically a drug addict and told Dale that he was a war criminal and kicked out of the military. The full story is in the links.