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whinlatter · 2 months ago

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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’).

#meta #tw: child neglect #wizarding world #wizarding politics #albus dumbledore #thank you anon

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this-earlobe-is-naked · 5 months ago

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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.

#redid this for a longer voting period #percy jackson and the olympians #percy jackon and the olympians #percy jackson #rick riordan #annabeth chase #jason grace #tw: child soldier #tw: child neglect #tw: child abuse

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frozenjokes · 5 days ago

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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.

#medical trauma #tw: needles #tw: child neglect #tw: child endangerment #hermitcraft #hermitfic #hermitcraft fic #cubfan135 #gtws #goodtimeswithscar #zombiecleo #timeloopprisonau #tw: suicide #< just in case #sculk cub

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hoshi-neko-hikari · 3 months ago

Note

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.

#tw: child neglect

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dorkofclanlavellan · 1 year ago

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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."

#batfleck x reader #bruce wayne x reader #bruce wayne's sweetie #dceu #snyderverse #batman x reader #tw: mentions of abuse #tw: child abuse #tw: child neglect #tw: mentions of child neglect #batfleck x you #bruce wayne x you #bruce wayne x sweetie #gn reader #bruce wayne x gn reader #batfleck x gn!reader #angst if you squint #jason todd

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queenladonna · 3 months ago

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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.

#Bad Mothers always get excuses made for them. 🙄😒#billy hargrove #stranger things #stranger things commentary #rant #txt #tw: child abuse #tw: child neglect #child abuse tw #child neglect tw

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thdorkmagnet · 26 days ago

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See Me For Me (Turtle Tots: Before the Rise)

@flufftober 2024 Day 6- Mistaken Identity

Fandom: Rise of the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles

Chapter Summary: Splinter doesn't always pay close enough attention to his kids on bad days. Sometimes it leads to hurt feelings.

A/N: Soooo, hurt/comfort is allowed as part of flufftober and I'm very much taking advantage of that with this chapter. (It also won't be the last time I do)

Apologies in advance, this was the first thing I thought of when I saw the prompt. *points to that one scene in Turtle-dega Nights*

Disclaimer: Rise of the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles belongs to Andy Suriano, Ant Ward, and Nickelodeon. All rights belong to them.

Donnie took a deep breath, tucking the drone he had spent the better part of three months making under his chin. It was fine. He was going to like it. His brothers had liked it, so naturally his father would too. Especially once Donnie explained all the ways his dad could use it in his everyday life. His dad loved when he made things easier for him, where he could be even lazier than he usually was.

Yes, he shouldn’t be doubting his genius, his father was gonna love it and that was that.

After all it wasn't like Papa didn't… appreciate all the inventions and improvements Donnie made around the lair before, he just never said it in so many words. Or any, actually. But- But that wasn't the point! He was gonna love Donnie’s drone and adopt into his everyday life the way he did with all the other stuff Donnie made him.

Yes. If anything his greater concern should be on keeping his dad hogging it all to himself, since it was so useful and everything. After all, Donnie’d had to practically pry the remote control from Leo’s hands the moment his twin had realized the drone could actually fly and his other brothers had wanted a turn flying it around too. Donnie had tried not to smile too obviously as he'd proudly supervised their test runs.

His dad would be the same, Donnie was sure of it.

Gathering as much courage as he could possibly muster Donnie stepped into the TV room.

As suspected, his dad was there, watching Japanese commercials, practically melted into the chair he’d been sitting in for hours now. Only his eyes weren’t quite on the screen but the display beside it, covered in old trinkets from Splinter’s past. Or that's where they all suspected it came from, since Splinter refused to elaborate when asked. His eyes were glassy and unfocused and Donnie hesitated a moment in the doorway.

On one hand, his father wasn't watching TV which meant he had a higher percentage of not being ignored but on the other hand…

His father looked so far away from them right now. Donnie wasn't even sure how to pull him back. He shifted uneasily from foot to foot.

Maybe.. maybe this was a bad time.

Donnie weighed between his eagerness and anxiety before braving a step forward. “Father,” he started, voice straining for the words when his tongue rebelled against him. He cleared his throat and tried again. “Dad? Can I… may I show you something?”

Splinter blinked and sort of half turned his way, no sign of recognition on his face. “Mm?”

It wasn't outright rejection (yet) but it still made Donnie breath heavy through his nose. Seems like he had picked the worst time for this. But he was already here and almost had his dad's attention so he might as well continue. “I just finished one of my most recent projects and I was wondering… if you might want to see it?”

Some of the fog faded from Splinter’s eyes and Donnie felt his heart leap with hope. “Oh you have… something to show me?”

Donnie nodded emphatically, excitement burning bright in his chest as he launched into a long-winded rant. “Yes! It's a drone I've been developing for nearly three months now! Off and on, of course, I have other projects I've been working on. It is capable of carrying nearly six hundred pounds of weight and its battery can last for up to 62 hours before needing to be charged and-”

Donnie continued on like that for a while, reciting each and every feature he’d installed into his precious creation, well aware his father would only understand about half of it, if that. He tried not to get too technical, afraid he would lose Splinter’s attention all over again, but he couldn't help it. Inventing may be his passion but there was something about showing off his creations that made it infinitely more rewarding. Like how Mikey brandished all his sketches and paintings, fishing for the compliments he knew he was going to get.

Donnie enjoyed the praise, the feeling of being useful, of knowing just how smart and irreplaceable he was to his family.

By the time Donnie had finished his long-winded explanation, Splinter had regained that glazed over look in his eyes, entire face pinched in confusion. “Ah yes, that is very… interesting, my son,” he said in an obvious lie.

So yeah, Donnie maybe sorta went a bit overboard.

But that was fine! His dad was at least trying to pay attention to him. So that meant Donnie could totally fix this. His dad just needed a demonstration of what his drone could do. Yeah! He was always more of a visual learner anyways.

Hopping onto the chair with Splinter he maneuvered the drone onto the armrest and held the remote out for his dad. “Here, I’ll even allow you to take it for a spin. To see how truly ingenious a creation it is.” Donnie tried to play it cool so his father wouldn’t think he was being desperate or something. Which he wasn’t, by the way.

But instead his dad waved the offered controller away, other hand pressed tight to his forehead. “Ah, no, that’s alright, maybe later.”

Donnie’s smile dropped, the warm bubbly feeling turning into a tight knot in his stomach. He pulled the remote away from Splinter like it had offended him, fingers tapping against the thick plastic as he stared nervously at his father’s tired face. And maybe because he was just too stubborn for his own good, he decided to give one last, desperate try. “Um, if you’d like, I-I could give you a demonstration? Show you how it works.” His dad was going to love it, if he’d just let him see-

Splinter sighed, staring off into the middle distance, no awareness in his eyes as he sank further into his chair. “No, it-it would be better if we waited until later I’m-” He went back to staring at the display, attention honing in on something in particular, though Donnie couldn’t track his vision to tell. “I’m tired,” Splinter confessed and that felt like the end of it.

Donnie swallowed hard, giving a tiny nod. He hated that he had to fight some mystery object for his dad’s attention. It was already hard enough fighting his brothers and the TV for it. But he had no argument left so he just scooped up the drone and slid off his dad’s chair with a lowered gaze. “A-Alright. I’ll come back later then.”

Splinter nodded robotically, back to that haunted, far away look. His words were empty and devoid of life as he muttered, “Yes, yes, show me whatever it is later, Blue.”

And Donnie gasped, the word ‘blue’ bouncing over and over again in his mind. The implication was crushing.

His dad thought he was Leo.

No. No. Why? Was it- was it because they were twins? Because that wasn’t fair! Donnie and Leo looked nothing alike, acted nothing alike. Leo had never invented anything a day in his life. They were twins by choice! Twins by choice weren’t supposed to get mixed up. And not- not by their dad of all people.

Had he not been paying any attention? So distracted in whatever was so much more important than Donnie that he’d just… ignored him. Donnie thought he’d been at least trying to pay attention but maybe that had just been an act to not hurt his feelings. To not hurt Leo’s feelings. Is that why he’d pretended to listen because he’d thought he was Leo and Leo was his favorite son?

Had he even noticed the drone Donnie had been meticulously crafting for three months? Had he not noticed Donnie even though he’d been standing there and talking to him all this time?

Was he really so unimportant to his dad that he was interchangeable in his mind?

Donnie’s eyes burned as he fled the room without another word, squeezing the drone so tight against his chest he felt the metal bend.

His dad didn’t follow him.

Donnie didn’t want him to.

He threw the drone across his room and collapsed onto his bed. It was only once he was hidden under his blanket that he let the first tear fall.

He cried silently, staring at the wall and listening carefully for his dad’s footsteps.

Donnie wished he’d never gone to his stupid dad in the first place.

…

Splinter was stuck. That was the feeling that had persisted the moment he first woke up that morning. Just this general overall stuck feeling.

And not stuck as in physically, it was more like he was stuck in life. Stuck hiding away from society. Stuck existing as an ugly gross rat. Stuck watching the world move on without him, unaware he was even alive.

Stuck in his head, reliving those old, familiar losses again and again and again. He had lost so, so much that some days it was hard to pull himself out of bed and face those losses head-on. His mother, his fiance, his career, his humanity. Gone. Stripped away from him, one after the other.

And there was just so much grieving to do, so much to process that he'd found it easier to just… not. Not think or focus on it. To distract.

But some days he woke up with this all over stuck feeling and all he could do was think about it.

Like today. Sitting in his chair, lost in old, hurtful memories, feeling the time crawl by. The TV was on but the old familiar distraction couldn't break through the rush of numb pain as he heard his mother's last words on repeat in his head.

Blue came in at some point, babbling about something, clearly excited and eager to show it off and Splinter, well…

He tried to listen, he really did, but the haze in his head was so thick it was like nothing could penetrate it. Whatever words managed to slip through were washed away under a typhoon of misery.

And then Blue was on the chair with him, holding something out for him to take. Splinter wanted to take it, wanted to play along, but his head pulsed, a migraine taking center stage and cutting off any chance he had of enjoying this moment with his son.

He just… couldn't today. And he hated himself for it.

Splinter tried to let him down easy but it felt so much like rejection that it curdled his stomach, but the image of his mother's tear-stained face was stark against reality and left him sinking deeper into himself.

Still he tried to offer some reassurance to his little Blue as he felt the weight leave his side but it must have not been good enough because he left in such a hurry Splinter could only assume he was upset. He wanted to go after him but he couldn't seem to muster the energy to stand.

Splinter was stuck.

And he didn't know how to get free.

Minutes or hours passed, time a hazy blur, and suddenly Blue was back. Tugging at his arm, calling his name, practically demanding his attention, loud and persistent and impossible to ignore. It made Splinter’s headache throb in agony, the pain chasing the worst of the fog away as he tenderly massaged his temple. “Blue, please, quiet voice. Daddy has a headache,” he moaned.

Blue did (thankfully) get quiet, wordlessly running off to fetch a bottle of pills and a small glass of water, then waited silently for his dad to gulp them down.

By the time Splinter set the glass aside, he felt more aware than he’d been all day, finally able to focus on his little Blue, offering him the last dregs of concentration he had left. “Now what is it you wanted to show me?”

Leo titled his head to the side and gave him a funny look. “Show what?”

Splinter felt his eyebrow quirk up in confusion. “You were in here earlier to show me something, remember?”

Leo shook his head, mask tails bobbing. Splinter felt his heartbeat pick up a little. Had… had he really been so out of it that he'd confused one son with the other? Guilt stung sharp in his chest as he ran the haze of memories over in his head. He couldn't for the life of him remember which of his little children had been in there before. He'd only guessed Blue because of how noisy he was.

What kind of parent did that?! What poor excuse for a father was he?! He was-

Splinter forced his spiraling thoughts to settle. He couldn't afford to waste time on another round of pity-partying, not when he had a sad son somewhere in need of comforting. That needed to be his focus. He'd already wasted enough on himself today.

So steadying his breath, Splinter carefully asked his son, “Blue, do you know if any of your brothers had something they wanted to show me?”

There was almost an instant nod in reply. “Yeah, Donnie made this cool new drone that he was showing off to everyone! He even let me fly it around a little and I didn't crash it into anything!” Leo puffed out his chest proudly as if that was the biggest accomplishment of his life.

Splinter vaguely recalled that same offer being extended to him before he'd rudely declined. Which, oh boy, he'd really messed up bad this time. It was so, so rare for Purple to let him touch his tech, a show of trust that he'd probably butchered completely.

No scratch that, definitely butchered completely.

Because even though he'd deny it, his baby softshell was a sensitive child who could hold a grudge longer than Splinter could keep his hairline.

He'd be lucky if he was trusted with a TV remote after this.

And then on top of everything else, he'd called him by the wrong name for pizza's sake!

Splinter, feeling like the scum of the Earth, had to swallow hard against the lump in his throat to ask his next question. “And where is Purple now?”

“In his room,” Blue responded, smile turning to a pout. “He's being stubborn and won't come out, even when I offered to play whatever he wanted.” It was then Splinter realized Blue's pout had a hint of worry underneath it.

“I'll talk to him,” Splinter assured, giving his middle child a pat on the head. He had to peel himself out of the worn seat he'd practically merged with at this point, ignoring the pops and creaks of his old bones when he stood. Ugh, wallowing in his own misery was certainly doing nothing for his ex-movie star physique.

Blue followed Splinter all the way to Purple's room, unmistakable worry written on his features. Which seemed to carry over to his other sons as both Red and Orange were sitting just outside Purple’s room, talking to him through the curtain.

Splinter shooed them away gently, promising he would handle it, his three sons reluctantly running off to play. Splinter took a moment to brace himself as best he could before stepping inside, finding a sad little lump curled up on the bed. Purple was facing away from him, so he announced his presence with a very soft, “Donatello?” feeling his heart sink when his baby softshell's shoulders hiked up.

Splinter risked a step closer with soft, careful footsteps. “May I please speak with you, my son?”

“Wouldn't you rather talk to Leo,” Donnie hissed, angry evident even as his breath hiccuped each word.

Splinter cringed and- yeah, he kinda deserved that. He sat on the edge of Purple's bed, resisting the urge to lay a hand on his shoulder. He knew better than to touch Purple when he was upset like this, even if it tore him up inside to ignore the aching parental instincts begging him to hug his sad child. “I am so sorry I did that Purple.”

“Whatever, I didn't care.” The sad sniffles betrayed this lie and Splinter was pretty sure he could see a slight quiver in his Purple's shoulders. It makes Splinter’s heart constrict painfully. He did this. This was his fault.

Still he took a shaky breath and pressed on. “Of course you do. Anyone would be hurt by that.”

Purple seemed at a loss for words, so Splinter continued, very softly, “And I am very sorry for causing you that hurt. I did not mean to confuse you with your brother. You are not Blue, you are my Purple.”

There's a long pause and then Purple rolls over and sits up. Curling his knees to his chest, Purple stares off into space with puffy, red-rimmed eyes. “Then why did you mix me up with Leo? If you know the difference now?” Splinter could tell he was struggling to sound neutral, voice shaking ever so slightly.

He reaches out a hand to comfort but stops himself just shy, remembering to ask, “Are you okay with touch right now, Donatello?” It's only once Purple nodded his consent that Splinter finishes the motion, gently taking both hands in his and squeezing.

He spends a minute thinking of an answer to the question, how much to tell his young child. After all, Purple is just barely eight, far too young to be dealing with Splinter’s issues. He had already put enough on his son today.

No child deserved to carry the weight of their parent's burdens.

So, Splinter chose his next words carefully. “I'm afraid I've been a bit… lost in my thoughts today and it's caused me to not pay enough attention to the world around me.”

“You're like that a lot,” Purple murmured, mad.

Splinter sighed deep, wishing he could be every bit the parent these children deserved. But he wasn't. He could only be what he was, and even that was a gross parody these days. A far fallen disgrace of the man he once was.

Splinter rubbed the top of Purple's hand thoughtfully, finally admitting, “Yes, some days are very hard for me. I will try and do better.” He hoped he could keep that promise. For his kids sake if nothing else.

Still, it didn't feel like enough, especially when Purple's expression stayed flat and unreadable, so Splinter tried a different method. “Would you like to show me your-” Oh rats, what was the machine called again? After a few seconds of frantic mental stuttering Splinter went with, “-invention now?”

Purple made a face and frantically shook his head. Oh. It seemed Splinter was going to need to earn some trust back before he could fully fix his mistake. He tried not to let that hurt show. “Then would you like to watch a show with me? Whatever you'd like.”

It wasn’t enough and Splinter knew it but his children always enjoyed one-on-one time with him, so he figured it would do in a pinch.

“Are you sure you wouldn't rather watch something with Leo?” It was the same question but came out far more broken than the first time, voice quivering and on the verge of tears.

Splinter didn’t waste a second before pulling his sad baby into his lap and wrapping him up in a warm hug. “No, Purple, no. Of course not,” he soothed, trying not to sound absolutely torn to shreds when the first sob reached his ears. He rubbed circles on Purple’s shell, just the way he knew he liked it, shushing him softly whenever he started to shake with the force of his tears.

“Bu-but how do I know you didn’t confuse me for Leo b-because you like him better than me?” Purple hiccuped, grabbing onto Splinter’s robe with both fists. “Do you wish I-I was more like him? I-Is that why I’m replaceable in your mind?! B-Because I’m not good enough-”

“No!” Splinter shouted. It came out choked and ragged and he felt Purple flinch against him. So he took a moment to steady his breathing, then gently cupped Donnie’s face in his hands, giving him a soft smile even when his son avoided his eyes. “No, Donatello. Please don’t think that. Don’t ever think that.”

He swallowed hard, fighting the shudder that ran up his spine, instead tenderly wiping the tears from Purple’s cheeks using his thumbs. “Let me be clear with you, alright? What happened earlier was my own fault, not yours. It had absolutely nothing to do with you or anything you have done.” He added, a bit fiercer, “And please believe me when I say that there is not a single thing I would ever change about you, my Purple. I love you exactly as you are. And I also do not love you any less than I love your brothers. You are all my children and you are all equal in my heart.”

And then, because he had to be sure, Splinter said, “You do not have to forgive me- but please, please, my son, do not let your silly dad’s mistake take away what makes you my unique little baby Purple.”

Donnie sniffed, finally meeting his eyes. They were still glassy but something determined now rested over the tears. “Science channel,” he said simply.

“Huh?!” Splinter exclaimed, startled and more than a little confused by the unexpected response.

Purple’s eyes darted to his hands which twitched nervously. “You… you said we could watch whatever I wanted. I want to watch the science channel.”

Oh. Splinter knew what this was now. A peace offering. Maybe even forgiveness if he could be so bold.

But even more than that- it was a test. Because Splinter hated the science channel with a burning passion and Purple knew that. Splinter could tell he was waiting for rejection, for the trick to finally be revealed. For him to take back his promise and therefore let everything else he’d said to be false and meaningless along with it. Just pretty lies to comfort his son when he was sad. Nothing more.

But Splinter had meant it. He had meant every word. And he wouldn’t dare make the same mistake twice in one day. He wouldn’t make this about him. Splinter would make things right with his son.

Even if it meant watching the science channel.

So Splinter just kissed his son on the forehead and assured him in a bright tone, “Then that’s what we’ll watch.”

Purple relaxed immediately in his arms and Splinter felt his knotted heart start to untangle. He leaned his head against Splinter’s chest and asked, “As much as I want?”

Splinter chuckled and planted another kiss to the top of his son’s head. “Yes, yes, whatever makes you happy, my Purple.”

And well, Splinter couldn’t think of a single moment his son had ever looked happier than in that moment, beaming up at his dad like he’d just won the lottery.

So Splinter smiled back and gave his son a small squeeze, letting him know he was there, present and fully aware. He knew it wasn’t enough- he wasn’t enough- but he had nothing else to offer.

And although it wasn’t perfect, Purple accepted it, burying his head in his dad’s chest and staying there until they moved to the TV room to marathon the science channel.

A/N: Dude it is so hard to write Splinter comforting Donnie while also keeping as close to canon as possible! As Donnie put it, Big Mama was his first positive reinforcement from a parent aged adult EVER or at least in his eyes. Either way, I do believe Splinter did try to be a good parent in his own way, he was just, y'know… dealing with a lot. I have plans to explore more of Splinter's relationship with the tots in some later chapters and none are nearly this angsty, so that's exciting!!

#flufftober2024 #day 6 #my writing #rise of the teenage mutant ninja turtles #rottmnt #save rottmnt #unpause rottmnt #rottmnt fanfiction #turtle tots #donatello hamato #rise splinter #tw: depression #tw: child neglect #splinter is trying okay

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whimsiquix · 9 months ago

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Invictus

Ao3 Link

This is his lot. This is his life. Deva isn’t coming to save him. No one is coming to save him. No one cares. He has no one to care. If Ranga were to kill him tonight, Baachi might fight to have Varadha’s last rights completed with dignity, but perhaps he too would be relieved, relieved that he didn’t have to lug his deadweight of a brother around with him when all Varadha brought him was grief.

or,

Seven years after Varadharaja Mannar swears to never lay eyes on his Salaar again, Deva is brought to court before him and accused of stopping his seal.

#varadeva #salaar #devaratha raisaar #varadharaja mannar #angst #friends to enemies to lovers #TW: Child Abuse #TW: Child Neglect #TW: Basically whatever the Mannars have going on with Varadha

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schrijverr · 1 year ago

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I Found Myself a Cheerleader 1

Chapter 1 out of 28

Bumped to the lowest step on the social ladder after his fight with Billy, Steve gets roped in with the cheer team. What starts as a favor to help them out when one member breaks her leg in turn for protection from the brunt of the bullying, sets the universe on a different path.

He befriends Chrissy and grows as thick as thieves with her. Over the summer he adds Robin to his friends as well. Meanwhile Eddie seems to have taken an interest in the fallen king, but Steve can’t figure out quite yet why Eddie is talking with him. Flirting with him?

On AO3.

Ships: eventual steddie & buckingham

Warnings: period typical sexism, period typical homophobia, internalized homophobia, child neglect mention, bullying, f-slur

~~~~~~~~~

Chapter 1: The Deal

Steve has quit the basketball team after winter break. Before winter break he was technically still on the team, but not allowed to play due to his concussion. Now he is healed enough to get back on the court, but Billy has turned most of the team against him, which makes playing impossible. Hence the quitting.

However, now he has a slot he needs to fill if he wants to make it into college. He can’t join some braniac team, he’s barely scraping by. Going back to swimming also isn’t an option, since the swim team is practically the same as the basketball team and he doesn’t fancy drowning.

He wishes he could just continue playing basketball. That it wasn’t that bad. That he could man up and make it through. But he can’t, he really can’t. He likes his bones in one piece and the doctor said another concussion might be the end of what his brain can take.

So, he sits longingly alongside the court and watches the team train, aching to just have an activity he is good at again. To not feel like such a failure.

A loud and frustrated sigh pulls him from his thoughts and his eyes are pulled to the cheerleaders that are also practicing in the gym. The captain of the cheer team, Molly, throws up her hands and says: “It isn’t gonna work like this.”

“No need to snap,” Heather, one of the other girls, scowls. “Mary can’t help that she’s sick. She’ll be back after the weekend and then we’ll train the whole thing properly.”

“I know that,” Molly snaps. “But it’s throwing everything off and we need to get this routine straight. We can’t afford to have anyone missing.”

“We know,” Heather rolls her eyes, still posed to fight.

Molly sighs and says: “I just need this competition to go well.”

Heather softens at that and places a hand on Molly’s shoulder and smiles: “We’re gonna kill it. Don’t worry too much, Molls. Lets just run it again, okay?”

“Yeah, okay,” Molly smiles, before loudly clapping her hands and getting everyone back into position to go from the top.

Without realizing Steve has ambled closer to the cheerleaders. He startles a little at the loud clap, before watching at the routine starts up again. He has often watched the cheerleaders, they’re at the sides of big games and the team always stared together.

However, he has never really paid any attention to their training. Right now, though, he watches in awe as they toss each other in the air and keep smiling as they tumble about.

Since he is aware of it, he can clearly see where one of the girls is missing. When some of the girls are lifted some shapes are uneven and a few stay on the ground with an annoyed look. Certain formations are also incomplete. At one point one of the girls nearly falls, because someone who is supposed to be there isn’t.

The routine comes to an end and Steve can clearly see Molly, who is on the cusp of breaking down again. In Steve’s opinion it doesn’t look that difficult, well, what seems to be missing that is. It’s just holding someone up. Not like he has to do a back flip.

He hasn’t consciously realized what he’s doing until he’s tapping Molly on the shoulder. She startles and turns, before getting big eyes and smiling softly as she greets: “Hi, Steve.”

While Steve’s popularity has gone down considerably since Billy showed up, he is still well liked under the female student body. He smiles back at her and says: “Hi, Molly. Uhm- This is really stupid.” He rubs the back of his head, suddenly aware of how much he is not allowed to do what he is about to do. “I-” he lets out a breath and decides to go for it. “I heard you talking earlier, about missing someone. Can I help?”

It’s quiet and Steve immediately regrets even looking in their direction.

A boy doesn’t do cheerleading, it’s a girls sport. Barely even a sport. Just a thing they do to look pretty. He has no business being close to it beyond asking a cheerleader out. He has already plummeted vastly in popularity, the last thing he needs is gay rumors floating around. No matter how true they’d be.

He just wants to be helpful, do something he might be able to for a change. But he didn’t think it through and now he’s done something stupid. Like he always does.

Steve is about to take it back, play it off as a joke or just walk away if nothing comes to mind in the next second, when Molly lights up. “That’s perfect!” she grins. “Mary is a base position, which should be easy to teach. Thank you so much.”

Some of the other girls send him some weird looks, but after Molly’s relieved thanks, he doesn’t have the heart to turn away. So, he awkwardly shrugs: “It’s no problem, not like I have anything better to do.”

He is ignored by Molly, who turns around and addresses the others: “Go over parts you’re struggling with for a little. Lisa, Karen, Susan, come here!”

Three girls come their way as the others devolve into doing their own thing. Molly asks him: “Are you warmed up?”

Steve doesn’t think this will be that much effort, so he nods. It’s honestly his mistake, along with staying in his jeans and shirt.

He is shown the proper way to hold up a flyer. He hadn’t even realized before now that there were multiple positions in cheerleading. However, here he is. He is filling in for a base, so he’s holding Karen, the flyer, along with Lisa, the other base. Meanwhile Susan is the back spotter, she is the first to catch Karen should it go wrong. It’s important to catch the flyer properly or one can risk hurting the flyer quite badly.

Within a few minutes Steve gains so much respect for cheerleading, something he and the other guys have always put aside as some easy girly thing.

As he lifts Karen, he can feel her muscles under his hands as she has to keep everything tense as to not loose her balance on just their hands. Lisa is also a lot stronger than she looks, holding half of Karen’s weight along with Steve. He is already sweating through his polo and he definitely can’t keep smiling as he does this.

After a while he is able to get it. Molly is satisfied with his progress and deems it enough to call everyone together again. She says: “Okay, we can’t go through the routine, because Steve doesn’t know it and he isn’t going to learn this quick. So, we’re just going through the pyramids slowly, alright?”

She gets cheers back and instructs Lisa to make sure Steve knows what to do as everyone moves back to position.

Lisa is his saving grace, because Steve can’t keep up with how easily they all shift between position, creating structures out of just their bodies, before flipping down, tumbling around and doing it again.

He hadn’t realized how much mental space it takes to keep track of everyone’s position. He is very impressed with all the cheerleaders and he is genuinely having fun.

Cheerleading is a physical activity that he’s actually quite good at, throwing Karen around with ease and watching her fly. And for once he isn’t being pushed around.

A part of him knows that he shouldn’t be having fun, that he should have never even offered to do it and play it off as trying to get a date if someone asked. But it’s hard to keep the happiness away or not reply to the high five Lisa offers when they pull off a tricky stunt.

So, it’s not until the basketball team takes a break and he is spotted that the pit in his stomach, that he felt when he first offered, returns. He’s holding one of Karen’s legs when he hears Billy sneer: “Look at that, Harrington’s turned from a king into a princess.”

He can’t risk hurting Karen, so he grits his teeth as he hears the rest of his former team snicker. The stunt still needs to be completed, so Steve tries to tune them out as they bounce so Karen gets the height she needs for a flip.

Once she is safely on the ground, Steve looks at his old teammates, who have all collected to laugh at him. His cheeks burn with shame and he looks to the ground. He just wanted to help, do something nice for a change.

A hand on his arm, makes him look up. Lisa is looking at him with a kind and concerned look. She quietly says: “You don’t have to stick around. We get it. Mary will get better and we’ll pick up training Monday again.”

Steve is quite tempted to take her offer. To just run and be a coward, because a coward is better than being tossed for the tigers. Being a coward is better than being a queer.

However, before he can, Molly is speaking up. She overheard what Lisa said and doesn’t want to stop training. She needs Steve there. She crosses her arms and says: “All of you stop laughing right now, or you’re not getting a date from a cheerleader for the rest of the year. Steve was gentleman enough to offer help when we needed it. Maybe take an example.”

That shuts the boys right up. Steve knows what they talk about in the locker room, almost all the boys there want a date with a cheerleader. A bit of fun at Steve’s expense isn’t worth blowing that chance over.

Billy’s face goes through an amusing journey of emotions. In the end he scoffs and turns away with a: “Let the ballerinas do their thing.”

Molly’s face contorts in a hateful look, before she takes a deep breath and lets it go. Steve honestly admires her ability to do so.

She turns back to Steve and puts on big eyes as she clasps her hands together and says: “Please, Steve, stay for a little. We really appreciate your help. You’re such a gentleman, I mean that, you know. A knight in shining armor. Please, stay a little more, we’d all owe you.”

If he hadn’t grown up around his mother and seen how Molly plastered on the dainty, pleading eyes, he wouldn’t have realized this was a manipulation. She is playing into his masculinity and implying he could score a date if he stays.

Luckily for Molly, Steve is having too much fun to turn down a reason to continue, so he pretends to fall for it. He puts on his best smirk and replies: “I mean, how could I refuse a lady in need of help.”

She brightens up, this time the smile is genuine and Steve feels even better about his decision to fuck what anyone thinks. He has already been kicked to the bottom of the ladder. If he has to be here, he might as well do something fun.

He discovers that cheerleaders train almost more rigorously as the basketball team. He is there for another hour, running through the drills again and again. By the time they go home, he at least knows where to stand to not be in the way, though the arm movements escape him.

As he leaves, Lisa gives him a soft smile. She isn’t the loudest, but Steve quite likes her calm and steady presence. Throwing Karen around together has created a bit of a bond. So, he smiles back and says: “Bye, Lisa.”

“Bye, Steve,” she says. “Thank you for staying. Molly has been really stressed about practice lately.”

“Oh, it was nothing,” he tells her, looking around for a second, before he admits: “It was quite fun actually. You girls are crazy strong. I never realized.”

That makes Lisa let out a laugh and she grins: “We’re full of surprises,” before they truly say goodbye and go their separate ways.

Steve has been avoiding showering at school with the basketball team out to get him, so he gets into his car in sweaty clothes. Today he’s relieved his parents are never home. Explaining why he’s sweaty in his day clothes to his father would likely be the last thing he did.

Another thing he is relieved about, is that it is weekend. He hopes that it either doesn’t go the rounds that badly with no one stuck in one building and that by the time Monday rolls around the excitement will have died down.

He gets radioed by Dustin, asking him to drive him and the rest of the nerd squad to the arcade. He agrees easily, needing the distraction.

Because what Steve hadn’t counted on, is how the cheerleading would get stuck in his head. He had expected it to be a one time thing, something nice that would keep his mind of basketball for a bit, but instead he can’t help but think back on how much fun he’d had.

Cheerleaders have a very different team dynamic from basketball. There is more yelling of good jobs and needing to work together, instead of people trying to steal the spotlight and pushing each other around. It was quite nice.

Plus, it felt great to exercise again. And it felt much more like a team sport with Karen needing to trust him and Lisa to keep her upright and to count on Lisa to do her part, while Steve did his. He can’t deny that a part of him wants to do it again.

So, he drives up to Dustin’s house, then the others and listens to them gush about the campaign Will is running, making the shy boy blush. Then they move on how Max still has the high score, but she’s gonna meet them there and Dustin will observe her strategy, then beat her.

Steve doubts that, Max is a beast in the arcade. However, he lets Dustin live in his world as he watches them go nuts, lending the group quarters when they start to come up short.

He muses that these kids have a hobby they like. He used to have that, but basketball is kind of off limits right now. Even playing just for fun is ruined, since those games are mostly the basketball team or people who are friends with the basketball team. All of whom now hate Steve.

He still shoots some hoops alone in his backyard and swims laps in the pool (albeit with less ease after Barb), but he wants to do something with other people again.

Once more his mind drifts to cheerleading, but he quickly pushes that thought away. Cheerleading is for girls, he already got enough shit as is, he doesn’t need more. Besides, Mary will return and they won’t even need an extra person.

It’s not going to happen, so he should let it go and find something new.

“For the last time, zoomer isn’t a thing,” Mike complains loudly. Lucas jumps to Max’s defense at that, something that isn’t appreciated and the group devolves into squabbling over DnD categories again.

Steve wonders if he should pick up DnD. Dustin has explained it to him a few times, but it sounded hard and the thought of having to face Eddie Munson and his crew made Steve’s stomach churn.

He knows it’s his own fault that such a group will probably not welcome him with open arms, but it still isn’t a great feeling. Now that he is paying attention to others than the basketball team more, he can’t deny that the Hellfire club seems to like each other a lot more. Something that Steve will never get to experience, because he burned those bridges before they could even form.

Maybe he could join band. His parents forced him to learn piano when he was younger, though he doubts piano is part of band. Besides, he has seen the people at the band table. He likely won’t be welcome there either.

Honestly, at this point the only place he might not get shunned is the Hawkins High school newspaper, but that will be because of Nancy and Jonathan, which will only make it all the more mortifying. No thanks.

Contemplating his position, he lets out a deep sigh. Then yelps when a voice next to him suddenly asks: “Are you okay, Steve?”

He looks down to see Will looking up at him with concerned eyes. Steve forces a smile onto his face and assures the kid: “Yeah, baby Byers, I’m okay. You doing good? Need a quarter?”

“No, it’s fine,” Will tells him. “I was just asking, because you look sad. Mom told me to keep an eye on you. She wants to make sure you know you can talk to her about what all happened. You sure nothing’s bothering you?”

Will says it with the ease of a kid, who isn’t fully aware of when they are sharing too much, but the words hit Steve right in the chest.

After the Upside Down bullshit, he hasn’t been sleeping as well and there is no one really to lean on. He is distracting himself with school and driving the kids around. His parents aren’t home to notice anything, yet here Joyce is, showing more care than any adult ever has for Steve.

He has to swallow as to not break down and ruffles Will’s hair as he clears his throat. “That’s sweet, kid, but I’m good. I promise. Just thinking about school.”

At that Will nods with understanding and it hurts that this little kid knows more about what Steve is going through at his age. No one should have to struggle with kids being mean, but Will especially doesn’t deserve it with all he has been through.

To distract from the moment, he holds up a quarter and says: “Wanna bet I can beat Dustin’s Pac-Man high score?”

Will giggles: “He’ll be so mad if you do. It’s his only pride after Max took over everywhere.”

“Lets go boil his blood,” Steve tells Will, even though he isn’t even good at Pac-Man. However, it will make Will laugh and then he can make the kid try, paying for it, because he saw how Will ran out of coins a bit ago.

The weekend passes further until it is Monday and he is parking at the school. He isn’t looking forward to walking in there, not able to predict what he’ll find. He doesn’t like being unprepared in social situations.

As he walks down the hall, he gets a few weird looks, but no one says anything about it. Maybe Molly’s threat about the dates worked and no one is daring. Steve hopes so.

His luck doesn’t hold up, sadly. During first period a note is handed to him with a crude drawing of him in a cheering costume, the word princess written above it. The door to a classroom is opened for him with the comment: “Ladies first.”

Steve honestly finds it more childish and annoying than hurtful, except that it keeps hitting home what he already knew. That he wasn’t supposed to do that and there is something wrong with him, because he actually enjoyed himself, because he even thought of doing it.

Because cheerleading is for girls. It’s not for boys and the fact that Steve did it and enjoyed it means that somewhere in his brain there is something wrong with him. He already knows that there is something wrong with him, but having it spelled out for him?

It’s soul crushing.

By the time lunch period rolls around, he already knows that he doesn’t want to be in the cafeteria right now. It’s still too cold for anyone to sit outside, besides stepping out for a smoke. So, he sets up camp on a wall outside and eats his lunch. Rather cold than a target.

About halfway through lunch, he hears someone approaching. He steels himself for whatever is coming his way. He turns around, surprised to see it’s Molly and Heather, Lisa running after them as if she is trying to stop them.

She doesn’t make it in time, because Molly is already there. She is staring him down and Steve wonders what she has heard to make her look like that. Uncertain, he asks: “Can I help you with something?”

“Emma broke her leg,” Molly says in lieu of an answer.

“Okay?” Steve replies.

“We need someone to take her place in the competition two weeks from now,” Molly explains further and it starts to click what she is asking.

“No,” Steve denies immediately. He wants to say yes, he would love to do more if he were to listen to the little voice in his head, but he can’t. He has already seen what just one time helping out did to the tatters of his reputation, he can’t imagine what everyone will think or say if he took part in a competition.

Frustration creeps into Molly’s face and she protests: “But Lisa said you told her you had fun. You were good at it. Why not?”

“Molly, no.” Lisa is finally there. She looks apologetically at Steve and says: “I didn’t know she would do this when I mentioned it. I’m sorry, Steve.”

She looks genuinely distraught and Steve instantly feels bad for her. They had built up the most camaraderie together. She obviously felt the same and despite the fact that they needed someone, there was already enough solidarity between them after one practice that she would stick up for him against the cheer captain. That never happens in basketball.

“Let her try,” Heather cuts in, backing up the cheer captain. From what Steve had seen, Heather isn’t afraid to stop Molly if she thinks the other goes too far. Right now she apparently agrees with her friend, though.

Lisa sends him another apologetic look that he answers with a reassuring smile.

Molly gets the attention back on herself and says: “Look, I know why you’re saying no. Trust me, I get it. But this competition is the biggest of the season. It’s statewide and there will be college scouts there. You don’t understand, I need this competition to go well.”

She looks at him with intense eyes and Steve knows this so well. Right now she isn’t trying to manipulate him, she is talking to him as a fellow athlete, whose only chance to get into college is a sports scholarship.

And a part of Steve wants to think fuck it and say yes. He is already hanging on the bottom, might as well do whatever he wants. But he can’t be like the party, like those kids who don’t care and just have fun. He can’t be anything but a Harrington.

“It’s just two weeks,” Heather pleads. “The competition is in two weeks. We’ll train every day so you get it down, you do it once and then you can walk away. We won’t ask more than that.”

“I can’t,” Steve says, sounding apologetic. “You know, I can’t. I should have never offered to help Friday. I don’t even know why you would want to associate with me. You’d be better off trying to convince one of your own friends.”

Molly huffs: “All of our friends are already on the cheer squad.”

“And most girls aren’t able to get strong enough to do the lifts in two weeks,” Lisa adds quietly, joining her friends. She obviously also wants him to say yes, even if she feels bad for how his words were being used against him.

Heather agrees too: “And we can’t teach them how to stunt or catch either in that time. We already know you can fill in as a base. Emma is a base too.”

The more they beg, the harder it is for Steve to say no. He doesn’t want to say no, they all know it, but he has to. He will only be here for half a year more, then he’ll be off to college. He’d like to say in one piece until then and this will be counterproductive.

“Think of it as a deal,” Molly tells him.

“A deal?” he repeats.

“Yeah, the cheer squad is big,” Molly explains. “At least one of us is in all of your classes. We can offer you protection, a social barrier and you can pay us back by doing the competition.”

“I don’t need you to protect me,” Steve scoffs, though it is quite obvious to everyone in Hawkins High that Steve is a prime target without backup. Now that he stopped performing King Steve, it’s like everyone can see all that is wrong with him.

Clearly Molly thinks the same, because she raises her brow at him. She says: “I’m serious, Steve. I know it’s nonsense, but we’re the girls the guys want to get with and the other girls want to be. And cheer squad sticks together. When Tommy harassed Karen at a party, we all agreed he wouldn't get a date. And look at him. He’s with Carol now.”

Steve remembers the cheer squad turning against Tommy, neither of them had ever figured out why until now. Carol has always considered herself too cool for the cheer squad and Steve wonders if her dating Tommy is a rebellion against them.

“If you say yes, Billy won’t have another date with a cheerleader ever. You’ll sit at the cheer table surrounded by girls. If one of the basketball boys wants a date, they have to be nice to you,” Molly lays it out again. “Just think about it for a second.”

Molly is terrifying, Steve decides. If she ever decides to go into business, she’ll be unstoppable. It’s hard to find reasons to say no. He likes it and his father isn’t even home to be mad about it. His parents will be back next month, by that time everyone will have forgotten about this. They’ll never even have to know.

“Does the deal still stand after the competition?” Steve asks. He is also the son of a business man, he might not like it, but he knows the trade well.

“It sticks till the end of the year and if I make it into college and you have to repeat a year, it extends to next year too,” Molly promises. “Lisa will ensure it.”

“I don’t think that will happen,” Steve protests, but he feels quite relieved. He holds out his hand and smiles: “You got yourself a deal.”

“Yes,” she cheers, shaking his hand, before using the movement to pull him from the wall. “Come on,” she tells him. “No more moping outside. It’s way too cold.”

The four of them make their way inside. Steve is a big believer in seeing is believing, so he still braces himself when they enter the cafeteria. However, no one is willing to risk a cheerleader getting caught in the cross fire.

He gets many glares, but he has long since learned to keep his head up and ignore it as he follows the girls to their table. When he gets there, multiple faces erupt in smiles and Karen excitedly asks: “Did you agree?”

Steve is taken aback by how happy they all are with the news. All of them practically cheer when he nods and they pull him in their midst as they start explaining the competition to him. It’s overwhelming in a good way. Their excitement is infectious and it’s the best lunch period he’s had since before Halloween.

When lunch period is over, Heather hooks her arm around his and smiles: “We have History right now, right?”

“Yeah,” Steve agrees, a bit stunned how seriously she takes it without making a big deal out it. He should probably be embarrassed that he is being protected by a group of girls, but he can’t bring himself to care much when Heather rips up the note before it reaches him and he isn’t tripped up again in the hallways.

He has an escort for the entire day and after the last bell has rung, Susan walks with him to cheerleading practicing, because that is what he has agreed to.

This time, he knows better than to try and do this in his normal clothes, so he changes in a toilet stall, feeling a sense of solidarity with all the less sporty kids he’s seen doing that throughout the years.

They start with a warm up, which Steve takes very seriously after how sore he’d been all weekend, as he ignores the looks of the basketball team when they see him stretching with the cheerleaders in his gym clothes.

Those fucker probably thought he would be running far away from them and not dare to do anything they would dislike ever again. Steve feels a smug sense of defiance as he moves to touch his toes.

The others easily slide into splits and Steve honestly has no clue how they do it. Lisa makes eye contact with him from where she is relaxing in a split and quirks a brow at his confused expression, like she can’t understand what is weird about the situation.

“How do you do that?” Steve asks as an explanation. “How are your legs not killing you right now? That’s so fucking impressive.”

Understanding dawns on her face and she softly laughs: “Practice and patience. I’ve been doing cheer since middle school.”

“Wish I could do that,” Steve comments.

“Don’t let coach hear that or she’ll make it her mission to get you there and let me tell you, she is a hardass,” Lisa informs him.

Steve honestly hadn’t considered the fact that the cheer team would also have a coach and anxiety creeps up at the idea of having to face her. Before he can bolt, they’re interrupted by Ms. Miller, who teaches geography. “Everyone gather around,” she calls.

Reluctantly Steve follows after the girls, trying to stay out of sight of Ms. Miller. However, it’s for naught, because Ms. Miller asks: “Molly, have you found someone to replace Emma?”

“Yes, coach,” Molly says. “Steve is helping out.”

Ms. Miller frowns and Steve feels the heat gathering in his cheeks as everyone parts so she can see Steve. Awkwardly he smiles at her and waves. “Uhm, hi, Ms. Miller.”

“It’s coach Miller here,” she tells him. “I expect you to take this seriously. Are you able to do that, Steve?”

“Yes, coach,” the answer comes naturally.

Coach Miller smiles: “Good to hear. Do you have any clue what we’re doing?”

“Uhm, I subbed for Mary Friday, but other than that, no clue,” Steve answers honestly. “Except that it’s for a competition.”

Surprise flashes over coach Miller’s face at the confession, but it is quickly replaced by glee. She claps her hands together and blows her whistle: “Alright everyone, we’re going through the whole thing from the top. Slowly. Make sure Steve knows what’s happening next.”

Everyone immediately starts moving. For a second Steve stands there unsure of what to do, then Heather comes up to him and smiles: “You’re in my group. Come on.”

He easily follows her as she walks towards two other girls. She introduces them both. First she points to a Latina girl with a high ponytail. “This is Sofia, she’s the other base. Look to her for clues.”

Steve nods and shakes Sofia’s hand. He doesn’t have any classes with her, because he thinks she’s a junior. But he has seen her around in Nancy’s AP Honor courses when they were still dating.

“And this is Chrissy, our flyer,” Heather introduces a red hair shy looking girl.

“Hi,” she greets.

“Hello,” Steve replies with a smile he hopes is reassuring. He’s pretty sure the girl is a sophomore, who knows him only by reputation. He doesn’t want to scare her.

After the introductions, Steve is positioned into the starting position. They go through the entire routine at a snail’s pace to ensure Steve can follow along. Today they’re just focusing on being at the right place, tomorrow they’re primarily running through stunts and he’s told that the arm movements will come later.

Like Friday, Steve is having a blast. Sofia is super smart and hilarious. She makes all sorts of jokes under her breath that have all of them struggling not to crack up under the harsh gaze of coach Miller.

Chrissy is also nice and very caring and enthusiastic when she gets out of her shell a little. The only thing is how tiny she is. Steve feels like he’ll break her ankle if he holds her too tightly.

The atmosphere is also so much more fun. Coach Miller is strict much like the basketball coach is, but she still yells out encouragements too. And between the cheerleaders themselves, they’re constantly calling out: “Well done!” or “Oh my god, that was so good!”

If anyone in the basketball team were to do that, they would’ve gotten weird looks and called a fag or something. Steve doesn’t miss it, but he’s sad that all of them are told not to even encourage each other. The most they are allowed is a slap on the back. It doesn’t seem fair.

But he alone can’t change anything about that, so he finds himself in the limbo of smiling when he gets a compliment, but being too awkward to say anything himself as practice goes on.

At they end they all do their cooling down together. Molly takes a place close to Steve and grills him the entire time about how confident he is he can get it before the competition. Steve assures her that he will, though he adds that he doesn’t know if he can keep smiling. “I don’t even know how you all do that,” he tells her.

Molly laughs at that and answers: “Oh, Steve, you are such a guy, you know.”

“What?” he asks, a bit confused and unsure what could have gotten that response.

“Come back to me when you walked a day in heels,” she says instead of answering. “We’re used to smiling through the pain.”

Steve privately thinks that doesn’t sound very healthy, but he keeps his mouth shut, unsure he wants to have this discussion.

They disperse to the changing rooms. Steve contemplates going home sweaty again, but he’s in just his shorts now and it’s still way too cold outside for that. Plus, the basketball team is still going, so he hurries through his shower, hoping he’ll be done, before they get there.

However, they’re done quicker with their punishment laps than Steve expected. So, he’s in the middle of pulling his shirt on when they flood into the changing room.

For a second both Steve and the team freeze, staring at each other in some sort of stand off. Then play is pressed again and Steve is suddenly face to face with Billy, who spits: “What, hanging out with the freaks and little girls wasn’t enough for you, Harrington?”

Steve takes a deep breath, trying not to let it get to him. He replies: “I’m just helping out, Hargrove, you know, doing something nice? Ever heard of the word nice? Or did you skip that lesson in kindergarten?”

Billy bristles and steps forwards, pushing Steve back onto the bench. He gets right up into Steve’s face, who is hit in the face with the stench of teenage boy sweat. He wrinkles his nose, which is the wrong thing to do, because he is grabbed by the front of his shirt and Billy spits: “Those girls can’t help you here. I’m not done with you.”

“Well, I am done with you,” Steve answers coolly, reaching for his bag. He has tried fighting Billy before, that didn’t work out. Now he just hopes he can flee. Let him be a coward, it’s not like anyone here still respects him.

Anger flares up in Billy’s face again and he reels back, probably to hit Steve. However, he is still holding Steve’s shirt, but Steve never managed to put it on properly. So, before the hit lands, he slithers out of it and onto the floor, rolling away and snatching bag as he shoulders his way through the rest of the team, who are luckily too stunned to stop him as he breaks free.

In the hallway, he runs into Lisa, who looks at him in surprise. He looks downs, realizing he’s shirtless and gives her an awkward smile. “Uh, this is intentional?” he says.

“Harrington!” they hear Billy bellow from the changing room and Steve starts power walking away from the changing room, pulling Lisa with him and putting his sweaty shirt on again.

“Are you okay?” Lisa asks with concern.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” Steve smiles at her. “Just going to change at home next time.”

“For what it’s worth, I think it really sucks that they’re treating you like that over this,” Lisa tells him genuinely.

“I get it,” Steve shrugs. “I mean, it’s not exactly conventional, you know. Everyone probably thinks it’s a little weird. Hell, I don’t even know why I offered Friday.”

“Still, you’re just doing something nice,” Lisa argues, a small frown on her forehead. She isn’t the fighting type, but she does get frustrated.

“Don’t think they care,” Steve laughs. “They already didn’t like me before this either. They just have something else to hold against me now.”

Lisa’s frown deepens, but she doesn’t say anything.

Steve honestly doesn’t feel like talking about it, so he changes the subject by asking: “You have a car, or want a ride home?”

“I mean, if you’re sure,” Lisa says.

“Of course,” Steve says. “It’s no trouble. And you can tell me more about the terms on the way. I have no clue what coach Miller is telling us 90% of the time.”

That makes Lisa laugh and they set off towards the parking lot together. Luckily, Billy doesn’t try anything with Lisa nearby. Steve tries not to question it too much. He’s tired of trying to figure out what Billy is thinking.

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whinlatter · 2 years ago

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Hello Elizabeth, I’ve loved all your metas so far, and you do a great job of pointing things out that we as readers may have overlooked. You honestly made me want to read the HP series again because I feel like I missed out on so much. Apologies if you’ve already done a meta on this before and I missed it, but how abused do you think Harry was by the Dursleys? We know the basics: malnutrition, neglect, and emotional abuse for the majority of his life, but I remember reading the book as a child and getting this uneasy feeling that he was being physically abused. If you read between the lines and pay attention to his interactions with the Dursleys in the beginning of each book, I think it's indirectly mentioned... but maybe I've been reading it wrong all these years? What is your take on this?

TW: generalised non-specific discussions of child abuse and neglect

Thank you so much for the question and for reading all my jumbled thoughts! Totally relate - I re-read the books for the first time in the better part of two decades last summer and was like, sorry all this stuff was there the whole time and I missed it? I learn so much for other writers' close readings revisiting these texts (@ashesandhackles's re-reads spring to mind, but there are many others) and love to be a part of these ongoing conversations.

On the Dursleys and child abuse... I haven't written anything on this before, and the short answer is: yes, I think it's clear that Harry experienced some level of physical abuse at the hands of the Dursleys, at the hands of both Vernon, Petunia, Marge and, to a lesser extent, Dudley.

That said, I do have some caveats. One is that I think fandom speculation over the extent of the physical abuse can sometimes risk overstating the canonical scale of the physical abuse (any abuse, including psychological abuse, is awful enough, and some fics claiming canon-compliancy can sometimes risk gratuitous depictions of really horrific abuse in problematic ways). Two, I think sometimes fanfic depictions of Harry at the Dursleys' can risk overstating how canonically Harry perceives his treatment at the Dursleys, in ways that risks predetermining how child victims of abuse ought to feel about their experiences rather than how they describe them themselves. Three, and the one that's particularly interesting to me as a historian, is how Harry's treatment at the Dursleys shines this fascinating light onto changing audience tastes and attitudes towards depictions of harm to children in mass-market children's and YA literature between the time of HP's initial publication and the present day.

I've done a longer little lunch-break discussion of some of this below the cut. Yes this quickly became a long-winded discussion of the character of the abused orphan/child in the publishing market for late twentieth century children and YA literature and Thatcher's Britain. I am sorry about that, and know that I apparently simply cannot be stopped.

It's undeniable that what happened to Harry at the Dursley's was child abuse and neglect, for all the reasons you rightly cite. Both Harry and the loving adult caregivers he finds in the Wizarding World recognise that he is abused and neglected at the hands of the Dursleys. This includes physical abuse, with examples readers rightly cite off the bat: Harry being held tightly around the throat by Vernon and later citing 'a need to duck' around his uncle (OotP), Petunia trying to hit twelve-year-old Harry with a frying pan (CoS), Marge hitting Harry with her walking stick (PoS), and repeated instances of the Dursleys withholding food and confining Harry to small physical spaces. I hope it goes without saying that these instances are plainly incidents of physical violence against children. Each is horrific on their own terms, and likely part of a pattern of repeated physical roughness and low-level violence towards a child (I say low-level only because the strangling incident takes place after Dudley appears to have been harmed in OotP, and Harry's response to Vernon holding him by the throat suggests this violent incident is particularly extreme even for Vernon).

It's also clear, though, that while Harry bitterly hates the Dursleys for all of the harm they have done to him, he does seem to see this physical abuse as part of a broader set of failings they committed as his caregivers, and doesn't single-out physical abuse as uniquely traumatising. Confinement, being shouted at, and failing to protect him from bullying by other children are all crimes the Dursleys commit against him that he clearly views as just as harmful as the physical abuse he endures at their hands. We don't know how Harry the character would come to think about his experiences with the Dursleys in adulthood, of course, and it's reasonable to speculate that he may come to acknowledge himself as a child abuse victim and have either suppressed memories of traumatic incidents he endured as a child. With that said, I personally feel a certain level of discomfort with fan speculation about further or escalated incidents of child endangerment against Harry at Privet Drive beyond what we see either in the text or is implied within patterns of the Dursleys' behaviour. What the Dursleys do to him in canon is bad enough as it is, and exaggerated depictions of the Dursleys' treatment can get dangerously close to implicitly suggesting child abuse has to be a certain level of physically egregious to be sympathetic to the reader that the canonical text doesn't achieve, which I think is intensely problematic.

One thing I will say, though, is that I think the example of the Dursleys' treatment of Harry is a fascinating case study in HP's reception history and the cultural acceptability of depicting and using child abuse as a plot device. The topic is such a good a litmus test for the gulf between how the series was read and consumed when first published and how it is increasingly thought about and revisited by audiences. Changing attitudes about Harry's experiences with the Dursleys reflect how HP as a piece of literature which was written, edited, published and marketed to a consumer audience with certain expectations about depictions of harm to children, but which now continues to be closely re-read/revisited through the films and consumed by a market audience with increasingly different comfort levels and expectations about child welfare.

Children's and YA literature in the mid-to-late twentieth century had certain certain norms and conventions. Often, this took the form of the orphan child as either the protagonist or as a key sympathetic hero. Lots of media used the abused child both as an immediately sympathetic character for audiences to empathise with, and also used the absence of things like family, safety and love as central motivators for these characters, which then sets up the plot of the media at hand to resolve. The literature that for most UK school-children became canonical between 1980 and 1997, so in Thatcher/John Major's Britain, often centred characters who were usually orphaned or bereaved and who experience child abuse, neglect or mistreatment, often depicted in a slapstick and almost pantomime-esque way. This includes predecessors to HP like Roald Dahl's Matilda (1988), Michelle Magorian's Goodnight Mister Tom (1981) and Jacqueline Wilson's various books but especially Tracy Beaker (1991). This period also saw enduringly popular older works of literature experience a resurgence as older English-language TV or film adaptations made in the UK or Hollywood became even more commercially successful and entered 'classic' status - Chitty Chitty Bang Bang (Roald Dahl wrote the Child-Catcher into the 1968 film - he's not in the book!), Ken Loach's Kes (1968), Peter Pan (including Hook (1991), the Spielberg version), or mid-nineteenth century works of literature that became commercially successful popular musicals after 1950, like Oliver Twist or Cosette in Les Mis. Even in media where children appear in dysfunctional but fundamentally loving homes - Billy Elliot (2000) - or face physical violence at the hands of adult villains - Home Alone (1990) - we can see from both critical reception and popular audiences responses that the consuming publicly were on the whole less likely to be disturbed by either violence or the threat of violence against children than audiences, especially young audiences, three or four decades later, who typically find such depictions, even in their slapstick form, abhorrent.

In this period of writing (and particularly publishing and/or market media production beyond print fiction), there was far greater flippancy about depicting violence or the threat of violence against children as an empathy device for readers, especially young readers. I think this is for reasons that I think relate to changing ideas (and legislation) around children's agency, child welfare, endangerment, protection and the boundaries of the state and family life in late twentieth century Britain and elsewhere (a mammoth topic for another day). These were increasingly pressing political issues into the 1990s, especially the late Thatcherite/Major period into the Blair years. The violence that was depicted in literature during this transitional period almost always had a slightly farcical, or even slapstick or comic dynamic to it that I think is true also of the Dursleys around Harry in those early books - the frying pan being a classic example. We're supposed to think of the Dursleys as ridiculous, a parody of Thatcherite Home Counties surburban culture. While authorial intent is to show a character defined by the absence of familial love at the hands of clear villains, the Dursleys aren't intended to be read as vicious child abusers inflicting irreparable psychological and physical harm on a pre-teen child. They're supposed to be within this genre convention of cruel but ridiculous adults who behave badly and embarrass themselves and who the reader is supposed to immediately root against.

My point, really, is that we as readers can certainly revisit these books decades later having absorbed this greater popular literacy about child trauma responses and PTSD and see these characters differently, but we should keep in mind that this is a lot about the changing sets of ideas and expectations we have as a reading audience than it does about how the author and the text's editors intended these characters to be received. If we are reading the Dursleys' treatment of Harry and thinking - how is Harry remarkably fine after all of this? How could Dumbledore leave him with these people? - we're asking questions that HP as an artefact of literature fulfiling certain genre conventions was never set up to be able to answer. I just think is something that fandom discussions and fanfiction authors (particularly those drawn to canon-compliancy) need take into consideration when trying to reconcile their horror at the Dursleys' treatment of Harry and interest in how this abuse would shape him as a character, with an interest in remaining true to the canonical text.

(I absolutely don't mean to be overly relativist about this, and want to make clear I'm talking about depictions of children's abuse in literature. In reality, children who have experienced violence and harm at the hands of adult caregivers have always felt some level of pain and distress. My point here is less about the lived experience of abuse and neglect, and more about changing cultural norms, attitudes and tastes about fictional depictions about abuse and neglect.)

#ok lunch break's over i'll shut up now #i've talked a lot this week even i am sick of me #my ask box is full of interesting Qs i am v grateful for and desperate to answer #but don't want to spam everyone's feed so will be pausing/slowing down answering for a little while if that's ok!#the dursleys #meta #writing #fandom discourse #TW: child neglect

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