#warning child abuse

[ajgrey9647]

Prancing and Twirling into Madness

Skinny legs dangled from the hard chair, swinging in nervous anticipation as the child sat in the waiting room between his ‘parents.’ Both adults glared at the boy from the corners of their eyes, annoyed at having to take time out of their day to spend yet another afternoon in a doctor’s office. The place smelled of antiseptic cleaner, new plastic, and the odd scent of cherries, making the cowering Tommy think of the lollipops on wooden sticks the physician gave him at the end of a visit.

The windows gave a wide view of a dark grey, cloudy sky, ripe with rain and approaching lightning. A scattered swatch of icy drops spotted the glass in a swift burst of turbulent wind. A clock ticked away monotonously in the background.

“I can’t believe we’re back in here, Thomas,” his mother hissed under her breath, eyes on the front desk receptionist. “Why? Why can’t you act ‘normal’?”

His father’s eyebrows were knitted together like one large fuzzy caterpillar, his face a florid red with barely contained anger.

“Jesus Christ, how old are you again? That was the third kid you’ve bitten this year!” he whispered, the tone an icy calm, his hands gripping the armrests so hard his knuckles were white.

‘He’s going to beat the shit out of me when we get home,’ Tommy worried, trying not to shake, fighting the frightened tears that threatened to spill down his cheeks.

Tears would only make things much worse. The man hadn’t yet succumbed to the joys of drink as he would in later years when Tommy reached his younger teens. During this early period, Mr. Oliver was quite strict and controlling, demanding the little boy be a model of perfection despite his chaotic background.

Impatient and given to fits of rage when he became irritated, he had no qualms taking a belt to his adopted son’s bare skin when he felt he needed ‘correction,’ as he called it. And, in his opinion, Tommy required much in the way of correcting. He often opined that opening his home to the unwanted child was a huge mistake.

Mrs. Oliver was not a source of comfort nor a protection from her husband’s anger. The woman couldn’t understand maternal instincts, having her greatest love being herself. She had a fondness for attracting the attention of other men, causing Tommy’s father to erupt in jealous fits of screaming and yelling. Normal tasks such as cleaning, cooking, or otherwise being present bored her greatly.

Leaning over towards the intimidated child, he muttered under his breath.

“You better keep your mouth shut when we get back there about how I run my household. Do you understand?”

His breath was hot on Tommy’s pale cheek.

“If you embarrass me, I’ll really make it hurt when we get behind closed doors. No one’s going to believe a bratty, selfish little shit like you anyways.”

Mrs. Oliver rolled her heavily made up eyes and rummaged in her purse for her compact mirror. Her moist, red lips sneered in the child’s direction.

“Its no wonder why your mommy didn’t want you. You’re obviously broken,” she smirked. “Other children don’t act like you do.”

Tommy’s eyes and nose began to burn with the effort of shoving down such mental anguish. Bright pink splotches colored his face and he pulled his knees to his chest, curling into himself.

A strong hand cuffed his shoulder roughly.

“Sit up straight!” his father harshly admonished, glancing over at the receptionist bent over the deck, a phone tucked in the crook of her neck.

Dutifully, Tommy lowered his scrawny legs back down, shoulders straightening from their hunch with effort.

“The school counselor said they can’t let you back in the building until you have this evaluation. You had better get that head out of your ass and pass with flying colors. We’re getting really tired of your shit, Thomas,” Mr. Oliver continued, his knuckles cracking subtly as they squeezed the chair.

The latest phone call from the school had very nearly caused the child to have to remain in bed for several days. Biting wasn’t the only offense Tommy had committed while in the classroom. There was a whole laundry list leading to the counselor’s stern instruction for a physical and mental evaluation to determine a cause for the boy’s behavior.

Teachers commented on his withdrawn and negative demeanor, his lack of focus on schoolwork, his failing grades, and his inability to get along with other children. They had been forced to send him to the principal’s office on several occasions for his crass language and uncooperative behavior. Nothing seemed to be able to get through to him.

And now, here Tommy sat in a doctor’s office with his parents, the first of many he would have over the years until he grew into Rita’s evil Green Ranger.

Heaving a sigh, Mr. Oliver adjusted himself in his chair and looked over at the door to the patient rooms with annoyance.

“I don’t see why this is taking so long,” he commented loudly.

Sliding over the edge of the chair, Tommy’s shoes thumped on the thin, plain carpeting of the waiting room and he wandered over to the small bookcase in the corner. Settling down on his knees on the garishly colored rug, he perused the cracked spines of the slim children’s books lining the shelves. The boy could literally feel the weight of the adults’ eyes on him, their anger and annoyance palpable.

He licked his lips nervously, tongue dry and grabbed a tattered hardback tome at random. It was a rather thick volume, not necessarily a child’s book but according to the faded gilt letting on the cover, it was a collection of fairy tales and folk lore from around the world.

Tommy scrunched his face in derision.

‘Fairy tales?’

What garbage! Mere entertainment for soft minded, naïve youngsters.

Cracking open the book for lack of anything better to do while he awaited his turn on the paper-covered table, Tommy skimmed the first few pages lethargically. But as he flipped through the various ethereal stories, the child became captivated, not just by the stories but the otherworldly illustrations on the adjoining pages.

Grand adventures, princes and princesses, winsome animal companions, witches, and magic; images flooded his mind and the little boy could vividly ‘see’ the lovely scenes coming to life in his mind. He didn’t realize he was no longer blinking until the dull burn in his eyes caught his attention.

That was the only thing though that Tommy came to realize. The nurse was standing by his parents at the door to the patient rooms, his chart cradled in one arm. She smiled at him gently and waved him up with one hand.

“Ready to see the doctor, kiddo? You can bring that book back with you if you like,” she offered kindly.

The child nodded and scrambled to his feet, mindful of his parents’ irritation as they stood waiting. Hugging the worn book to his chest, he made his way over and down the hall to await his exam.

The pediatric patient room was decorated in bright cartoonish colors, framed pictures of animals on the walls over the examination table along with the requisite blood pressure cuff and boxes of gloves. A counter stood along one wall with a sink and canisters containing cotton swabs and tongue depressors. The sterile smell was thicker back here, and Tommy shivered, his flesh raising in goose pimples.

His parents sat in yet other plastic chairs while they waited for Dr. Samuels, the pediatrician that they had been referred to by the school counselor. Mr. Oliver gave the child a hard stare.

“Remember what I said out there? Keep a lid on it. Understand?” he ground out. “Or so help me God…”

Tommy nodded his head vigorously. He didn’t need to be told twice. The book was a comforting weight in his arms, keeping him grounded.

Mrs. Oliver crossed and uncrossed her legs impatiently and glared at her adopted son.

“You can at least pretend you’re a normal kid, right? I’m really tired of hearing how disappointed your dad is with you,” she added, spitefully.

Mr. Oliver made no rebuttal to the statement; Tommy would have been shocked if he had, to be honest.

Then there was a sharp rap on the hollow door and the click of the knob. Dr. Samuels was a short, balding man in glasses, wearing a white coat and brown loafers. He gave the slim boy a perfunctory once over and then introduced himself to the patient’s parents.

“So, what brings us in today, Tommy? I understand there are issues at school,” he questioned, pulling out a small black and silver gadget that he used to look in the child’s eyes and mouth.

Tommy fidgeted slightly and bowed his head.

“I got in trouble at school,” he managed in a cracked voice.

“I see. It looks like you’ve been in a lot of trouble lately.”

The doctor’s cold hands were palpating the child’s throat, back, and belly; the touch of hands on his unsuspecting skin made Tommy flinch sharply. However, the reaction was not due to the temperature difference.

“Can you tell me about the things you’ve gotten in trouble for?” the doctor went on, mistaking the child’s reaction as being due to his chilly fingers.

Mr. Oliver was glaring over the doctor’s shoulder, his eyes dark and dangerous.

Tommy tried his best to answer the physician’s questions, carefully maneuvering around any discussion of how things were at home. He relayed his anger and frustration with children at school, with the teachers, the counselor, and principal, his boredom in the classroom, difficulty with reading and spelling, and preference to be left to himself.

“I see,” Dr. Samuels continued to repeat with each answer.

He made long notations in the papers contained by the purple chart. Then he turned toward the Olivers and began to make his recommendations.

Driving back home through the now pouring rain, Tommy stared out the window at the hazy lights of passing cars, blurry distorted shapes when viewed with the water spattered glass. The adults were deathly silent, still angry with him. Experience told him that his punishment was not over just yet.

The doctor had a given his parents a prescription for medication and a referral to a pediatric behavior specialist for further work up. Dr. Samuels had expressed some concern regarding Tommy’s withdrawn personality and his aggressive responses when angered or frustrated. With the limited information on his birth mother, it was unclear if there were any history of psychiatric disorders.

But the child could be on a dangerous path if he were not treated effectively with appropriate medical and behavioral therapies. Tommy’s stomach felt knotted and painful hearing the doctor’s assessment.

Dangerous?

The child continued to stare out at the grey, wet world that seemed to match his current mood. Puddles splashed under the tires as the vehicle moved down the road toward the small yellow house. His stomach growled, but it was best that he not eat before he received the rest of his punishment.

Vomiting would make it harder on him. His father despised weakness and he would order the child to clean his mess alone.

“Goddammit, Thomas!” Mr. Oliver suddenly snapped, making his wife jump. She narrowed her eyes at him in irritation.

“Is this going to be an ongoing problem? Are we going to have to put you on crazy pills and go talk to a quack? Talking doesn’t fix shit!” he ranted. “Back in my day, if I got out of line, my old man would tan my ass. He didn’t put up with any bullshit.”

The car was silent for several minutes as the older man ruminated on his own upbringing.

“If you want to acct like a rebel without a clue, we can take a page out of my pa’s book. Obviously, I’m not beating your ass enough,” he snarled into the stillness. “Children knew how to act when I was growing up.”

Tommy’s hands clenched together nervously as his father began to get keyed up. Trips down memory lane were not good for the child cowering in the backseat.

“Kids in my generation weren’t a bunch of disrespectful little pussies,” he advised. “You didn’t go running your mouth to shrinks or doctors. Corporal punishment cured most issues. I’m thinking maybe you’re too soft, too wimpy. Like a little princess.”

Mrs. Oliver laughed, a tinkly jagged sound as she looked back at Tommy.

“Well, he’s got prettier hair than I do,” she chirped, hooking a thumb over at the little boy’s longish dark locks.

His father’s dark eyes locked on his in the rearview mirror; the man scowled at his wife’s observation.

The rest of the ride was passed in silence.

Striding briskly through the front door, Mr. Oliver made no mention of what he intended to do; the older man disappeared into the interior of the home as his wife plopped down her purse with an annoyed sigh.

Briskly, Tommy darted up the stairs to his room, scrambling to find a place big enough to hide in. His little heart thundered in his chest while his eyes frantically looked around the mostly barren space.

He knew shit was not over.

Hearing a creak on the stairs, Tommy barreled underneath his bed, a foolish endeavor he realized. But what else could he do? He curled into the tightest ball he could manage in the farthest corner he could reach and waited breathlessly. The heavy footfalls were coming closer.

“Thomas Oliver! Get your little ass out here. Right now!” the loud voice echoed from the hallway.

The child remained quiet, hoping futilely that something or someone would step in and prevent the beating he knew was coming.

The bedroom door thundered open, striking the wall behind it.

“If I have to bend down and drag you out, you little shit, you won’t get out of that bed for a goddamn month!” he warned venomously.

Swallowing the lump in his throat and wiping his weeping eyes, Tommy pulled himself out and presented himself for punishment.

The wrathful man grabbed the child by the hair and yanked, making him yelp in pain. Dragging the sobbing boy down the stairs to the bathroom, he said not a word until the door was slammed loudly and he had shoved Tommy over to the sink.

“That dumb bitch isn’t right about a lot of things, but I think she hit the nail on the head with this,” he growled. “Look in the mirror, boy! What do you see?”

Tommy gave a limp shrug, sniffing back the snot that running from his nose. He could barely see anything through his watery eyes.

“I’ll tell you what I see. I see a dainty little princess, a Pitiful Pearl who’s took weak to suck it up and do what needs doing. You’re fucking biting people like a goddamn dog! But you don’t obey for shit!” he roared. “That fucking stops right here and now. I’m going to teach you how to toughen up, like a fucking MAN!”

Again, he grabbed the child’s hair roughly; the vibrating buzz of the electric razor echoed off the bathroom tile.

“No! Don’t!” Tommy screamed.

But nothing dissuaded the man; long dark hair rained upon the floor, some gliding to alight on the boy’s sneakers. Again and again, the razor passed over sections of his scalp, at times nicking his skin and drawing streams of blood.

By the time the cruel act was completely finished, Tommy’s scalp was almost completely red, slick with bleeding cuts and the rough beginnings of razor burn.

“Much better,” his father stated, nodding his head at his handiwork. “Look at yourself now, Thomas. That’s a more manly hairstyle!”

Tossing the black razor upon the counter, he looked coldly at the little boy.

“Clean this mess up, then go to your room. You’re lucky you aren’t getting the belt again.”

Then he was gone.

Tommy’s hazel eyes stared at himself in the mirror, fixated on his shorn hair. Heaving sobs wracked his thin shoulders making it hard to breathe. Sinking to the floor, he gathered up the remains of his soft hair in his hands, feeling the silky strands slide through his fingers into the trash bin.

So in shock at the loss was he, that when he stood up again and caught sight of his reflection, he began to bawl anew. With shaky steps, Tommy made his way back to his bedroom, the sound of the television loud from down the stairs, drowning out his sorrow.

Tucked away behind a broken dresser drawer, the child had secreted away a means of comfort in this hellhole. The small stuffed dog had accompanied him through many homes until they both landed here. Pulling the little animal from his hiding place, Tommy ran a fingertip over the glossy black button eyes and nose. He buried his hot scalded face into the warm furry chest and begged for someone strong and brave to come save him.

Over his later school years, Tommy had not only continued to bite other children, he’d stabbed a boy with a sharpened pencil, shoved several teachers, cursed out the principal and counselor, scratched and clawed a boy who’d been tormenting him, and kicked yet another child between the legs hard enough that surgery was required. The youngster bounced skulls off metal lockers, threw desks, and kicked a hole in a wall.

He had been caught smoking on school grounds more than once; a few instances involved possessing marijuana. Additionally, Tommy had defaced school property, vandalizing bathroom stalls with rude and often untrue allegations against his peers and other staff. Several library books were missing pages or otherwise damaged.

At the young age of sixteen years old, Tommy Oliver had a thick medical chart, spanning the years since his official adoption that also included incidents from past foster homes. He even had a juvenile record for running away, fighting, stealing, vandalism, underage drinking, and making threats.

The list of diagnoses was extensive given his age and the list of failed medications was puzzling. Of course, if he actually took them instead of pocketing them in his cheek, they may have had some effect. But he was also a masterful liar, leading countless doctors and therapists down a merry rabbit hole.

Nothing mattered. Life was short, then you die. Tommy was determined to do things his way. He was punished no matter what with the old man clouded with drink and impulsivity. The only positive was being shoved into martial arts as a way to vent his aggression at the recommendation of a therapist.

This was the way he arrived in Angel Grove and the way he operated when he first met Jason Scott, the muscular dark-haired martial artist that, for reasons he could not explain, captivated his attention. Something about him drew Tommy in, made him want to be closer.

The boy had not yet experienced a crush on anyone before, male or female. He never cared to concern himself with other people unless he wanted a cigarette, alcohol, weed, or just to ‘get off.’ They were all interchangeable, faceless no ones.

The burgeoning tempestuous swell of lust and hormones were beginning to swirl even before Rita’s magic took hold. The teen found the reason that Jason was so magnetic once he became the Green Ranger and discovered that the Red Ranger was the object of his desires.

Fantasies intruded while he stared at Jason, wondering what it would be like to kiss him, to stab him in the chest, to fuck him mercilessly while he strangled him to death. To take a belt to that gorgeous tan skin as his old man had done to him. To make him scream in pain and fear.

The long, slow descent had begun so many years ago and had set both Tommy and Jason on a collision course both in the Prime and Coinless Universe. Both with very different outcomes.

In the Prime Universe, the Green and Red Rangers were united, best friends to lovers.

In the Coinless World, both Lord Drakkon and his pet, Red, laughed together in shared insanity, both so crazed and mean, they weren’t even a shadow of their alternate selves.

[neon-candies]

Happy Halloween!

Warnings for: Child abuse, emotional abuse, unhealthy relationship

Angel probably has this nightmare frequently after Annie was "born". And he probably tried to avoid talking about it at first. But it gets to a point where he can't even hide his fears and concerns. However that's a conversation for another time.

[sm-baby]

Well can we see Mei-Lyn as a baby?

[dianagj-art]

This idea got out of hand way too quickly but I have no regrets<3

Isn't it fun to think that with all the crossovers One would actually have a support system of friends that care about him?

Coin Toss Michael by @gemini-forest

Bonus!

[cvtting-k1tty]

Did you guys know that sometimes subconsciously after experiencing sexual abuse the brain will basically get you to eat less or more in the hopes that your body will become unattractive to your abuser?

[every-moment-a-different-sound]

flashbacks

The first gif was originally supposed to be for @lesbicosmos's fic through your eyes i see a smile you bring to me until I stepped back and realised the tone and clips were completely wrong for the fic. So I decided to make it into a seperate gifset. Definately go read that fic because it's amazing, but it is much softer and more tender than these gifs suggest. Thank you for the inspiration though Sarah!!!

[sweeneydino]

Whoopsies

[steviewashere]

Welcome Home

Rating: Teen and Up Pairing: Steve Harrington & Wayne Munson, Pre-Steve Harrington/Eddie Munson CW: Implied/Referenced Child Abuse (Not Graphic But Prevalent), Referenced Period Typical Homophobic Slur(s), Referenced Drug Use (Recreational Use of Marijuana) Tags: Post-Canon, Post Vecna, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Wayne Munson is a Sweetheart, Steve Harrington is a Sweetheart, Wayne Munson Takes Care of Steve Harrington, Good Parent Wayne Munson, Steve Harrington has Bad Parents, Coming Out, Steve Harrington Needs a Hug, Steve Harrington Gets a Hug, Pre-Steve Harrington/Eddie Munson, Eddie Munson is a Sweetheart, Al Munson is a Bad Person

Read the content warning!!

🫂—————🫂 He knows the person he wants isn’t home. But Steve can’t afford to stall any longer. If he continues to wait out in his car, it’ll probably be towed, and he’ll be arrested, and he won’t have the person he needs to bail him out. It’s not like he can just turn the car around, though; make his way back home.

Home doesn’t even exist anymore. It took one night where he thought he was alone, because he was always alone, for them to come back and see him. See him with another boy. Not experimenting, because he knows damn well who he is. But making semblance of love, because he’s been desperate enough for it his entire like. Now that he had it, or something as close to it as he can get from a late night cruising pull, it’s even farther away.

Yeah, maybe he should’ve rain checked. Maybe he should’ve bought out a motel room for the night. Maybe he should’ve just entertained himself with his own hand and the wrinkled magazines that Eddie smuggled for him.

Speaking of Eddie, he’s not here. His government replaced van isn’t parked outside the new Munson’s trailer. Only Wayne’s is. And he’s not sure if he’s ready to face another adult. He is an adult, he knows this, but sitting behind the big wheel of his car—his hands look like they belong to a child and looking at himself in the rearview mirror, it’s like matching gazes with ten year old him; wide-eyed, afraid, and forced against his will.

He is afraid. And maybe he should just let himself feel that. But he doesn’t have the time or the energy or the gall. So he shuts his engine off, hauls an old duffel bag over his shoulder, and makes the arduous journey that is the thirty second walk up the front steps.

Knocking, he swallows his pride. Every part of him is lost and disorganized. He didn’t style his hair. And he couldn’t grab his belt from where it had been kicked under his bed in panic. His shoes are untied. There’s also a large hickey at the base of his neck, unhidden by the stretched collar of some ratty maroon t-shirt he thought he tossed years ago. It’s stark against him in the reflection of the nearest window. He can also catch the dark bruises left on his biceps—grabbed by his dad when he tried to make an initial escape. Maybe he should’ve risked the arrest.

The doors open rather quickly, though. And through the screen, a plume of smoke pools over him from—what smells like—a stale joint. Wayne Munson stands on the other side with tired eyes and a pinched mouth. He’s dressed down in flannel pajamas and has that joint between his fingers. All his movements are slow as he takes Steve in.

“Eddie’s not home right now,” he states instead of offering a greeting. “Is there something I can do you for?” His eyes dip low from Steve’s. Following down the stretch of his neck, where it’s tense and rigid, over that hickey. Pauses momentarily. And then continues to look around, over, down—right up until he notes the bruises on Steve’s arms. “You…Uh…You making a runaway from a bad date, kid?”

Steve swallows. It stings a bit, though not from the hickey. When he closes his eyes to gather his words, he can almost feel the hand around his throat—the wedding ring cold over his wanted bruise, but the red hot spray of spit over his forehead. All as he cowered against his bedroom wall, tense to the floor he stood on, praying that his dad would make it quick.

He’s shaking, he knows. Trembling something minute that, hopefully, Wayne won’t pick up on. “Good evening, Mr. Munson,” Steve greets quietly, voice quaking. “I—I’m sorry to intrude, but I don’t know…There’s nowhere else I can go right now.” He peels his eyes open and peeks up through the screen door. Wayne’s eyes are the size of saucers when they lock stares. He hefts the bag over his shoulder higher, there’s a warm ache through his upper back. Slammed against the wall; remember, he reminds himself.

The screen opens wide and Wayne gestures over to the couch. “Leave your stuff by the door, kid.”

He steps through, plops his bag by the small breakfast nook, and chucks his sneakers to mingle with the pile. Then, he just stands in the doorway. Wayne’s off of his right shoulder. Towering over him a bit, but warm and solid. Steve knows he doesn’t have to be afraid, yet something in him skitters when Wayne’s left hand rests gently on his lower back. “Have a seat,” Wayne murmurs, “you’re shaking like a leaf.”

Acknowledging, without words to say, Steve nods. He shuffles over to the sofa and sits on the farthest cushion on the right, where he tends to settle when he comes over.

“You eat?” Wayne asks.

“No,” Steve mutters, “my dad didn’t give me enough time.”

“You like pepperoni on your pizza?”

Steve nods. “Anything except mushrooms, sir.”

“Wayne,” he says softly over his shoulder, “that’s my name and you wear it out all you like. I ain’t your daddy.” Steve just grunts in response, watching warily as Wayne orders them some food.

When he’s done, Wayne faces him again, leaning against the edge of the dining table. His joint has long since been put out, resting warm in the ashtray on the same table. Steve leans forward on his cushion, hands dropped between his knees. His hair falls limp in front of his eyes, but he doesn’t care. Nothing matters now, does it?

“I’ll only be here a night, promise.” His shoulders hunch inwards. That ache back and persistent. And he knows wherever he sleeps, be it on the floor or the sofa or even in the grass outside, he’ll just wake up hurt. More than just physically. “I know that there really isn’t space for me here and I…I don’t know. I’m not expecting you to take me in just because I get myself in messes.”

For a moment, the room stretches with silence. Going diagonal with the former words.

Then, Wayne takes a deep breath. Shuffles over to a dining chair. And plops down, watching. “You mind telling me what happened?” He asks gruffly, though not pessimistically. “If you’re in trouble, I can only let you stay here a night.”

“Depends on what you view as trouble, Wayne.”

Wayne narrows his eyes, twisting his mouth. His left hand rests on the surface of the table, fingers stretched towards the ashtray and the discarded lighter next to it. “Illegal shit. Anything that gets you in trouble with that Powell bastard. Not including weed. That’d make me a hypocrite, and that’s one thing I ain’t.”

Again, Steve nods his agreement, the acknowledgement. He fidgets with the tips of his fingers. Nails digging into the fatty parts, turning them white with pressure. “I didn’t do anything illegal, swear. Just did something stupid.” Warily once more, he eyes Wayne. “How do you feel about Reagan?”

“That man can rot in hell for all I care.”

He chuckles, despite everything. Then, he takes a sobering breath. “I had a…I picked up a boy tonight. Because I wanted to have—We were going to have sex, to put it simply, Mr. Munson. And I took him to my room, thinking I’d be alone for the rest of the night…”

“And you weren’t,” Wayne states, not asking. What questions need to be asked to an admittance like that? Steve nods, mouth pinched and eyes shiny. “I’m guessing your folks came home.”

“Yeah,” Steve whispers just loud enough to be heard. “I must’ve made a…noise loud enough to be heard downstairs. And my dad had just come home. And he…maybe the boy also made a noise, I don’t know. But one thing came after the other, and the next thing I knew my dad had gripped me on my arms and threw me against the wall and I thought he was going to kill me dead right in my own room and he was spitting about…he called me a-a fag and a fairy and I…

“I didn’t fight back. I didn’t speak. I was so scared. I am scared, Wayne,” Steve admits, voice trembling and his nose burning. “All I could do was take it.”

Carefully, Wayne extracts himself from his seat and situates himself on the coffee table. Right in front of Steve. “Where all did he hurt you, Steve?”

He swallows, remembering. “My arms,” he mutters, pointing, “and my neck and…he dropped me down on the ground and while I was reaching for my shirt, he got me on the ribs.” Narrowly, he misses Wayne’s furious gaze. Instead, he finds a shiny blank spot between mugs on the far wall. “He was so furious he didn’t even take his dress shoes off by the door,” he meekly states, “and he didn’t stop until my mom screamed at him to at least let me grab some of my stuff. She told him it wouldn’t be worth it, and I quote, ‘to murder our son.’ He told her that I wasn’t his, but he let me leave.” 

He’ll never thank his mom for that, but at least she granted him grace. Though, she didn’t look pleased either. Her face set and jaw clenched. He knows that if she had the chance, when he wasn’t in earshot, she would’ve said the exact same thing as his dad. Steve withers further at the thought, if that’s even possible.

“I’m just lucky that I’m not dead, right?” He adds a moment later, face wet with tears and throat thick with grief.

Wayne sharply inhales. “You’re safe here,” he says lowly, “just as Eddie is. You’ll forever be safe here, I promise you that.”

Steve’s eyes cut back to him. That ferocity in his gaze like a warm blanket over Steve’s shoulders, something he can cling onto and believe. “You know about him?”

“You’re not the first kid to run here from their daddy,” Wayne utters.

Something in Steve’s stomach twists slowly. His chest crackling with those words. Remembers when Eddie Munson was out of school for a week in eighth grade. When he came back: long sleeves in late May, hair shaved close to his scalp, heavy eyes, and new silver scars over his knuckles.

“I’m not…”

“Eddie would never cut his hair voluntarily,” Wayne states, voice grim.

Steve looks down at his lap, fingers picking nervously at each other. He murmurs, “I’m safe here,” but more of a reminder to himself. He’s not sure if he’s had a promised safety in years. All the stuff with Vecna and the Upside Down and now his dad—which never started with tonight; it had been growing to that, always something small like a slap to the wrist or a dull smack to the back of his head, but his life had never been almost choked out of him. He never feared, just always worried.

God, he always worried. And now here he is, trembling with his tail between his legs.

The silence stretches between them after that. Wayne gets up at some point to pay for the pizza, gather a couple plates, even relight his half-gone joint. And in the time it takes him to sit back down on the sofa with the food, Eddie comes back.

He tumbles through the door, a thousand words spilling out of him, coat hanging off of his elbows, and one shoe already stepped out of. He’s a whirlwind of movement and thing after another after another. But then he spots them on the couch; Wayne eating slowly and Steve curled nervously, face turned away from the door. “Aw man,” Eddie drawls. “Sharing pizza and weed without me? You guys always have all the fun when I’m not here.”

“Ed,” Wayne mutters, “we need to have a conversation, alright?”

Steve peers over, just as Eddie’s eyes widen.

“Did I…Is it something I did?” Eddie murmurs, voice falling meek. “Is everything okay?”

He can’t help but try to hide further. Flinching into himself, eyes closing on their own accord, cheeks flushed, and lips trembling. Tries to pinch the bridge of his nose, but he’s already opened the waterworks once tonight—they’re not going to close up again just from this. He looks to Wayne, eyes pleading for him to explain. He’s so tired of having to digest this, let alone regurgitate it.

“Come sit in my chair, Ed,” Wayne says, gesturing to the brown chair near the window. He waits until Eddie does what he’s told, sitting slowly and looking at them with his too big, concerned eyes. His eyebrows raise, even Steve can make that out through his blurry vision, waiting for some sort of explanation. “Okay, I need you to listen and not ask questions. No interruptions unless I ask you to respond, you got that?”

“Wh—Yeah, Wayne. I’m all ears; you’re freaking me out.”

Wayne nods gently, his left hand out in a placating manner. “You remember, I mean you most definitely do, but do you remember when you had to come here all those years ago?” He asks softly. Eddie acknowledges by nodding, nothing more. “Steve is going through something similar,” he explains gently, “and I’m letting him stay. If you want to know the specifics, that’s something that you’ll have to hear when Steve’s ready, got it?”

Eddie inhales slowly. His face gaining that same furious ferocity that Wayne’s had. But then he looks to Steve and all the hard features of his face soften. Back to something familiar and warm and homely. “Stevie?” He ventures. “You okay?”

He shrugs. Answers thickly, “I don’t know.” His cheeks wet with more tears and he roughly wipes them away with a shaking hand. “I don’t…I thought they loved me? Even just a little bit.”

Warmth crowds him as Wayne lays a firm arm over his upper back, hand wrapping around his right shoulder, just missing his bicep. “Eddie? Why don’t you clean up a bit in your room for his stuff? Get some new sheets on your mattress, too. Think he could use a sleepover, that alright?”

“Course,” Eddie answers almost instantly, voice soft and calm. “I’ll set out some pajamas, too, Stevie. You want a sweatshirt or a t-shirt?”

Steve sniffs and swallows heavily. “Sweatshirt, please.” 

Slowly and carefully, Eddie comes over towards the couch. He places a gentle hand on the back of Steve’s head. Thumb running up and down at the base of his skull. “I’m sorry, sweetheart,” he murmurs, “we’ve got you now, though.” And with that, Eddie retreats to his bedroom, the door clicking softly behind him. The rustle of things being moved around ever apparent through the thin wood.

Wayne clears his throat and pulls Steve in a little closer, tighter. He says close to Steve’s ear, “We love you here, you got that? You have no reason to hide yourself or sneak around or try and fit yourself in a box.”

He nods minutely. “M’kay,” he mutters, “I’ll try and find another place soon, I promise. I just don’t have the money—“

“Nonsense,” Wayne states steadfast, “this is your home now. And I won’t have it any other way.” He pulls back just enough to make them lock eyes again. The air smells of grease and weed and Irish Spring. Amber light flooding around them and dim enough to not hurt his head. Everything around him is soft, gentle. It feels like home. Wayne holds him by the shoulders, firm but not suffocating. “Don’t tell Eddie I said this,” he whispers, “but he doesn’t shut up about you. He’d kill me if I didn’t let you stay and I’d beat myself up about it. As long as you stay true and playful with my boy, then you’re my boy, too. You hear me?”

Steve’s eyes blur again and his nose stings and he wishes that he could stop crying, but this is nice. The warmth and the love and the tenderness. He could burn alive from it and still be grateful. It’s so much better than the lonely, cold sprawl of his parents’ house. A house he never thought he’d leave.

“I hear you,” he musters.

“Good,” Wayne murmurs. “Why don’t you go use up some of the hot water and take as long of a shower as you want? I’ll get your things into Eddie’s room and—don’t tell that Powell bastard at the station—but I’ll roll something for you, if you want it.”

Despite everything, Steve finds himself laughing from his belly and smiling enough to ache his cheeks. “Yeah, okay,” he agrees. “Warning, though, I’m really annoying when I’m high.”

“Then annoying you’ll be,” Wayne gets out around a chuckle. “And keep smiling, boy. You ain’t got a thing to worry or fear here. Even if your daddy comes running on over, I’ll make him leave just as fast with his tail between his legs, swear it.”

His smile relaxes to something soft, a ghost of a thing. He leans forward and hesitantly wraps his arms around Wayne, relishing in the hug that he gets in return. “Thank you,” he says, muffled into Wayne’s pajama shirt, “think you literally saved my life tonight.”

“You’re a good kid, Steve,” Wayne murmurs, “you’re always welcome in my home.”

He knows he’s crying again, a gentle and silent thing into Wayne’s shoulder. And yet, despite everything, he’s lighter.

Later, he tells Eddie all that happened and is held close, a hand in his hair and fingers tracing over his trembling shoulders. Later, Wayne will make a grand breakfast spread to celebrate new family. And even later, Wayne’ll crack a joke about no funny business while he’s sleeping. But Steve will know, through the tired and playful glint in Wayne’s eyes, he’s all too happy that Steve and Eddie figured themselves out.

For now, though, Wayne hands him a clean, soft towel. It’s dark green and well loved. And he knows, too, that his soul will eventually look just like that. And just like the towel, he soaks it all up. Including the warm, “Welcome home, son,” Wayne says before he closes the bathroom door.

🫂—————🫂

[erinwantstowrite]

the sneak pics have me wondering why peter feel the need to keep apologizing all the time ? is it because adults used to get mad at him all the time ?

yeah he has a LOTTT of unpacking to do with that. he still thinks that because he did things like this, it gave the adults around him the excuse to yell at/say nasty things to him. peter goes into a lot of detail with Dick about his previous foster homes in chapter 15, and this time Dick knows he has to ask because Peter's response to Dick and Wally realizing he knew about the "glitches" in some way and didn't tell Dick is absolutely heartbreaking

[loupy-mongoose]

WARNING:

This comic contains BLATANT depictions of INJURIES, BLOOD, and CHILD ABUSE.

This is not directly related to the current running story, but I was hit with a mood to share some... rather unpleasant character lore...

[matutito]

i digitized this post from @nerves-nebula tm(n)t version. its been months since i last drew these guys aaaaughh

mike doods

[woaheyeradioboy]

I genuinely don't fucking care what you like in fiction. I don't care how disgusting, heinous, or "illegal" (not actually) it is, as long as you aren't agreeing with it or acting out things you read in a non-roleplay/fiction setting.

TW: Rape, Child Abuse, Pedophilia, Age gaps, Abuse, Bestiality, Grooming, Incest, and similar content

You can read about someone being raped. You can read about a child being raped. You can read about incest. You can read about pedophilic incest. You can read about someone fucking a dog. You can read about someone being raped by an animal. You can read about someone grooming someone else. You can read about horrible power imbalances. You can read about Victim x Abuser. You can read about gang rape. You can read all of that and more, whether the content is "romanticizing" or "sexualizing" it or putting it in a "positive light", because I do believe if you're reading these things you are capable enough to not have your morals and "respect" of laws immediately broken because you didn't get told 100 different times during the story how bad the content was.

You can read WHATEVER THE FUCK YOU WANT, however you want, forever and ever. Don't act out the fiction in real life unless roleplaying with another consent adult (or teenager within your age range if you're not 18+) and it DOESN'T MATTER.

Fiction can affect reality, but usually only if you're allowing it to. Children oftentimes shouldn't be online but even if they are, it is never an authors fault or the people who enjoy the fiction the author writes that the child ends up exposed to bad things. If someone who is mentally unwell and cannot separate fiction and reality due to this is online and is affected by these things, it is not the authors fault or the fault of the people who enjoy the authors fiction.

If something that someone else wrote affects someone else in a bad way, it is not the authors fault.

Censorship of fiction is bad no matter what, and if you want to censor any form of fiction you are automatically already getting closer to people like transphobes and racists and ableists, because being pro-censorship ALWAYS leads down the same exact rabbit hole of puritan beliefs and controlling others.

[surreal-sapphic]

RGU Not Like Us edit I’m surprised I haven’t seen be made yet, so I made it myself.

[duskyashe]

CAMP NANO DAY 6

[chapter 4] [AO3]

(please see tags for trigger warnings)

============<×^-^×>============

It was a little known fact that Bruce Wayne hadn't only fostered his boys. As one of the few above-the-board trained and highly experienced foster parents in Gotham, Bruce had actually fostered dozens of children from all kinds of situations over the years. The only kids the press ever actually found out about were the ones he legally gained custody of, in one way or another, due to stringent privacy policies set in place back when he'd applied to be a foster parent for Dick.

Sometimes Bruce is able to keep in contact with his former foster kids, and he's always happy when that's the case, but other times he loses complete contact with them and can't legally track them down again. It's those children, outside of the ones he's legally able to claim as his own, that he worries about relentlessly. But even among those kids, there's two he worries about the most.

Jasmine Madeline Fenton and her younger brother Daniel Jackson Fenton had come into Bruce's life and home when Dick was thirteen. They weren't the first kids he'd fostered since adopting Dick, but they were the most impactful. Jazz was six, her hair was freshly cut and washed, her clothes neat and a bit on the baggy side, and her backpack still had a tag on it. Danny was three, he, too, had freshly cut and washed hair, his clothes were brand new, and his diaper bag was fully stocked.

Jazz was six and her clothes hung off her frame. She had bags under eyes and didn't know how to brush or wash her own hair. The backpack she had when she walked in his front doors was the very first new thing she'd ever seen that her parents hadn't immediately cannibalized for their experiments.

Danny was three and hadn't been given a real bath in almost a year. His clothes were all either too small or his sister's hand-me-downs. His diaper hadn't been changed in over six hours.

Bruce had been so sure he was going to be awarded permanent custody of the two. There had obviously been criminal neglect going on in that household at least, it should have been child's play to gain permanent custody of them. His lawyer and the children's case manager had assured them their case was practically airtight.

The kids had only been in his custody for two weeks before the state awarded full parental rights to the Drs Fenton. Jazz had only barely started getting used to eating three times a day again. Danny had just started smiling whenever Dick played peekaboo with him. And the courts sent. Them. Back. A month later and the Fenton's moved without a word, leaving behind not a single trace. It was almost as though they'd vanished.

Dick had been devastated. Alfred was crushed. And Bruce? Bruce experienced the five stages of grief for the second time in his life twice over. For years, he had private investigators searching everywhere he could think of for the siblings, desperately hoping to find even the slimmest glimmer of hope that they were alright, that they were still alive.

Jason coming into the household lessened some of that pain and desperation, especially after Bruce obtained full custody of him, but the tension between Dick and Jason drove the lingering tension between Dick and Bruce to critical levels. Argument after argument, fight after fight, all about the same topic: Why did Jason get adopted when Jazz and Danny were still out here?

Eventually the tension exploded in one of the worst ways possible, and the family was reduced back down to three. The first six months after Jason's funeral, Bruce refused to take on any new children. He even asked the private investigators to only contact him if they definitively found proof of the kids. The pain, the grief, the guilt was just too much for him. He'd failed Jazz and Danny, and he'd failed Jason, too. He couldn't handle failing yet another child.

Then Tim showed up, too tiny and too determined to get his way. The shock of seeing the obvious evidence of yet more criminal neglect from his own neighbors drew Bruce out of his downward spiral just enough to realize he needed help. Tim was right, he had been killing himself with his work, and doing so was the exact opposite of what Jazz, Danny, or Jason would have wanted from him. He notified CPS of a possible situation he was keeping an eye on, as well as the fact that he was pulling himself back together so he'd be able to reapply to be a foster parent, and then sought the help of a therapist sworn to absolute secrecy with the help of multiple NDAs.

A year later, he was reinstated as a foster parent, awarded first temporary, then later full, custody of Tim. He fostered a pair of blonde little girls for a few nights before an aunt was found in Vineland, New Jersey, who got custody instead. About a month after them, he fostered a ten year old boy for a week before his dad regained custody. He even fostered Tim's friend, Stephanie Brown, for two months while her mom went through rehab.

And then Red Hood came to town.

Between trying to track down and figure out who Red Hood was, Bruce also took on twin eight year old boys for about five days, a fifteen year old girl for two and a half weeks, a pair of cousins for ten days, and three siblings for a night. When Red Hood was finally revealed to be a revived Jason, angry at the thought that Bruce had replaced him and missing a few key memories, it had been two years since the last time he'd heard from the private investigators he'd hired eleven years prior. After weeks of careful negotiation and peace talks between Bruce and Jason, the family of four was well on their way to being the family of five they legally were, when Bruce decided it was time to get back in contact with the team he'd left in charge of the investigation looking for the Fentons. They only had a potential sighting of the Fentons at a class reunion in Wisconsin a few months prior, but any sighting was better than what they'd had for most of the eleven years prior, so Bruce asked them to double down and see what came from it.

Two weeks later, there was a knock on the manor door. It was the middle of a torrential downpour, one of the worst thunderstorms Gotham had seen in years, yet there was undeniably someone knocking at the door. Bruce, who'd been passing through the entry hall on a late evening stroll through the manor, was the one to answer the door.

She was in her late teens, her hair was long, wet, and stuck to the side of her face, her clothes in poor repair with splotches of dark red and neon green on them, and her backpack was worn and frayed. He was in his early teens, he, too, had long, wet hair that stuck to his face, his clothes were rags and barely hanging onto him with more of those dark red and neon green splotches, and his duffle bag was stuffed to the gills.

"Mr Wayne?" Jasmine Madeline Fenton asked, voice quivering as the two of them huddled on his doorstep, Daniel Jackson Fenton's eyes drooping to half mast from exhaustion. "We need your help. Our parents are trying to murder us."

============<×^-^×>============

I'm not gonna lie, it took me forever to figure out what I wanted to write today, but once I decided on this, it just wrote itself (⁠^⁠_⁠^⁠メ⁠) I actually got the idea for this fic from a prompt @evandarya had posted in the Batpham server a while back, which I absolutely loved and just had to write, so this ficlet is dedicated to them (not that they're aware of it yet lol)

Once again, I have no idea if I'll ever continue this ficlet, for my muse is fickle and likes to play favorites ¯⁠\⁠_⁠(⁠⊙⁠_⁠ʖ⁠⊙⁠)⁠_⁠/⁠¯ I might get lucky and get sudden inspiration for a sequel for this, or I might not, who knows? Honestly, if anyone wants to add onto this, go right ahead lol that'd be amazing.

[every-moment-a-different-sound]

The Case of the Devlin House

Dead Boy Detectives S01E03

[shreddeddescent]

raph is in an extremely fucked up place and equates all his problems with each other and blows up at leo about it.

⚠️ content warning: mentions of internalized transphobia, dubious consent, child abuse/incest (but not how you think) ⚠️

it might be a bit soon for this drama bomb for you guys, it might be a little out of order for how i wanna present anything in this story ive got going, but honestly... fuck it. lets just get that out of the way. tired of having it hanging over my head.