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[theblackparadecomic]

CHAPTER ONE: TEENAGERS | PAGES 85-89

[puhpandas]

Okay you don't have to answer this if you think it's a tad too dark,but in your fanfic/AU world do you think Michael and our even William ever actually physically hit Evan? Our is it always just taunts a verbal abuse?

I think michael is rough with him in a "boys will be boys" way (as in like. too rough but that's what everybody on the outside chalks it up to). william is a lot more neglectful than actually straight up bad but when he is around Evan its nothing but deep cutting words. that's why evan doesnt like his dad (or Michael for that matter but it hurts more coming from his dad for some reason)

so to answer your question no. I dont think they seek out hurting Evan but maybe they wouldn't care if they were rough with him. I also think if he had something like breaking a bone happen to him or getting sick they wouldn't care that much

[ninaeatswaffle]

//TW: child abuse, religious trauma//

(she/xe) I went onto truth social for fun and also to introduce some ✨diversity✨to the website. Alt-righters never fail to disappoint me.

[ciarawinters]

Ciara at a glance

“Be a badass with a good ass"

NAME: Ciara Aliyah Winters ALIASES: CiCi to the rare few AGE: 29 [Born February 1st] OCCUPATION: Stage Manager at Sammie's place, in the real world she was a TV camerawoman and tech specialist for Art's paranormal show. Also self-titled Dumb Fuck Wrangler ARRIVED: Early November 2023 GENDER/PRONOUNS: Cis Female, She/Her SEXUALITY: Lesbian; men that hit on her may get throat punched QUIRKS: Loud, bossy, and not a single fuck given. Ciara is rather unapologetic about the way she is - it gets results and she knows what the fuck she's talking about. Youngest sibling energy and she's fully aware of it. If you ask her about her camera or any of the equipment they used on the show she will show her truest colors and go into full nerd mode. Aside from tech she kept her pulse on pop culture and trends to help keep both Art and the show relevant. Has been in town for only a few months and is already bored out of her mind.

BIOGRAPHY

Ciara doesn't have a lot of memories of her early childhood, though the deadbeat prison father and the scar on Chris' face certainly let her put a few pieces together as she got older. She never knew that side of the 'Winters' family, only knowing loving siblings and mom. As the youngest, Ciara was certainly the Mama's girl, often siding with her mom when tensions rose between her and her other siblings. Still, she loved them all. They were a part of her, of her life. So when Chris up and vanished 12 years ago it cut like a knife. He ghosted them, finally tired of his family if what Charlie said was to be believed. He never made it to her high school graduation. Or her college graduation. Or their mom's funeral.

His disappearance left a hole in her heart, one that she hid behind a wall of sass and grit. She was tough, she didn't need him. And so Ciara focused her life on her passion: film. Or more specifically, film production. To see something in front of her be transformed through the lens of a camera was absolute magic. While Ciara would always swear it was her hard work and dedication that landed her the internship with The Company, in her heart she knows it was pure fucking luck. It was the stepping stone she needed to push off her career, to claw her way up to head camera operator and techie. Ciara knew the exact angles, the exact timing, the exact lighting to pull off the perfect performance. If only Art would cooperate.

Despite her frustrations with the man, she quickly became attached. With his clumsy charm he filled in that hole Chris had left so many years before. And so Ciara insisted no one else was allowed to work with Art, no one else could make the show as successful as it was. Hell, she'd even been nominated a few times for her work. Had yet to win, but she swore it was only a matter of time until her talents were recognized by the monkeys in charge of the award ceremonies.

Though Chris had left her life, Ciara continued to stay in touch with her sisters. The only family she had left. When Charlie said enough was enough, she was going to look for Chris, Ciara encouraged her sister. But when Charlie stopped answering her texts...well...it was too much. There had to be something about Huntsville, WV that was making her lose her family. With a great deal of push Ciara convinced Art's production team that the small town in bumfuck nowhere was their next hit location. She would get answers, one way or another. Months later, guilt still secretly eats away at Ciara that she dragged Art into this Silent Hill ripoff. It's her fault he's here, that he's in danger. She'll find a way to make it up to him, somehow.

[southwesternworldbuildersllc]

The Straighten Out Center is a cruel place that brainwashes “uncouth” Stanfordian teens and turns them into stepford homemakers. To accomplish this, both yanderes and darlings are employed as staff members who destroy and train back up these captive teens. Some of these are:

🖤Drill Sergeant Macnamera: One of the breakers who terrorizes new students into total submission. A sadistic yandere, his wife passed away 5 years ago, and it’s rumored that he killed her.

💝Mary Louise Dalton: A former “graduate” of this horrid place who now acts as the knitting instructor. Her demure smile can’t hide the madness in her eyes.

💓Michael Smith: The piano instructor. He avoids the inmates like the plague when not giving lessons, as his yandere is very possessive.

🖤Clay Smith: One of the disciplinary officers. He thinks lowly of the inmates and of darlings in general, believing that they should “stay in the kitchen”.

🖤Doris Macnamera: Drill Sergeant Macnamera’s sister, and the baking instructor. She is sickeningly sweet and cheerful, and surprisingly kind to the inmates, even though one of her punishments for poor work is having some of your blood mixed in the dough.

[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.

🫂—————🫂

[puhpandas]

R.I.C.E

(3,837 words)

Hadi and Cyril walk in on Greg's Dad grabbing him just a bit too harshly. They help him treat the bruise.

warning for bruises, child abuse, mentions of death and corpses, blood, & decapitation. if u read the book ur probably fine but better safe than sorry

"I think I flunked the test."

Hadi glances over Cyrils hair to look at Greg. "What makes you say that?"

"Because I didnt understand the majority of the questions on the sheet." Greg says, rubbing his eyes with the balls of his hands. "Half of it I didnt even recognize."

Hadi just furrows his brows. "Is it because of..." He trails off.

"Yeah." Greg confirms what Hadi had been thinking. "It's gotten worse, I think. But..." He sighs. "I don't know."

Hadi and Cyril stop on the sidewalk they'd been walking on to get to Greg's house, and Greg instinctively pauses as well.

"Nothing you've tried to help has worked?" Cyril asks.

"No... well, I don't know. I havent really tried anything." Greg says, running the hand that's not holding on to his backpack through his hair.

"You need to try to find something online tonight, dude." Hadi suggests. "Try anything. If it works, it works. If it doesnt, then no harm done."

Greg supposes Hadi's words ring true, but he still frowns.

What is he supposed to do, anyway? He's pretty sure remembering something bad that happened to you is something everybody goes through. Besides, even if he did try to search for a solution online, what is he supposed to search?

'How to stop remembering how an evil dog that loved you too much killed your crush, bit off your uncles finger, and killed his neighbors dog and delivered their corpses to your front door in class so you can focus and stop flunking'

Yeah. It sounds as crazy as he thought it would. Another thing hes sure of is that what he went through wasn't normal. And normal problems don't have normal solutions that you can find on Google.

"I'll try." He says anyway, because at this point, he's willing to try anything.

It's not that he's not smart enough. He's had good grades all of his life. He likes science, and with science comes math, and like his friends and the other kids always like to say, if you actually like math, then you're a nerd. And if you're a nerd, then you're really smart.

It rings true, he guesses. But that's not what's holding him back, anyway. It truly is just that he doesnt know. If you asked him, Greg couldn't tell you what was taught in any of his classes yesterday. Or today, for that matter.

He can't stop seeing visions of the bloody, beige sheet sitting in front of his bathroom door, or the neighbors dogs organs spilling out onto his front porch beneath his eyelids in the middle of class. And with that comes missing every single word said by his teacher as he desperately tries to send the memories away.

It's taking its toll. The fact that it happened at all is already bad enough, the fact that his failure is always plastered against every wall of his mind, pushing through every thought to remind him of the dog, finger, or person he couldn't save...

Kimberly's parents moved away. His neighbor got a new dog. A cute, fluffy brown dog that reminds him too much of him. Uncle Dare still talks about 'The Magic Finger Of Luck', and Greg still desperately tries to shove away the memories before they creep back up on him every time he does.

Hadi and Cyril are the only other people that know, and they try their best to help him, even though they didnt see what he saw.

"Let's go." Cyrils voice rips Greg out of his thoughts. "Let's get to your house so we can help you study."

Greg rubs his eyes again, but he's thankful that his friends are willing to help him get caught up so he doesn't get into even more trouble.

"Okay." He says, and it's not long before they get to Gregs house.

Greg tries not to look down when he steps onto the walkway leading to his front door, and eventually his 'welcome friends' mat, and just uses his keys to unlock the door.

The car in the driveway goes unnoticed as Greg steps into the house, Hadi and Cyril caught up in some hushed discussion behind him, but he pays it no mind, just kicking off his shoes and slinging his backpack off of his shoulder to bring it to his room upstairs.

He gasps harshly when a hand suddenly grabs at him, fingers curling around his forearm tightly.

He tugs on instinct, and he can hear Hadi and Cyril have gone silent behind him.

The hand tugs back. Greg finally forces his head to swivel to see who the culprit is.

His Dad stares back at him, something angry in his eyes with a sneer on his face.

Greg immediately knows what's going on.

His Dad doesn't usually bother him, only when he does something he doesn't like, or... sometimes what he doesn't do.

But Greg was sent to the principal's office today because of how much his once perfect school performance had plummeted in such a short amount of time, and...

Crap. Why did he not realize this sooner?

He glances back to the front door, where Hadi and Cyril hang back, a confused expression on their faces as they duck behind the frame of the doorway.

He almost curses. That's not good. He doesn't want his friends too see this. He doesn't want them to know. Not yet at least.

He would be worried that his Dad would be mad he isn't gracing him with eye contact, but he hasn't respected his Dad enough to look him in the eye in years.

He would be an idiot to not expect this from him by now.

The iron grip on his arm squeezes a bit tighter, and Greg instinctively wraps a hand around the free part of his wrist, a grimace twisting on his face.

"The school called today." His Dad says, confirming exactly what Greg assumed. He looks down at him with slitted eyes, his gaze cold and angry. "They say that you've been slacking in class, son."

Greg doesn't say anything. Just stares at the ground besides his arm. What is he supposed to say, really? 'Sorry, Dad. I've been slacking because I can't stop being haunted by the evil robot dog that killed Kimberly and ate Dare's finger, so I can never pay attention.'

He thinks his Dad would lose even more respect for him, but realistically, Greg knows that isnt possible.

Dad grips his arm even tighter, his nails digging into Greg's skin, and Greg cant bite down the grimace that stretches across his face.

"Nothing to say to that, huh?" His Dad taunts.

Suddenly, Greg's arm is tugged harshly, and he has to try really hard to not stumble and fall to the ground as his Dad yanks him forward.

"I will not have a deadbeat delinquent for a son." Dad whispers harshly into Greg's ear. Greg furrows his brows and tugs on his arm instinctively as his back twinges, but all he gets from it is another tug from a titanium hold.

"You will fix your grades, and your mistakes." His Dad tells him, hes not asking. He's ordering him. Telling Greg what to do so confidently, because he knows Greg will always do what he says, no matter how much it makes Greg bristle for acting like an obedient dog.

(Not a dog. Never a dog.)

His Dads hot breath is harsh on his face, and Greg makes a face when he starts speaking again.

"Maybe then you'll be good for something."

Gregs Dad gives his arm one last agonizing squeeze that almost makes Greg cry out from the pain. He can feel something give, or twist, or something from his Dad's white knuckled grip, but then, he finally releases him, sending Greg stumbling for footing.

It's only after hes gathered purchase that he becomes painfully aware of his arm. Its pulsing, each wave sending an electrifying ache of pain down his forearm, and he can feel some stinging from where his Dads fingernails no doubt broke some skin.

Greg peeks at his Dad through his curtain of blond wavy bangs, and doesn't even bother trying to hide the way he grits his teeth when his Dad is staring at him with the same look Greg is so used to.

Disappointment, indifference, and a third thing Greg could never put his finger on, but he's pretty sure is hatred.

Greg should be used to this by now. He is used to it. The way his Dad has never celebrated anything Greg has ever done, and the way his Dad has always told him he'll never be good enough.

Just like the other times, he scolds himself for the way his chest tightens and hurt stabs at his heart.

He's used to it. Has been for years now.

So why does he still let it get to him?

Hadi and Cyril apparently decided now was the right time to walk in. They step next to Greg, Cyril hovering, not too confident in the same presence as Greg's father, but Hadi puts a steadying hand on Greg's shoulder. Comforting, and in solidarity. Its almost like it tells him I'm on your side.

Nothing like the white knuckled grips of his Dad after he had a bad report card, or he got in trouble with the neighbors, or Greg would watch documentaries a little too loud up in his room and disturb his Dads work.

"Hello, Mr. Smith." Hadi says, his tone cold and accusing. "We just came to help Greg study."

Greg almost bristles at Hadi's confidence, at his bravery, but Greg gets one look at his Dad, who's staring at Hadi and Cyril with something Greg has only seen on his Dads face a few times.

Fear.

His Dads never been caught by anyone but his Mom before.

Hadi and Cyril don't hang around for his Dad to come up with an excuse. For him to try his hardest to erase what Hadi and Cyril weren't supposed to see from their minds. They push Greg up the stairs, and even when they're almost all the way up, where the light doesn't hit, he doesnt need to see. He can feel his friends concerned eyes on his back.

He ignores the familiar twinge in his gut and the ache of his heart as Hadi and Cyril follow him into his room, where he collapses onto his bed as soon as it's in sight.

Theres a stretch of silence after Cyril shuts and locks the door. Nobody says anything, and Greg is thankful. He's not ready for his friends inevitable concerned questions.

He never even wanted them to know up until recently, after... you know. When he stopped wanting to hide things from his friends. It isn't a big deal, really. His Dad is nothing he can't handle, if the fact that he knows how to use makeup to cover bruises and knows how to make them stop hurting is any indication.

But his father already looks at him with pity enough, like he's a small, pathetic bug that will never be enough to achieve greatness. Even though it wouldn't be the same, he doesn't want his friends to look at him the same way.

Theres another beat of silence as Greg just lies on his bed, his good arm slung over his eyes as he wills himself to stop feeling like crap.

The silence is broken by Cyril.

"...You never told us your Dad was..." He trails off.

"Like that." Hadi finishes. Greg finally let's his arm slide off of his face to sit up to face his friends. It's a little difficult with his still throbbing, sore arm, but he manages.

"How long has this been going on? How long have we not known?" Hadi asks, and he moves from his spot in the middle of Greg's room to step up to the bed, looking Greg straight in the eyes. "We could have helped."

Greg doesn't say anything, just heaves out a sigh as his body deflates a bit, but he tenses right back up at Cyrils next words.

"W-We need to tell somebody." He says, brows furrowed and eyes darting to the door like Greg's Dad will suddenly decide to mow it down to murder them all. "I mean... right?"

"No!" Greg springs up, eyes wide as he holds a hand out to Cyril. He doesn't mean to sound so desperate, but he does. "Just... no."

"Why?" Hadi asks, and Greg turns to look at him again. "He hurt you, Greg. And this isn't like last time, where nobody would believe us if we told somebody."

Greg knows exactly what 'last time' Hadi is talking about. Last time, Greg had to lie to the polices face about Kimberly's death, because if he had told the truth, he would surely be somewhere else entirely right now.

He shakes the thoughts away. "No, Hadi. It'll just make things worse."

Hadi doesn't look convinced, just staring at him with almost smothering concern, and Cyril still looks on edge, more scared than Greg himself, even though Greg was the target of his Dads aggression.

"Its nothing I can't handle." Greg insists, offering his friends a smile. "My arm isn't that bad." He holds out the arm in question to show them it's fine, but he can't stop the way his brows pinch when another wave of soreness washes over his arm when the skin stretches.

Hadis eyebrows shoot up to his hairline. "Your arm!" He exclaims, and dives for Greg's arm so fast hes afraid he'll grab ahold of it like his Dad did, but he slows down at the last second, instead taking it and holding it gingerly in his hands.

Greg's brain takes an embarrassing amount of time to catch up while Hadi rolls up his jacket sleeve, sucking in a harsh breath when the place his Dad grabbed becomes visible.

Greg himself finally takes a look, and he too gasps at the sight.

It's worse than he thought. Theres a nasty, swelled up imprint on his arm in the shape of a hand, fingerprints curled around his forearm like a snake coiled around and squeezed. The area is a nauseating reddish-purple with flecks of blue and green, with the area underneath having red, inflamed, crescent shaped punctures with a small bit of dried blood around the edges.

Greg's mouth twists into a grimace, and although he himself isnt too worried about it, Hadi looks like somebody just died right in front of him.

Cyril squeaks when a door slams below them, muffled and faraway, and Greg can see him slightly relax when they all come to the conclusion that Greg's Dad just left the house.

Hadi startles when he remembers what's really important.

"Come on." He says quietly, because he's mildly horrified or because he wants to be comforting, Greg doesnt know. But he appreciates it all the same. "Let's go fix your arm up."

Greg just nods. He's gonna have to fix it up at some point, anyway. And probably cover it up with some of his Mom's makeup before school tomorrow, but if helping Greg bandage his arm is what makes his friends feel better, Greg isnt going to complain.

Hadi doesn't let go of his loose grip on Greg's wrist, just below his bruise, instead, he just leads him to the door, unlocking it with a soft click.

"We have to ice it, first." Greg says, and he tries to ignore the heat on his face when Hadi doesn't let go even when they're out the door. "There's some zip-locks in the drawer we can put some ice in."

Hadi and Cyril both look a little sad at the fact that Greg knows the steps, but they nod nonetheless.

"Okay." Hadi pauses. "I'll go get that, and you go sit in your room while Cyril finds some bandages."

Cyril nods at the task given to him (Not a task. Never a task.), while Greg sputters.

"My legs arent the thing that's bruised, you know." Greg says. "And I still have a good arm."

"You're hurt." Is all Hadi says, pausing at the mouth of the stairs while Cyril heads down to find bandages. "Just let us help you, dude."

Greg bites the inside of his cheek, but relents. "Okay."

Hadi smiles at him before heading downstairs, and Greg averts his eyes before he can stare for too long.

He heads back to his room and waits on his bed, resting his arm on a throw pillow, and he's only been waiting for a few minutes when Hadi and Cyril come back through the door.

Hadi shuts the door behind him when they both enter the room, Cyril setting down a roll of bandages next to the throw pillow. Hadi walks over to where Greg is sitting on the bed and holds the ice pack over Greg's arm, hovering.

"You ready?" Hadi asks him.

Greg's shoulders loosen a bit at Hadis soft words, even though he didnt realize he was tense at all. "Ready."

Hadi doesn't beat around the bush any longer. He sets the ice pack on the nasty, purple area on Greg's arm and holds it there.

Greg would be lying if he said he didnt wince at the pain that was sent through his arm like an electric current at the ice packs pressure, but he bites down any other sign of being uncomfortable, and when Hadi and Cyril look at him with concern, he just smiles for them.

He doesn't want them to worry. He really is alright, after all.

"So... how long do we keep it on for?" Cyril asks.

"Twenty minutes on and off." Greg says. "That's what Google says."

Hadi and Cyril just make that sad face again, and Greg resists the urge to comment on it.

They're just worried. He has no reason to get angry at them for that. He can ignore his self pity, he just want to appreciate that his friends care this much.

The forty minutes go by fast, the only buffer being taking the ice pack off after twenty. Its been silent most of the time. They're all just... thinking, he supposes. Nobodys really in the mood to joke around after what had happened.

"I'm going to get rid of this." Cyril says, holding up the homemade ice pack that's just a bag of lukewarm water at this point. "I'll be right back."

Greg and Hadi both nod, both knowing that Cyril is just using the ice pack as an excuse so he doesnt need to be there for when the bruise is uncovered for the world to see.

He's always been a bit squeamish.

Cyril heads downstairs, and this time, Hadi doesn't ask. He just waits for Greg to offer his arm out and begins bandaging.

Theres a stretch of silence as Greg just watches Hadi hold Greg's arm delicately, like its porcelain glass, and wrap it with the fresh white bandages. But eventually, the silence is broken.

"Why do you not want to tell anybody?" Hadi asks out of the blue. Greg startles, glancing up at Hadi when he pauses bandaging for a moment. "Your Dad. He hurt you."

"I know." Greg says, staring at his lap. "It wouldn't solve anything."

"How?" Hadi asks incredulously. He continues bandaging, and when he wraps a little too harshly, at Greg's wince, his eyes soften and he takes a deep breath, slowing down. "I mean... people could help you."

"You're helping me. And Cyril." Greg smiles, but it's gone as quick as it came. "It would be more trouble than it's worth. I can handle a few bruises," He gestures to his arm with his good hand. "And..."

He trails off. Hadi slows down with wrapping, just looking at him questioningly. "What kind of trouble?"

"...Money." Greg says simply. "And my Mom. If my Dad were to be separated from us, well... he's our main source of income, and me and my Mom would probably have to move, and that means leaving you guys."

Hadi is silent, just tucking the end of the bandage underneath the surface layer to hold the bandage in place.

"Its too many things that would go wrong." Greg says, flexing his newly bandaged forearm, then letting it drop.

"...I dont know if I could stand being away from you guys." Greg confesses, staring at his lap with furrowed brows and playing with the hem of his jacket. "I mean... after what happened with Kimberly, and-- and--"

"I get it." Hadi interrupts, and Greg is silently thankful. He doesn't look up to meet Hadi's eyes, not until Hadi takes the hand of his injured arm and laces their fingers together.

Greg whips his head up so fast it could be equal to the speed of light, and Hadi laughs at him.

"I won't tell." Hadi promises, finally meeting Greg's eyes. They're a deep, almost royal blue, not too different from Greg's own, and he has to fight to not look away. "I promise. I'll tell Cyril too."

Greg can feel a weight be taken off of his shoulders when a burden he didn't even realise he was carrying is lifted away. "Thank you."

Hadi doesn't speak for a moment, just staring at Greg's comforter, but then, he shifts, and Greg is immediately made hyper aware again of his own hand interlocked with Hadis.

"But you have to promise you'll let us help. Dont hide from us," Hadi says, squeezing Greg's hand to make him look him in the eye. "okay?"

"Okay." Greg promises. And he really means it, too. It's nice to finally not have to hide things from his friends anymore. Especially after... him, Greg doesn't want him and his friends to be strangers towards eachother.

They went through that together. They were his only allies. Even if Greg was really the only one truly involved, that just makes his friends sticking by him that much more meaningful.

He doesn't want to hide things from them anymore. Maybe this wasn't exactly the way Greg wanted them to find out about his Dad, but it's done now, and Hadi and Cyril had done everything they could to make him feel safe and comfortable.

Hadi is still staring at him, and when Greg catches a glimpse of his face, partially obscured by his mop of wavy blond hair in his mirror, he can see pink dusting his cheeks.

Cyril suddenly peeks into the room from the doorway.

"...Are you done yet?" Cyril asks. He seems to have come to the conclusion that neither Greg nor Hadi were fooled by his excuses and gives up with the charade.

Hadi slips his hand out of Greg's, but it's okay. They both just look at eachother and laugh.

Cyril steps into the room and says something, but Greg doesn't hear it.

He'll be fine. He has Hadi and Cyril.

He'll be okay.

ao3 link

[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...

[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.