#parent whump

[hey-that-hurt]

And of course there’s the flipside of parent whump: child whump. Maybe the parent is captured or trapped, maybe the injuries are happening at a remote location too far away to reach but at least the news is telling them how badly their child is hurt. Maybe it’s a kidnapper sending cryptic messages leaving far too much to the imagination. Maybe they’ve both been kidnapped, and the kidnapper realizes far too quickly how to get the parent to cooperate.

Maybe things are strained, maybe both parent and child are adults now and they don’t talk like they used to but that‘s still the kid they raised and loved and maybe getting stabbed would be better than them getting hurt like this.

Maybe the child is a kid who happened to be in their proximity that they half heartedly took under your wing. And they thought they didn’t care, it’s not like this is their kid, except why then is one of the worst things they’ve ever experienced?

Maybe it’s a kid who was hurt, who had nobody, who they decided was their responsibility now. And they promised, they promised, that the kid would be safe. And what a horrible liar they are.

(Tag your favorite characters for this dynamic, I’m curious)

#whump #parent whump #child whump #but mostly as a means to hurt the parent ✨emotionally✨ tbh #Once again I love Toshinori and Aizawa with Midoriya Izuku from MHA for this dynamic #Toshinori logically knowing that without Izuku the fate of the world could be at stake but more importantly IZUKU IS HURT #And stoic gruff Aizawa maybe losing his cool unable to do anything #I also like Shawn and Henry Spencer from Psych for this. They hate each other so much but they don’t. #whump prompt

[comfy-whumpee]

Good to Know

[ignores all my plot threads to write more standalone pieces] TW: aftermath of abuse.

Taglist <3 @bloodybrambles, @wildfaewhump, @ishouldblogmore, @lektric-whump, @that-one-thespian, @raigash, @burtlederp, @rosesareviolentlyread, @eatyourdamnpears -- and @ashintheairlikesnow is the writer of Jax’s children and their unmentionable mother.

“Basically…” he says, sitting on his hands on the folding chair, “I can’t do it on my own.”

 Hari looks at him over her reading glasses. She hadn’t paid much heed to his appearance when he sat down, and she rectifies that now at hearing such an unusual response to how can I help?

 Mr Gallagher looks to be between thirty and thirty-five. His face shows haggard signs of wear, but her instinct tells her this is not from the simple trials of life, and he is likely younger than he appears. His hair is cropped short, but with a longer part on top that sits shaggy over his forehead to one side. He has a lip ring, an eyebrow piercing, and two studs in his visible ear. He’s wearing a denim jacket with a wool collar and a black bandanna around his neck.

 “Can you tell me more?” she says, keeping her voice kind. She has learned not to judge people in this job, and more importantly, never to seem like she could be. It’s hard enough to come and seek advice; one wrong word and some people never try again.

 “Uh, yeah.” Mr Gallagher scratches the back of his head, avoiding her gaze. “I have two kids. They’re great. They’re my whole world. But they’re getting bigger, and we’re all living in my dad’s flat with him. They don’t have their own rooms. My eldest, she’s…uh, she’s started school. I figure she’s going to ask, soonish, about everyone else having their own rooms.”

 This is a concern Hari has heard many times, from parents with limited finances, making do in houses they can’t afford to leave. “You think she’ll want her own space?”

 “No.” He glances at her, measuring her reaction. He doesn’t seem to find what he’s looking for, and his eyes shift away. “She doesn’t. But that’s its own problem, you know? It’s not good for her to be around when I‘m… I have my own stuff that I don’t want her to see, to have to see.”

“You need your own space,” Hari says. “I see, yes. That is just as important. It is immensely difficult to focus on yourself when your children are present.”

 The reassurance doesn’t seem to affect him. “Sure,” he replies, not going as far as to agree. “And my dad, he’s put up with – my baby boy, he’s running around now. He keeps my dad up at all hours.”

 She nods. She wonders, as she always does, where the mother is. She never asks. There is always something, if the other parent is not mentioned.

 “What can we do to support you?” she asks, when it seems he has explained his situation to his satisfaction.

 “I dunno really. I don’t know what you can really do. Just thought you might have – some ideas.”

 He isn’t asking for the moon, which is always her fear. She’s been working with the charity for four years now, and some parents come in demanding, or simply desperate for a magic fix. To them, Hari, in her cardigan and reading glasses, is an austere being of immense power. She is a font of peerless wisdom. She is more than a volunteer with a few training courses under her belt.

 “That’s alright. I know more about what we can offer than most – I hope.” The gentle humour, like the kind words, seem not to scratch his stony surface. She imagines him with his children, serious and careful. “Why don’t you tell me what your ideal outcome is?”

 It’s odd to watch a grown man talk with his eyes on his knees, sitting on his hands, but that’s what he does. There’s a slight ripple in his nose from this angle. “I guess… The kids having their own space they can grow up in. But also, being able to make that work. I can’t do it alone, but dad isn’t moving out for it, and mam can’t either, she’s got her whole life out in the sticks. So it’s kind of impossible.”

 “Impossible is fine,” she reminds him. “The ideal is a larger house, enough bedrooms for everyone, and support for you?”

 His mouth lifts at the corners, but it’s not a smile. Perhaps it was once, before time hammered it into a different shape. “Sure,” he says again, enigmatic. “As long as the kids are happy.”

 Hari smiles a little more sincerely, beyond her default polite pleasantness, to hear that phrase. It’s one of her favourites. Parents and carers alike have that driving principle.

 “Of course. But in an ideal world,” she returns carefully to that word, to the reminder that they are talking simply about what he would want, if he could disconnect from crushing realism, “I hope you would also be happy, Mr Gallagher.”

 He looks away again, shrugging a shoulder awkwardly, still sitting atop his hands. “Sure.”

 Nothing more follows the word, and Hari finds her smile stuck for a moment as she tries to think of what to say next.

 He’s difficult to read, she realises. That’s why she feels so nervous, overanalysing his every gesture and word. She can’t pin him down.

 Deep breath. She’s had reticent parents before.

 “I’m going to ask another question, and it may sound judgemental, but I want you to know it is not said with that intent. This is a genuine question, not a judgement.” She pauses, resting her hands on her knees. “What makes you feel that you can’t do this alone?”

 He snorts, arms twitching like he wants to fold hem. “Well, that’s easy. I have PTSD, night terrors, chronic pain, I can’t keep to a schedule, I lose track of time constantly, ADHD basically, although without all the other shit it wouldn’t be so bad, oh, and I was fucking stalked so I’m kind of paranoid.”

 Again, he hits her with a direct look, searching for something in her response. She frowns. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

 He coughs a sudden laugh, empty of humour. “Yeah, people usually are.”

 She gives him a moment, but he’s done. He’s finally opened up and given her the real problem, and she’s relieved to hear it.

 “Mr Gallagher,” she says slowly, settling back into her kind, professional manner, “let me reassure you that you are not the only parent we work with who has experienced trauma. Parents often come to us feeling as though they are failing their children simply by having their own needs as human beings. I’m not saying I have worked with someone who has had your exact experience, but I can say that I have heard and helped families many times where the person who needs help the most is not the child. What we can do—”

 “How many times?”

 Hari’s mouth hangs open for a moment before she gathers herself. “I can think of a dozen with the service now, half of which I have met personally.”

 “And they have – what, PTSD?”

 “PTSD, anxiety, depression, agoraphobia, gender dysphoria…”

 “ADHD?”

 “Not currently, but many times in the past.” She finds herself smiling, really smiling. Underneath the aggression, she is starting to get a sense of the vast fears he has been hiding. “Parents do not simply cease to have their own lives and their own struggles when children are born.”

 He breathes another, very different laugh. “Yeah.”

 She gives him another moment.

 “…So, what would you do?” A look. A measure of her response. Is he assessing her for competence, she wonders, or for risk? “With someone like me.”

 Hari meets his gaze without judgement, without threat, simply acknowledging him. His eyes are hazel with a glimmer of sunlight from the window to their left. He looks tired, as parents here always do. “I would suggest they join our mental health support group, where they can meet other parents experiencing similar difficulties. I would refer them to the Play with Meaning scheme, where you and your children can attend workshops to help build secure relationships. And I would also strongly recommend that they seek one-to-one counselling—”

 “Got that one,” he interrupts. When she blinks, he grins. “Yeah. For me and for the kids.”

 She smiles back. “Then you are already ahead of the curve, Mr Gallagher, and I’m glad to hear it. I have one other suggestion, or question, really. Do you have friends who are parents?”

 “Uh.” She’s surprised him. “Uh, no. I’m kind of a young dad, if you hadn’t noticed. And we didn’t exactly… Go out much. Still don’t, really.”

 “I think it may help,” she says gently. “All parents doubt they are doing the best for their children. Again, I’m not saying your experiences are directly comparable to anyone’s, but – some aspects of what you’ve told me about are, in my experience, something everyone feels.”

 She can see it now, with the shock of hearing those words cutting past the barriers. She can see the vulnerability, the genuine need for help, the fear that he’s a failure. For whatever reason – and parents, she knows, will always find one – he believes his every need subtracts from his children’s own.

 Then he recovers, and the shutters go back down. “That’s…” Life-changing, she thinks. She hopes. “Okay. That’s good to know.”

#my fic #whump #angst #recovery whump #parent whump #??? i guess that's a category #jax #past trauma #dad jax

[whumpster-dumpster]

A typically absent parent finally being around to help when the whumpee's sick/hurt, quietly (or not so quietly) growing to resent the fact that Caretaker seems to know their kid better than they do

#whump #whump prompt #writing prompt #caretaking #resentment #multiple caretakers #familial whump #parental caretaker #angst

[nymime]

Mike: your parents dropped you on your head as a child?

Steve: bold of you to assume they wanted to hold me or I was even held.

Mike:

Eddie:

Robin:

The Party:

Steve: What?

Joyce: come here, i gonna hold you my big baby boy.

#steve harrington #steve stranger things #stranger things #imagine steve harrington #steddie #steve deserves the world #steve harrington angst #steve has shitty parents #italian steve harrington #angst #steve has bad parents #steve harrington whump #joyce is steve mother #bold of mike to assume that steve it was love by his shitty parents. #Eddie is concerned about steve self love #Eddie is gonna make him see how love is he. #Joyce will fight steve parents.

[jordanstrophe]

I love it when a high-status caretaker adopts a nobody whumpee. I also love a high-status whumpee getting adopted by a nobody caretaker, who has no idea who whumpee is, but whumpee adores it because someone is treating them like a normal person for the first time.

#whump #whumpee #caretaker #caretaking #whump prompt #caretaker prompt #caretaking prompt #found family whump #parental caretaker #powerful caretaker #powerful whumpee #strong whumpee #whump tropes #whump ideas

[sp0o0kylights]

Someone on Twitter proposed Steve and Gareth as cousins whose family had a major falling out, and then someone else brought it up recently and long story short no idea who to credit the idea too bc you can’t search for SHIT on Twitter but it's theirs not mine. 

Anyway I wrote a lil thing as a warmup 

PART TWO

"Why don't you come sit with Hellfire?" Gareth asked, angrily leaned against the bathroom wall while Steve fixed his hair.

He'd tried not to cling since he entered high school. Tried to keep things on the downlow, least any gossipy mouths started running. 

It was so stupidly, needlessly, hard. 

 His cousin was only two years ahead of him but they'd spent the last year in different schools because of it. 

 That year, and the lack of Steve's presence in it, had grated. Now that he finally had Steve back, Gareth was loathe to play by the rules. 

"Sit with you and Eddie, "the freak" Munson? I'll pass." Steve said, but there was no bite in it. 

That, Gareth knew, was because Steve was  using Eddie as an excuse. 

"You'd like Eddie if you spent five minutes with him, King Steve." Gareth fired back on automatic. His fingers dug into his arms, as he resisted the urge to pace around the bathroom floor. 

Unspoken was all the shit that had taken place.

Steve and Nancy's breakup. The rumor mill in overdrive, first about how Jonathan Byers had taken creep shot photos of them, then about how he'd taken his shot with Nancy herself. 

The supposed cheating, the public fights, the crazy background of Jonathan's little brother being missing. 

Billy Hargrove beating Steve to a pulp. 

Now friendless, Steve had thoroughly fallen from his place at the tippy top of the social hierarchy and between his utter lack of friends and his shit tier parents, Gareth was concerned. 

"You do not want me to sit with you, Gary. I'd tell all your little friends that you're apart of the royal family." Steve turned, making an exaggerated face. "How's Munson feel about cozying up to a Prince?" 

"I'd technically be an Earl, Steve, not a prince." Gareth grumbled. 

He got an eye roll in response. "Somehow I don't think he'll care." 

"I do though." Gareth blurted out, absolutely thoughtless. 

Steve blinked at him. 

"What?" He said. 

In for a penny right?

 "I care." Gareth said, looking down and scuffing a shoe, making it squeak against the grimy tiles. "About you. You dick." 

"Wow Gary you almost sounded loving there."

For once, he ignored the jab. "I'm worried about you, man." He said it quietly, the painful truth pulled out of him almost by force. 

He knew better than anyone how few people Steve had. Knew how his dad was likely taking all the crap Steve had been involved in lately. 

Richard Harrington hadn't been the wedge that had separated his and Steve's mother, but the man hadn't done them any favors, either. 

His intolerance towards the working and lower classes, his demand for perfection, the way he looked down his nose not just on Gareth's parents but on his own wife and son…

Gareth's mom didn't tolerate it. 

Likewise, Stella Harrington didn't tolerate her sister ruining her shot at being a rich trophy wife. 

Both their sets of parents were dramatic and neither of them weren't anywhere near the concept of "good" but at least Gareth's weren't neglectful and abusive. 

Shitty absolutely, but he never worried about getting thrown out, or that his mom wouldn't acknowledge his birthday because he'd "complimented her outfit the wrong way." 

(”It's fine dude she just thought I called her ugly. It was a miscommunication. Dad said it's a good lesson about how women work."

"Casual reminder that your dad's an asshole and also how is telling your mom that she looked lovely in the sunlight telling her she's ugly?”

“It implied she wasn't lovely the rest of the time or some shit, I dunno man.”) 

The BMW was a shitty prize when compared what Steve had dealt with to receive it. 

"I'm okay." Steve said seriously. "It's almost the end of the year anyways. I can tough out having some extra alone time." 

"If you're sure…"

"Yeah man, I'm sure. Thanks though."

Then Steve pulled him into a hug and fuck their parents, who demanded they continued some stupid grudge. Gareth clung to him just as hard as he had at ten. Unsure if he'd ever be allowed to see Steve again.

#steve harringtons shitty parents #steve harrington #gareth #gareth emerson #my beloved lil side character #steve and gareth as secret cousins #SECRET COUSSSIIINS #steve whump #0o0 fanfics

[greatgigintheskiess]

Classic tropes/prompts in parental stories <3

The kid wakes up in the middle of the night because of nightmares and is too scared to sleep by themselves, so they sneak into their parental figure's bedroom, begging them to sleep together

Hide and Seek

Parental figure carrying the kid piggyback

Tickle fights! (no need for explanations, that's just adorable qwq)

Kid falls asleep somewhere and the caretaker finds them, bringing them to their bed

Caretaker and the child fall asleep on the couch together while watching a movie <3

Caretaker takes the kid to a fair, playground, restaurant or shopping, just spending the day and having fun together

Winter! (picture snowball fights, sleighing, buliding a snowman, hot chocolate, baking cookies, Christmas presents)

On a cold winter day Caretaker notices that the child is freezing so they draw a gentle smile and say: "Come here", pulling them under their coat to warm them up

Caretaker gives the kid their clothes, which are waaay too large for them so they are sitting there in a oversized sweater and Caretaker rolls up their sleeves

(and for a bit o' whump :D) Child gets injured/sick and the caretaker has to tend to their wounds or nurse them back to health

Stargazing together or catching some fireflies (I have a soft spot for that one <3)

Or just both of them cuddling under a blanket in front of the fireplace while rain and thunder is rumbling outside :3

#found family #family fluff #found family prompts #caretaker #parental caretaker #whump #whump community #whump prompt #fic writing #parent child relationship #writing community #writing prompt #writing tropes #writing blog #writers on tumblr

[stevebabey]

steve harrington but it's that jeff winger moment from community. if u have seen community, u will know... my first stobin-centric piece <3 tw for parental neglect and a prior act of self-harm. this is absolutely on the steve harrington has bad parents train <3

“Steven, this is ridiculous.”

Robin freezes in place. Her hand hovers over the remote she's just placed back down, her limbs locking up one by one at the sound of the voice at the door.

It is not a familiar voice. She knows who it is all the same.

She fights not to move, knowing the couch springs, old and rusted, threaten to reveal her hiding place, even if it is her house. Robin is very much allowed to be here. Expected, even.

But Steve? Steve is not.

It’s why there’s one Christine Harrington on the dingy porch steps.

It’s an unwelcome surprise — even after all the fuss of the 4th of July, a thousand police sirens, endless NDAs, and too much blood on his uniform, Steve’s parents hadn’t shown.

Out of town, Steve had said, his bashed in face making it impossible to read his expression. His eyes were haunted and misty but Robin couldn’t tell if it was from the horror of the night or… a loneliness far older.

So Robin had done the fussing. Had dragged him home with her, shooed away her rightfully nosy parents, and mended him up on her bathroom counter.

Steve had been silent, a little wide-eyed as she worked on each cut, each bruise — but with her gentle touch, he had been helpless to do anything but melt beneath it.

He’d called her Robbie for the first time that night. They’d fallen asleep with their hands intertwined, her arm hanging off the bed to reach out to him on her bedroom floor.

Robin still hasn’t met Steve’s parents, even though it’s been more than a couple months since that night.

She’s been to his house countless times too. She knows where the spare key is, if she ever loses her own copy, that is. Knows which stair squeaks on the way up to the second floor and how the lock on the downstairs bathroom gets jammed too easily.

She’s eaten the best grilled cheese of her life in their kitchen, sitting on the counter.

She’s laughed so hard she’s cried on their couch, getting the throw pillows wet with her happy tears.

She’s still never met Steve’s parents. Til right now.

Christine Harrington has her arms wrapped tight around her frame and Robin has no doubt that on her face is a frown that could make babies cry.

She can’t see her face though. Can only just see a glimpse of her tense body from where she sits. Steve blocks part of her view, his own tense frame in the doorway.

He’d answered the door instead of Robin only because he had the foresight to glance at the front window after the first rap at the door. It was late. Robin’s parents certainly wouldn’t knock at their own home and neither of them were expecting visitors.

The expensive car in the drive, a sore thumb along Robin’s street, had given away the identity of just who was knocking so late in the evening. So, Steve had opened it.

“Mom—”

“I mean utterly ridiculous.” Steve gets cut off without second thought, Christine continuing on as if she hasn’t heard him at all.

“Did you expect us to spend all evening chasing you around? Figuring out where you were tonight from the Carlton’s across the road?”

She’s got this snippy tone that Robin’s heard a thousand times from teachers. Patronising. Too cold for it to seem like a genuinely concerned parent.

“The Carlton’s?” Steve echoes, a bit meek. His shoulders have rolled forward, sinking down a bit and Robin can see his tight grip on the door. Still, she stays frozen, rooted to the couch.

“Yes, Steven.” Christine says his full name again, all bite. “Imagine the shame your father and I felt hearing that. Hearing who you had been associating with.”

“Don’t say that.” Steve grits out immediately, anger bleeding into his tone.

The muscles in his back ripple as he forces his shoulders back, as if he had remembered how to stand up straight at the mention of his friend.

Robin aches; at the reminder of the stark differences of their upbringings and at Steve’s unquestionable loyalty. She finally unfreezes, sitting up a little straighter and leaning forward more— ready to spring up from her seat.

She’s not sure what for exactly. She sorta really wants to go slam the door on Steve’s mom’s face and go back to being bundled up on the couch with him. The urge is strong enough to make her fingers twitch.

“Why are you here, Mom?”

There’s a strain to Steve’s question, even though he doesn’t falter in appearance. Robin can’t see his face either though. She hopes it’s got the bitchiest expression Steve can muster.

“Don’t be smart, Steven.” Christine reprimands coldly. “I know that we may have taken a larger absence than intended but that’s not any excuse to parade yourself around with the strays of this town.”

Strays. Robin feels the word pelt into her and burn into her skin, sinking all the way down. It feels like cold water has tipped down the back of her neck. An unwelcome pit forms in her stomach.

She had known, of course, the reputation of a family like the Harrington's. She hadn’t quite known the extent they would go to protect it. Policing your child's friends over a matter of image is absurd.

Somehow, Robin can see how Steve grows even tenser at his mom’s words— hackles raising like that on a dog. His knuckles turn white. But before he speaks, Christine is barreling on like she hasn’t just slandered every one of Steve’s new friends.

“And to leave the house in such a state?”

Robin hears her sigh heavily, as though this really is the biggest problem in her life — which she can’t fathom in the slightest.

There was nothing wrong with Steve’s house. No mess beyond the usual evidence that someone, you know, lived there.

“Mom, I—” Steve starts again.

“Well, I’m sure you have your reasons. You always do.” She says it so pointedly, like Steve was known for peddling lies to weasel his way out of trouble.

It’s so un-Steve it makes Robin blink hard, wondering if she had heard right.

Steve was honest. He owned his mistakes and he took things on the chin. It was something she had liked most about him in the beginning.

Back when it was all snark and Robin told herself she was never going to be his friend, in this universe or anything other. That even then, reluctant co-worker and nothing more, Steve was honest and decent to her always.

“Now, come on now.” Christine Harrington huffs out her demand. “Your father is waiting in the car and there no use winding him up more than you already have.”

Robin’s stomach turns at her words. It had been a topic of discussion between them, one night weeks ago, lips loosened by the dark. I feel like a dog to them, Steve had admitted quietly, his breath against her pillow and his warmth under her sheets. Like they just leave alone most of the time but expect me to perk up and come running the moment they call. I hate it.

“I’m not coming with you.”

The words stammer on their way out like he had forced them out— and Robin wants to sing she’s so proud of her best friend.

“Excuse me?”

“I’m not coming with you.” Steve repeats himself, the words a little firmer this time. “I’m… I’m spending the night here, with my friend Robin.”

He trails off, the words weaker, losing steam. Robin rises to her feet, the tell-tale squeak of the couch springs letting Steve know she was still here. Still right behind him.

It makes him stand a little straighter.

“I— I’ll come home in the morning.”

Christine Harrington makes a little scoffing noise, a high pitched faux laugh as if Steve’s said something amusing.

“Tell me when did I raise such an ungrateful brat?” She muses meanly and Robin doesn’t miss the way Steve flinches lightly. “We give you free rein of the house, apt time by yourself, and yet when we request you to spend a single evening with us—”

“You’re not asking, you’re demanding.” Steve cuts in, his voice more heated now.

“Oh hush, Steven. You act as if we’re so awful.”

It’s all dismissal. Everything, every word, a dismissal.

“I just can’t win with you, can I?” Christine sighs again, disappointment dripping from the sound. “Either we’re not here enough or we’re here but you can’t find time to have dinner with your family. Which is it, Steven?”

In the doorway, Steve begins to bristle. Robin really, really wants to slam the door now — if only to stop this conversation that seems to keep cutting deeper and deeper into her best friend.

She steps closer to him, moving as silently as she can, and makes sure to stay out of sight as she places a hand gently on the small of his back.

He’s shaking, she realises.

Her heart twists painfully in her chest.

Then, deathly calm, Steve says, “Did you know in 7th grade, I lied and I told everyone in my class that I got appendicitis?”

Robin blinks at the change in subject, the strangeness of Steve’s comment. She does remember that, vaguely. A boy in the year above— it had been a wildfire rumour that had turned out to be true.

Or so she thought. Staring hard at the planes of Steve’s back, the pit in her stomach yawns with an anticipation of devastation. Her hand on his back curls up a bit.

“You and Dad were gone for the whole month to Washington. It was the first time you had ever gone for that long and you didn’t even tell me until the day before you left.”

“Steven—”

“I just wanted someone to worry about me.” He steamrolls on, tone too casual for the story he was telling. “And it worked."

A beat.

"But then Cassie Lange asked about the scar.”

Robin’s hand on Steve's back twists up tighter. She feels like she knows what’s coming— but wishes it to be not true.

She doesn’t want to think of Steve, little twelve year old Steve, doing all that he can for a scrap of attention he was supposed to be getting from his parents.

“And rather than admit I’d lied…” The words come out too tight. “I went and found your sewing scissors and I made one.”

There’s this icy bite to Steve’s voice, his shoulders tensed back up. Christine still hasn’t said anything.

“I hurt like a bitch but it was worth it. I got a card from every single person in my class.”

“You wanna see the scar?” He asks— then he’s moving, his hand rucking up his sweater and shirt and exposing the skin of his stomach. Christine makes a noise like a muffled gasp. Robin feels a bit sick. Steve drops his shirt.

“And I kept all of those cards I got —all 17 of them stashed them under my bed in a box that I still have til this day.” He exhales through his nose. “Because it was proof that, at some point, somebody actually gave a shit about me. Because you didn’t. You didn’t then and you don’t get to now.”

His words hang in the air. There’s a long stretch of silence where Steve stares down the woman on the porch— someone closer to a stranger than a friend.

“So, I will see you at home, tomorrow.”

And then he slams the door to Robin’s house shut with a finality that shakes the air. Robin tenses up at the loud noise. Steve doesn't move, just stays staring at the closed door.

Behind them both, one of the noisy pipes in the house makes a loud noise. It sounds worse than usual as it breaks the silence.

Outside, Robin hears the click of heels on the pavement as they quieten, moving further away.

The pit in her stomach tightens immeasurably, a faint bile taste in her mouth. She finally remembers to smooth out her hand, pressing it flat against Steven’s back— another reminder that she was there.

If he wanted to talk or he didn’t, she was there.

Suddenly Steve sighs, an exhale so large that he shrinks down a couple inches, his shoulders dropping. It sounds exhausted.

He finally turns away from the door, to Robin, and she can only hope her face conveys every ounce of love, of support, she feels within her chest.

“Steve…” She breathes softly.

He wasn’t crying but just the sound of his name, spoken so delicately, seems to inspire tears. Robin catches the tremble of his lip and moves without thought— throwing both her arms around his neck and wrestling him into a hug.

Steve goes easy, his arms snaking around her middle and holding her back so tightly it nearly makes her squeak. She doesn’t though— just lets him bury his face in her neck, taking these big shuddering breaths, these half-formed sobs that break her heart clean in half.

She doesn’t know how long they stand there. Car engines drone as they pass by the street. The streetlights seem to get brighter. Steve presses himself so close to her, as close as he can, and Robin hugs back just as tight. She gives him all the time he needs.

She wonders if there’s an indent of him on her when he finally pulls back — a Steve Harrington shaped outline imprinted on her soul. It feels like there is.

If she could trace it, she thinks, it would be whatever shape love takes.

“Thanks Robbie.” He croaks out. He’s started scrubbing furiously at his face and she can see the wet sheen of tears as he wipes them away.

Robin doesn’t move far, just unwinds her arms a bit and lets them fall back to her sides. There’s an ache between her brows from how long she’s been frowning in concern. Steve looks more disheveled than usual, his usually perfect hair looking flatter — but he looks lighter too, somehow.

“No need to thank me, dingus.” She says, voice soft. She faux punches his chest and then regrets it when his lips don’t even twitch upward. It’s weird to see Steve all undone.

Robin thinks back to that conversation and the callousness of Steve’s mom. Her uncaring tone, the use of his full name like an insult.

She thinks of what Steve had said.

“I’m sorry you felt—” The words get stuck in her throat which grows thicker as she thinks about it. About a self-made scar on Steve’s abdomen, made by a twelve year old boy who just wanted someone to worry.

“—That you felt like you had to do something like that to yourself. I’m sorry no one noticed what you really needed.”

Steve nods slowly, his eyes glazed with a far away look as he stares somewhere over Robin’s shoulder. He gives this little shrug, a little huff through his nose.

“It’s okay.” He says, voice a bit distant. “I mean, it’s not but… even if I hadn’t meant to tell you, I’m glad someone knows now.”

It takes another second before he finally seems to shake himself from his thoughts, turning to properly look at Robin. His eyes are red-rimmed and the tip of his nose is pink. Tell tale signs of tears.

“I’ve never told anyone that before.”

Robin swallows thickly and it takes effort to choke down the urge to cry.

“Well,” She starts. It comes out too high pitched and tight and she clears her throat. “Thank you for telling me.

Some kind of smile plays on Steve’s lips, as if he can tell that she’s fighting off her sniffling and it’s sorta funny to him. It is, a little.

Because instead of being embarrassed or feeling pitied, he feels… delightfully surprised to have her care so much. To be so upset on his behalf.

“Oh, c’mon Robbie,” He gives her that same faux-punch in the shoulder she did earlier and it actually succeeds in making her lips pull up at the edges. “None of that.”

“You’re such a dingus.” Robin says. It comes out a bit wobbly still. Sue her— she doesn’t have Steve’s insane ability to bounce from one emotion to another in a single second.

Steve grins. He wanders back to the couch and flops down onto it. Robin follows and when she sits down, it’s a fraction closer to him this time. He gives one last scrub of his face, wiping the last of his tears away.

She nudges him with her thigh. She has to check just one more time.

“You alright?”

Steve smiles, crooked in that way that lets her know it’s completely sincere. He reaches forward and presses unmute on the remote, the film they’re watching starting up again with a buzz.

Steve presses his thigh back against Robin’s and in the dim lighting of her living room, his eyes glitter with an emotion that threatens to make her want to cry once more.

“Course.” He says. “I got someone checking up on me now,”

Another pointed nudge of his thigh against hers. “I’m better than ever.”

#everybody say it with me now: OOF #the writing of this episode is so good and i simply cannot resist the brainworms when it fits too well #i love making them hurt so they can comfort each other <3 #robin remains to this day the only one who knows the truth about that scar #stobin my beloved #ruby writes steve & robin #... new tag used shlay #steve & robin #steve harrington #robin buckley #stobin #platonic stobin #platonic soulmates #stobin ficlet #stobin drabble #i love these besties w all my freaking bones #idk tell me how i did. or dont. but please #steve harrington has bad parents #steve harrington whump #steve harrington hurt/comfort #platonic with a capital p

[whumperofworlds]

A Whumpee screaming out "MOM!", "DAD!", etc to a parental Caretaker as they're in danger.

Cue the parental Caretaker's parental instincts kicking in, and proceeding to destroy whoever harmed their kid.

#whumpee is an adult dw #whump #whump prompt #parental caretaker #whumpee #caretaker #protectiveness #protective caretaker

[whump-allthe-way]

“thanks.. dad..” says whumpee, their voice rough and low, as caretaker threads their fingers through their tangled hair

vs

“no please-! dad make it stop! it hurts- please-!” as they thrash and scream, arching away from whumper’s blade as they slice and carve into their skin, caretaker watching in chains

#whumpee’s calling caretaker dad >> #whump blog #whump community #whumpblr #whump #whump prompt #whump scenario #whump tropes #whump writing #whumpee #sick whump #whumper #caretaker #parental caretaker #whump torture #implied kidnapping #sick whumpee #fever whump #whumptober 2023

[qwertycake]

parental caretaker and kid writing prompts

- younger kid standing on their caretaker's shoes and rocking around. almost like they're dancing or waltzing.

- the thing where the caretaker pulls the kid closer to them by like wrapping their hand around their head and covering their ear and tucking them against them.

- kid sitting on caretaker's shoulders. always a good one.

- "shh, shh, I know, I know"

- any sort of "take me instead" situation, said by either character. devastating.

- dealing with sickness. like obviously the kid getting sick and accidentally calling their caretaker mum/dad/parent in their feverish delirium is super cute and top tier.

- BUT ALSO. hear me out. caretaker getting sick but trying to push through to look after their kid and their kid works super hard to make their job easier or look after them in small ways.

- kid hiding for some reason (minor anxiety or major trauma or anything in between) and the caretaker comforting them or trying to coax them out.

- caretaker sweeping kid up in a big ole bear hug and spinning em around.

- kid hiding behind caretaker.

- "you should be in bed" "I can't sleep" "...alright, get over here, you can stay up for five more minutes"

- caretaker and a maybe slightly older kid arguing and making up.

- caretaker picking up slightly older kid from a party that's gone wrong in some way.

- caretaker who's maybe less like a parent and more like an older sibling. they take their kid to abandoned buildings and eat cheap takeaway/takeout with them.

- caretaker teaching their slightly older kid life skills that they maybe didn't have the chance to pick up on when they were younger.

- or yk just caretaker teaching their younger kid life skills. like trying to get them involved with cooking and lifting them up to help grab things and letting them watch things get cut up and prepared.

- caretaker indulging their younger kid in tea parties with their stuffed animals.

- caretaker looking after a kid's comfort items (bonus point if the kid is older, and double bonus points if the kid is too embarrassed to care for their comfort items themselves).

- younger kid curled up by their caretaker while their caretaker plays videogames. bonus points if the caretaker lets them play like baby mode co-op (like luma in mario galaxy). bonus bonus points if the caretaker is like an older sibling and gives the kid an unplugged controller.

- older kid playing co-op with their caretaker and getting way too invested. bonus points if it's mario kart. bonus bonus points if they're showing each other their favourite games from their respective childhoods (because yk different eras).

- caretaker carrying an exhausted kid to bed.

- better yet, the kid pretends to fall asleep in the car so they can be carried inside (caretaker knows their game but is more than happy to carry them).

- caretaker having a hard day working late and coming home to their kid sleeping peacefully on the couch, clearly having waited for them to come home.

- kid having a hard day at school and caretaker is in the middle of making dinner for them.

- caretaker shielding kid from danger with their body.

- kid refusing to leave caretaker's side when they're both in danger.

#writing #writing prompt #caretaker #found family #found family prompts #parental caretaker #parent child relationship #platonic otp prompt #platonic #whump #whump prompts #genshipping

[hey-that-hurt]

Parent/guardian whump

The panic of the child/children in the situation, seeing the person they rely on incapacitated, in need of protection, in need of help.

The panic of the guardian, wanting so desperately to protect their kid(s) but unable to. The horror of having to watch a person you dedicate your whole being to protecting put themselves in harm’s way to defend you.

#parent whump #whump #I love My Hero Academia characters for this #Izuku protecting an injured Toshinori #The students protecting a downed Aizawa #Each wanting to scream #“Run! I’ll hold them off!” #But maybe lacking the strength to do even that #Or perhaps worse #Being ignored #Watching as all the kindness and bravery you’ve instilled in them #Puts them in harm’s way #This dynamic is also good for teams #The strong one who always takes on the strongest enemies #Having to watch in horror as their weaker friends try to take down something they could not defeat #Because they refuse to leave you behind #This is also good with sickfics especially with young children #Small kids trying to nurse a sick guardian back to health #Perhaps by the time the guardian realized how sick they were #They were too far gone to communicate what was happening #whump prompt

[wisteria-whump]

make your sleep deprived whumpee hallucinate 🫶 just trust me

#like imagine they force themself to stay awake bc they're scared of seeing whumper in their nightmares #and then they see and hear whumper through the hallucinations #shoutout to all my girlies who hear things when they're sleep deprived #i always think i hear my parents arguing then i realize its completely silent lol #i also see pictures blinking so there's that #whump #whump prompt #whump prompts #whump writing #whump idea #whump blog #whump scenario #tw whump #whump tw #writing

[ohtobeleah]

Battle Scars // Bob Floyd

-> An Official Flight Deck Blurb

Summary: Robert Floyd doesn’t take his shirt off at the beach. But when the shirt stays on during sex? You start to wonder what he’s hiding.

Warnings: Mentions of parental Abuse. Mentions of Child Neglect. Foster Care Systems. Mentions of family trauma. Bob Floyd x Female!reader.

Word Count: 2.1k

Author Note: Day Nine of Whumptober. Prompt I chose: ‘Scar reveal’ Thank you to @ailesswhumptober for the prompt list.

Whumptober Masterlist | Main Masterlist

People have secrets they keep close to their chest. Some are small enough to not cause a ripple effect onto others, and some are big enough to destroy lives, crush dreams, alter realities. 

Bob Floyd wore his secrets across his chest. Scars that made his torso look like the Rocky Mountains. Littered with small to medium size scars that healed wrong, healed over, or healed with anger. 

They weren’t pretty. If anything he wore a roadmap of abuse on his body that was hard to face in the mirror every morning. He never wanted to subject anyone to the sight of his scars, some red and raised, others faded but turned a deep purple in the cold. 

“Mornin’ gorgeous—“ Bob's morning voice was something you’d never get tired of hearing. Those lazy Sunday mornings where you’d wake up to find the Naval Aviator already awake and reading whatever book he brought with him in his overnight bag were starting to become your favourite thing. “How’d you sleep mama?” 

“Like a log.” You yawned, creeping closer and closer to where Bob sat on the opposite side of your bed. His T-shirt clad back pressed up against the headboard while his legs stayed covered by the sheets and covers of your warm, inviting bed. “I thought I had an early body clock.” Being a single mum and small business owner left little to no time for sleep-ins, which usually meant you were up before the sun got a chance to kiss the horizon good morning. “But here you are, Mr Military Man with your internalised alarm system.” 

Bob couldn’t help but to chuckle as he closed his book and placed it on the bedside table you cleared just for him. Whatever this was between you and Robert Floyd you really liked it. He was the first man you’d ever paid attention to since your fiancé died. Bob was like a breath of fresh air and so was North Island. No one knew you, no one judged you, no one cared about the demons that haunted you. 

“Force of habit I guess.” He shrugged before he sunk lower and lower, meeting your eyeline once again as you both settled in under the warmth of the covers. “How long do you think we have before Oliver wakes up?” 

“Hmmm—“ You tried to hide your eagerness through a hum that kept your lips pressed together in a fine line. “He knows Sundays are bacon and egg roll mornings.” You began as your arms wrapped around Bob's shoulders. 

His lips were hot against the supple skin of the juncture of your neck, in response your body ignited, sending waves of energy through your body that only Bob could create. He was just different. 

“So like, five? Ten minutes maybe?” Bob looked up from where he’d been leaving small

but affectionate kisses against your collarbone and met you with a lust filled gaze. He was falling head over heels in love with you. “Because I only need like two—“ 

“Oh well in that case we have time for two rounds.” You teased before rolling yourself up and over to straddle Bob's waist. He let you easily. If he wanted to, he could have fought back. The thing with Robert Floyd was that he had a sleeper build. He wasn’t as buff as some of the other Naval Aviators that frequently stopped by the Flight Deck for their morning or mid afternoon caffeine hit. With the amount of sugar and caramel syrup you dosed Hangman with on a regular basis you weren’t entirely sure how he managed to maintain his muscle density. 

But for as much as Bob was a gentle soul, he was strong and fast. He enjoyed a long run every now and again. But for all intents and purposes—he let you be on top. He liked the view. After all, he was just a simple man. Boobs were pretty cool. Especially your boobs.

“Can I ask you a question?” You cooed all the while Bob's hands trailed up your hips. You wore nothing but one of those silk nightgowns that made you look like an angel. The bed hair was cute, Bob liked you first thing in the morning. It was a side of you only he got to see. The side before the makeup, before being put together– he liked it. The authenticity. For what it was worth, Bob just really liked you. 

“Depends what the question is?” Bob replied as his hands squeezed at your hips, rolling you gently back and forth over his boxer brief clad length. “I’m kidding, ask away.” 

He had been expecting the question sooner rather than later. And with how things were going between the two of you Bob knew he would have to come clean. He was just afraid of what you might say. What you might think, and if his scars would be a deal breaker. They were, after all, a part of him that he couldn’t get rid of. 

But even expecting the question to come didn’t make it any less hard to hear. 

“How come you never take your shirt off?” You wanted to approach the question as politely as possible. “You don’t have to tell me, if you aren’t comfortable, I just—I’ve just noticed.” You saw the hesitation in Bob's baby blue eyes as he searched your face for any kind or fear. “Again, you don’t have to tell me.” You reminded the man lying beneath you as his hands stilled on your hips. “But I want you to know that if you’re hiding some sort of third nipple under there—I’m all for it.” You tried to make the conversation a little more lighthearted, Bob could appreciate that. He smiled softly at you while his hands needed at your hips like dough. 

Bob didn’t say much after that, he simply laid beneath you stroking his hands up and down your exposed thighs as his mind ran rampant with memories. He hated his scars, but most of all he hated the people who gave them to him. 

“You’re a waste of space!” The memories were all too prominent even after all these years. “I wish I never gave birth to you!” His mothers words were as cruel as she was violent and unpredictable. 

“You’re the abortion I wish I fucking had.” The abuse Bob endured went with him everywhere, even well into his adult life. He learned not to complain, to cause a scene. “Stop crying for fucks sake kid.” He learned not to show emotion when it wasn’t asked or needed. 

“You did this to yourself, if you had stayed out of the way, none of this would be happening.” But most importantly he blamed himself, for hiding his scars that clearly showed how strong he really was. 

Bob sat up to meet your eyeline. For a man haunted by so many scars he certainly had the softest of eyes. He gently tucked your hair behind your ear and placed a fleeting kiss against your forehead, all before he reached up and over to take his shirt off over his head. 

What you saw rendered you speechless for a few moments as you took in the terrain that was your, well, you wanted to say boyfriend but Bob wasn’t even officially that, torso—littered with scars he surely would have called ugly on the best of days. 

“It’s a lot.” Bob whispered just barely above an audible level as he chucked his shirt off to the side. “But they’re not going away, ever.” It was almost as if Bob had struggled with that notion himself. He wished he could have them removed—expunge from his record. The tales of parental abuse he suffered before collecting more in the foster care system. 

“Oh Bob—“ You tentatively reach out to glide your fingers over one of the many scars that were angry, red and what seemed to be risen. “You don’t have to hide these from me, ever.” Bob's heart was racing a million miles inside his chest, no one had ever touched him the way you were now. With so much love, with kindness, with understanding. “What happened here?” Your fingers gently glided across the scar down near the waistband of Bob's boxers. Right above his hip bone. 

“One of the kids in one of the foster homes I was in.” Bob began, you could tell he was uncomfortable talking about it, but you didn’t stop him. You knew if anything he would stop if he didn’t want to talk about it. “I think his name was Ryan, had an old bow with those barbed edges on it.” You knew where the story was going. “It got wedged in there deep when we were playing around, but our foster parents didn’t have insurance, so they weren’t gonna take me to get it removed—so they ripped it out and poured bourbon over it.” Your heart sank into your stomach. “I was nine.” 

“That must have hurt a lot.” You replied gently as Bob laid back down in your bed with his hands resting behind his head. His roadmap of scars on full display. “What happened here?” You moved your hand to the longer scar across his left peck. It seemed less angry, more healed, but the story attached was just as heartbreaking. 

“When I was eighteen I went back to see my parents.” Bob's eyes were tearing up. He hadn’t ever spoken about this to anyone. Not even the people he trusted with his life. You were the only one. “It was a mistake, I shouldn’t have, but I needed some closure.” Your fingers gently ran the expanse of the scar that had never been touched but another person. Bob wanted to stop you out of fear you’d leave—but he willed you to continue because it felt comforting to be touched with such warmth. “My dad ran at me with a knife the second he saw me—I remember he was rambling on about how I broke my mum's heart when I went with CPS. I’m lucky it was only a graze, he still got me good enough to leave a scar though.” 

“Bob, honey, I don’t even know what to say.” You were a mother yourself. You couldn’t ever imagine doing anything of the sort to your son. Bob reached up to guide your hand across his torso to his wrist—you’d seen those small circle cluster scars time and time again but never bothered to ask what they were from. 

“These are from where my mum and my foster mum would put their cigarettes out on me.” Again, it made your heart sink, but Bob never faulted as he guided your hand around his body, back up to his stomach just above his belly button. Ridged abs peaked through the softness of his skin. “This one is from when I had to have surgery after I got an infection. Doctor said I could have died if my friend and I didn’t walk ourselves to the emergency room.” 

Bob wanted you to touch every last scar that littered his body, he wanted your gentle touch to heal his old wounds. So you let him guide you as your straddled his waist and looked down at the roadmap of torture. 

“These smaller ones are from when my dad swung the whipper snipper at me, I was in his way, I shouldn’t have been there, I remember they wouldn’t stop bleeding and ruined a bunch of my shirts.” 

“None of these are your fault.” All his life, until he joined the Navy and ran as far away as he could, Bob had been told every scar he collected was his fault. The abuse he suffered as a child, from his parents and in foster homes, was his fault. “Someone who loves you doesn’t do this to you.” You reminded the man who laid beneath you. He could hardly breathe with how hard his heart was hammering in his chest as your hands trailed over the expanse of his torso. “Bob I don’t know your history, but from what I can gather about you in the present you are all but the problem.” You were the first person to ever tell him he didn’t deserve the scars he wore, the scars he hid. 

“You’re a really good person, you know that right?” Flashes of your own war blinded your vision for a moment. The lies and haunting rumours that had you running as far away as possible could came flooding back to you in a blur as Bob sat up to kiss your lips softly, tenderly, and all so lovingly. “You don’t know how much you mean to me baby.” The term of endearment sent a shiver down your spine you weren’t expecting. But you welcomed it nevertheless. Bob was a dream, your new beginning. 

“I reckon you’ve got about three minutes to show me.” You teased, deciding now was not the time to bring up your dead fiancé. “With the shirt off—“

***~***~***~***~***~***~

Whumptober Tags 🏷️ @xoxabs88xox @oldermenaremyreligion @slut-f0r-u @emma-is-cool @armydrcamers @topguncortez @topgun-imagines @kmc1989 @els-marvelvsp @blindedbythelightt

#ailesswhumptober2023 #leahs whumptober masterlist #bob floyd x female reader #flight deck // bob floyd #bob fliyd angst #Bob floyd whump #bob floyd x reader #top gun bob #top gun imagine #top gun fan fic #tw: parental abuse #tw: mental health #tw: scars

[allthewhumpygoodness]

Whumpees! Calling! Out! For! A ! Parent!!!!

What's the situation? Do they wake up from a nightmare disoriented and confused, enough so that it takes them a second they forget they aren't with their parents and call out to the first person they see, only to be embarrassed a moment later when they realize? Are they so delirious they actually think their dad is there with them when it's really just an unrelated caretaker who's heart is breaking for them? Are they so scared, sick, or in pain that they just really really want their mom and don't care if that's impossible right now?

#whump #this trope ends me i think it's the trope of all tropes #i think the first *really* whumpy fic I read had this and i melted #and the backstory for it really makes it #are the parent/s dead? #far away with no knowledge of where the whumpee is or what they're going through? #technically a phone call away but ignorant of what's happening to their kid?? #were they horrible but the whumpee craves seeing them anyway????? #so many options you can pry this trope from my cold dead hands

[whumpster-dumpster]

Parental Caretaker sternly full-naming the restless Whumpee to make them stay in bed and actually recover and Whumpee trying to keep up their indignant front while internally screaming because they're just now realizing they've become close enough to do that

#whump #whump prompt #writing prompt #aftermath #caretaking #recovery #parent/child #familial whump