#tw child trauma

[strawberryspence]

happy birthday, @stevesbipanic! i am glad you were born, you amazing human being. I hope you get to drink the coldest, most delicious, bougiest milo you can have. ILY broccoli! 💛

-

Steve has never had a birthday cake. He doesn't count the first six cakes his parents had for him, because he's pretty sure it was only for appearances.

He remembers his seventh birthday. How badly he wanted to have a Flintstones themed birthday party, and how his parents called it tacky. Instead, Steve had a lavish tea party with all of their investor friends. He remembers hating it.

After that, there's— nothing. There were Nannies or Babysitters that tried to make him feel better by bringing him to Benny's and he's thankful for that. But there's always that heart wrenching rip in his system when he sees a child. Surrounded by family, singing happy birthday as they wait to blow on a cake.

And the thing is if Steve never gets to have that, it’s okay. It’s really, really, really, okay. That also means he’ll do his best to give all the kids the best birthdays they can have, so they can never feel what he felt. If El wants a day just full of craft making? Sure. Dustin wants to visit this damn planetarium in Indianapolis? Okay. Mike wants to dress him like him for an entire day? Alright.

Steve is happy that way, until Eddie Munson comes crashing into his life with a broken bottle. And okay, maybe it’s not a great idea to lie in the biggest and probably the most important relationship he has right now, but he’s not going to tell Eddie his little sad secret.

What he forgot to account for is the fact that his boyfriend is the biggest snoop to ever exist.

“Wha— What’s this?” Steve stammers as he enters his house. It’s almost always dark when he comes home, the house dull and empty.

Tonight, it’s different. After having his birthday dinner with Robin, Steve drives them back to his house so they can have movie night. Supposedly.

Instead, Eddie’s standing behind the long wooden dining table that never gets used, with 20 different cupcakes, all lit with a candle. There’s food and banners and balloons with streamers.

Robin pushes him forward with a smile, “So…” Eddie walks towards him, “I found some of your childhood pictures.”

“Oh.” Steve breathes out.

“Look, maybe I am wrong. Maybe I got it all wrong. Maybe your parents just weren’t the kind of people that liked taking pictures and having to develop them. Maybe someday, you’ll tell me why you only have one childhood photo album or why there’s no pictures of your birthday parties past the age of six.”

Eddie says, hands nervously twisting around his hair, “But, on the off chance that I am right,” He shakes his head in disbelief, “On the off chance that you haven’t had a birthday cake or a birthday wish in 14 years, I got you 20 birthday cupcakes.”

Steve can barely hold himself anymore, tears threatening to spill from his eyes, “Why 20?”

Eddie smiles at him, and his eyes sparkle at Steve like he hung the damn moon and stars, like he fucking created the whole universe, “One for every year my favorite person has been alive.”

Steve chokes down a half sob, half whine as he slaps a hand on his mouth.

“Oh, sweetheart.” Eddie whispers as he wraps Steve in a comforting hug. They stay like that for a minute before Eddie says, “I am so happy you were born. There’s a few more people that are happy, they’re all hiding in the kitchen right now.”

“What?” Steve pulls back, hastily wiping his tears.

“The kids are all here. Nance, Jonathan, and Argyle.” Eddie tenderly wipes a stray tear off his cheek, “Even Wayne, Hop, Joyce, and Mrs. Henderson is here.”

Steve’s not sure if he wants to know, but he still asks, “Why?”

Eddie visibly softens, but before he can answer Robin answers for him, “Because we all love you, Dingus.”

“So, here’s what’s going to happen. You’re going to sit behind the cupcakes and they’re going to come out from where they’ve been eavesdropping.” Steve laughs when Eddie emphasizes the word, and there’s a clatter in the kitchen followed by whispering, “They’re going to act normal. And we’re going to sing you a song. Okay?”

Steve smiles, nodding, “Okay.”

“Okay.” Eddie says as he runs to the kitchen and as Robin ushers him to sit in front of the cupcakes. She forces a birthday hat on his hair, and he doesn’t even argue.

They all come out from the kitchen, all smiling and wearing ridiculous birthday hats. Even Hop and Wayne are wearing them and it might actually be the funniest thing he’s ever seen. The kids have blow horns that fill the silent house with joyous sounds.

They sing him a birthday song. It’s loud and it doesn’t exactly sound good. Dustin’s trying a new other pitch and Lucas has never been a good singer. Max is drumming on the table and El has a small tambourine. Mike and Will are trying to do some kind of duet in their own little bubble. But it’s the most beautiful, harmonious sound to Steve.

And as they all urged him to make a wish, Steve is struck with awe and disbelief, a feeling of realization sparking in his veins. Steve’s got everything he’s ever wanted right in front of him. He just wants all of them to be safe and sound.

He smiles at his family, as he lets his eyelid flutter shut.

And for the first time, Steve makes a birthday wish.

-

Edit:

Steve smiles, happy and content, as everyone chitchats around him.

"Hey, Eds?" Steve calls out for his boyfriend who's busy stuffing his face with bread rolls.

"Yeam?" Eddie replies, still chewing on the bread.

"Can I have a Flintstone themed birthday next year?"

Eddie swallows his bread with water, before turning to Steve with a smile so bright it could blind him. He moves closer to give his temple a light kiss.

"You got it, sweetheart. I'll be Fred, you'll be Wilma. It will be perfect."

[loveyourlovelysoul]

Sometimes we desire a relationship cause we think we may heal everything about us through it. We think the other person has all the answers for us, and will solve our own puzzle. Truth is, the other person is just another person exactly like us, with their own issues and life to live, and we cannot expect them to heal us too. We can surely ask for help, for support, as we can give ours to them, but... most of the work is still up to us. We need to do our part: we need to come closer to them too, to compromise (on what we can), to stand our ground too when necessary, and to be fair, vulnerable and open. No matter what we learned in our childhood (very likely when we had to take care of our emotionally unstable/immature caregivers), we cannot have someone else doing all the job for us. No matter how much we want to feel less alone, we also need to give others the chance to get inside of our world. We need to let down some walls in order for this to happen for real. We need to learn to trust again (and trust that we're strong enough to survive if by any chance the other will leave us -it doesn't have to be our fault anyway, it can be just life).

[aibazous]

My exams are finally over so i have time to post fanart again!

So, below i’m going to talk a little bit about my guapoduo Hannibal au, if you’re interested in reading it, be my guest

Thanks for being interested in my story! Hope you like it

So i was thinking about how to implement the eggs on this story, bc, as goes with the Hannibal series, every single prominent character suffers a lot. And so I was between making the eggs children and don’t make them prominent characters or making them collage age so that they could appear more and I wouldn’t feel that bad about making them suffer.

I ended up deciding to not make the eggs prominent characters, they still appear and suffer a little bit, but that is just as a side effect of being close to main and side characters that appear a lot. Tbh, imagining them as teens or young adults just feels wrong to me and i don’t know why.

The two eggs that I have more details on right now are Richarlyson and Bobby, for obvious reason.

Also, this is something i’ve been have so trouble with. Basically I’m getting to the point where I want to try and bring BadBoyHalo to this story, still don’t know how, but that’s not the problem. The thing is, BHH is obviously going to be human, my first thought was to make him a biracial guy, half black and half white, so he can have some really dark skin but also have grey eyes, you know, to mimic his Minecraft skin.

But content creator BBH is white, and i’ve seen some fanart of him wearing his Minecraft skin clothes. I’m just asking if i should really separate the cc!BBH from the human version q!BBH. I don’t think there’s a problem, i’m just trying to make sure beforehand. For context, I’m a white person from latin america

Either way, if you read all of this tysm! My exams still haven’t been graded so i don’t have the fanart a did behind them, but when i get it i’m going to do a post with all of them

Also, I’m working on a fanfic of this, you won’t need to watch Hannibal to understand it and it’s going to take sometime until i post it, i want to get some chapters in before i post anything

I guess this is it.

[gaybae1021]

Hey, heads up this is a heavy comic. I think I’ve tagged everything I need to but if you think I missed a tag let me know. The darker themes are implied, but if you’re uncomfortable with anything in the tags feel free to scroll on.

Uh oh, heat wave in Phoenix Drop. You know what that means? Summer outfits! And you know what that means? New scar reveals! And you know what that means? Unpacking childhood trauma!

Panels fused version:

[fading-adhd-hyperfixator]

TW.

This might become a chapter series~

THIS FANFICTION IS A XMAS GIFT FOR @calcium-cat!!! <3 IT TAKES PLACE BEFORE CHAPTER 21.

Major tw for drowning, blood, and trauma!

Plot based off of @orbital-inclination's Molten Dream oneshot and @calcium-cat's One Small Dream AU, plus her oneshot Shattered Dreams 1 and 2 on Ao3!

Please take this angst, Cal. This is only the first chapter, of course. Suffer as you made us feel with chapter 21 and 22~

Some things that should never have been said chapter 1 - the accident (Word count over 2000!)

Dream sat in his room, in front of the ripped up (and, now that he truly looked at it, it was bad, awful, just as horrible as-) drawing on the floor.

The ripped drawing, torn straight in half, showed him and Nighty. Well, Nighty before this. They were in front of the tree, the scribbled sun shining brightly. They had been holding hands before Dream ripped it.

Dream felt.. numb. Sad, angry, but he didn't want to alert Nightmare with his feelings, so he pushed them far, far down.

He didn't want to be here anymore.

He crumbled the pieces of the drawing, put on his cape, and waited.

He waited until he knew no one would be awake anymore. He had decided to break Nightmare's rules, to leave, to find a way out of this 'AU', they called it. (Dream still didn't understand the concept of 'alternate universes', he was still only just a child.)

He opened his door, hearing the almost silent creeak as it slid. Dream began to walk towards where he had escaped before, his footsteps falling silently on the stone below, as he began to let free some of that sadness by silently sobbing. His head ached. He wanted to get out now.. before someone caught him. As Dream wriggled through the window, he began to feel better. (Although the feelings he buried deep down threatened to stir, as he thought subconsciously what Nightmare would think.)

He began to run after a bit, his shoes making the leaves and sticks underneath crackle and snap. He had gotten far enough away that no one would hear him. He wasn't sure if that would be a bad thing or not.

(Of course, how would he know? He was purposefully trying to do this. He didn't want anyone to hear.)

~~~

"Dream, listen to me! Please-!"

"I CAN TAKE CARE OF MYSELF, NIGHTY!! I DON'T NEED YOU!! LEAVE ME ALONE!!"

His face fell, as Dream backed away before running away, far away. He began to lightly sob, as he processed this. His fingers gripped the soft grass below, as he-

..soft grass?.. The only grass around his castle was thick and piercing. This wasn't right. He glanced up. The Tree of Feelings.. and the village? He was confused, looking at himself. Purple clothing with gold accents. He gripped his forehead. A crown, with a moon engraving..?

This.. was not right. He needed to wake up.

And, as he felt the sharp, agonizing pierce of negativity in his soul..

..his eyelight opened. Nightmare sat up quickly, panicking at how sour and wrong this felt. He had never felt something like this before, not here. This was almost like a cry for help. This.. this was very, very wrong.

He pulled off the covers, silently slipping out and checking each room. All of them were normal.

..except for Dream's. Dream was gone. He was gone? This wasn't right, although Nightmare had very much established that before. This feeling was coming from somewhere else. Maybe he had left? But he knew the rules.Nightmare quivered, his negative goop dripping onto the stone floor as he pondered it.

...Maybe.. maybe he was still bitter from the fight. Maybe he didn't want to be with Nightmare and the others anymore. (Which, Nightmare would never admit this, but that possibility scared him more than death.)

He ran out into the (sickly) empty forest. So much fear filled him, he thought he would explode, as Nightmare ran through the forest, getting closer to the feeling..

He heard the rushing of the river. The river shouldn't be rushing right now. It was the middle of winter, for star's sake! Then it hit Nightmare that Dream could be inside the river. Inside.. those rapids.. the rushing water..-! He needed to find Dream. Now.

~~~

Dream couldn't see. He didn't know what had happened. Everything was cold, he had to hold his breath-

He had slipped, taken a few tumbles, and… fallen. Fallen into.. a stream? A river, perhaps? Dream couldn't tell. All he knew was that he needed to swim up. But which way was up? For all Dream knew, he could be upside down. He hit the bottom of the lake, crashing into a rock. Dream opened his mouth to cry out-

And water- horrible, bitter tasting, dirty water rushed into his lungs, his mouth-His lungs screamed for air, (metaphorically, skellies don't have lungs I'm just stupid) his eyesockets opened, and he spotted a light. The surface.

And then that light dimmed out. Dream was still conscious, he hadn't closed his eyes.. but what was blocking his vision..?

All he knew is that he was quickly thrusted out of the stream, coughing and choking out river water and bile onto the sandy shore below.

His vision began to fade as Dream collapsed, exhausted and scared. He didn't want this.. what was going on..?

~~~

Nightmare lifted Dream out of the rushing river just before he went out of sight, setting him gently on the shore as panic filled his soul, his entire being. “DREAM!!”

As Dream fell, he was lifted gently with a tentacle and taken into Nightmare's arms, as Nightmare hyperventilated a little. Sure, sure they were immortal to old age or any natural causes.

But murder or something like this could still kill them.

Nightmare frantically pulled out his phone, and sent a single text.

'River. Now. Bring monster candy and run.'

And he waited, holding Dream's shivering, small figure. Dream's soul was filled with fear.. and some incomprehensible emotion.. perhaps hatred? He looked down at the puddle Dream had choked out. How long had he been in that stream before Nightmare came? How long had he suffered?

Dream's HP was.. scarily low. Nightmare couldn't exactly heal it due to how terrified he was, but he could at least look for the wound.

There.

Nightmare lifted up Dream's wet shirt and stared at the fracture that ran through the back of Dream's ribcage and spine.

That.. that was bad.

Where were his boys?..Had they not woken to the text?Maybe he should call.Yeah, maybe that was it.

But as Nightmare stared at the bloody crack, he couldn't

move

a single

bone.

He couldn't even process how dull and cracked Dream's tiny soul looked. He didn't process Dream's health

slowly

depleting

to 1.

And, when he did, he still couldn't move. Nightmare stared at Dream's small, shaking body as panic set in, quicker and heavier than before.

“DREAM!! WAKE UP!!”

Where were his boys when he needed them?! He sent another frantic text, before calling Horror.

It took a moment, but eventually the phone was answered. “mmm.. boss?.. it's 3 in.. the morning..” Nightmare couldn't help but feel a twinge of humor at how ridiculously tired Horror sounded.

“You didn't get my text?..” Nightmare mumbled into the microphone in such a blank, sorrowful tone that disgusted him. He was the Guardian of Negativity, and he was upset. But, then again, he was upset over Dream.

“..I'm looking right now. You sound upset enough, I know it's probably important. .. I'll be there with Cross, Killer and Dust in a moment. Whatever it is, please be safe, boss.”

The phone clicked, as Nightmare realized the kindness in Horror’s tone.

And Nightmare sat there, holding Dream as he focused everything on making sure Dream didn't lose the last of his HP.

~~~

Horror pondered things while he dressed and woke the others. He went into the kitchen to wait.

Nightmare had sounded so sad..

He took a few bites of the leftover food that Killer had set out, before wondering why Dream hadn't come outside during all the chaos.

Probably just asleep.

It was too early for him, after all. He'd never get to sleep if he was up at this ungodly hour. He didn’t even know why Nightmare needed everyone, and he said he needed monster candy..?

All Horror knew is that none of his (brothers) co-workers were missing. It worried him.

Perhaps just a peek into Dream's room..

He started toward the cracked door, footsteps growing slowly faster when it seemed like he would never get there.He opened the door quietly, the whine of the squeaky hinges causing Horror to wince before looking inside.

Pieces of ripped paper and broken crayons on the floor. His Nightmare doll on the ground, like he had thrown it into the wall. Cape missing. Pajamas on the floor. Shoes missing. Bedsheets torn aside and strewn around the room.

Horror.. was now feeling his namesake, as he yelled at the others to hurry up. He ran as fast as he could to the medicine cabinet, grabbing every single monster candy they had and a few bandages, stuffing them inside his coat pocket.

He began to dash back out, before running into Cross. He almost knocked the oreo-looking skeleton over, quickly apologizing before trying to run again.

He felt a light pressure on his arm, and turned to Cross.“..You're never this upset, big guy. Tell me what's wrong, and take a deep breath, okay?..”

Horror felt a little relief, and sighed, explaining how broken Nightmare had sounded on the call....

and the fact that Dream's room was a mess, the small space no longer holding the small positivity guardian. Cross went silent at that, eye lights searching Horror’s face, concern and mild fear in them.“..Killer, Dust, hurry up. This could be something related to Dream. He's not in his room.”

Killer and Dust immediately picked up their pace, albeit not very much. Horror grimaced. “..I've got the candies. Grab some bandages and meet me out there.” Despite knowing he already had a few, he knew that he needed to prepare.

He ran out the door, eventually hearing the river rushing...

..and Nightmare yelling Dream's name. Oh, dear stars, his fears were true and Dream was hurt, he was hurt, Horror had a right to worry and maybe he would never even see that little smile ever again and yes that struck him harder than any blow he'd ever taken even from Undyne-

“HORROR! HERE, QUICK!!” Nightmare's dread filled voice cut Horror out of his panic attack as he ran over to look at Dream. Upon seeing how soaked, and shivering and cold the poor thing looked, he texted Killer ‘bring a towel.’

“Boss, tell me, is he hurt, how low is his HP, and how long has he been like this?!”

Nightmare took a deep breath before responding.

“He's got a severe fracture on his ribs and spine, I've been keeping him from dusting, he's at 1, and..”

Nightmare trailed off. Horror caught from the guilt on Nightmare's face, that Nightmare had not been here when Dream had fallen in. “..I brought bandages.” Horror mumbled before gently lifting the small bittybones’ shirt and taking a better look at the broken bones.

Oh.

Oh stars.

Oh stars oh stars oh stars oh stars-

“..Horror?..”

Dream was really hurt this bad? This could've killed him, he should've come sooner-“

..Horror, you're pulling at your socket, you're spacing out.”

And all that guilt came crashing down on Horror as he stared, filled with his namesake, at the bloody fracture.

“-Horror!”

He blinked as Nightmare waved his hand in front of Horror's face. He gently removed his fingers from the side of his face, feeling the sore pain of his soft eyesocket. “..We need to focus on Dream right now.”

Horror sighed and began to carefully wrap the bandages around the tiny bones, minding when Dream let out a water-filled pained cry through his unconsciousness, muffled through Nightmare's hoodie.

He turned Dream onto his back, popping a candy in his mouth before leaning back and attempting to take a deep breath.

That failed.

As did the next attempt.

He spaced out on the dark, cloudy sky, beginning to hyperventilate. He pulled his skull down in between his knees, barely holding back tears.

He stayed like that.

Maybe Horror believed that it was too late.

~~~

Horror still layed, spaced out in his bed, staring at the ceiling.

Killer, Dust, and Cross had arrived, and they had gotten Dream back to the castle. All Horror could see was that frail, injured, tiny, shaking, cold, wet body. Did what he feel count as feeling traumatized?

He didn't register the hand waving in front of his face.

He, of course, didn't register the voice saying his name.

Until it got louder, of course.

That hurt his already aching skull, as he went to groan and hold his head, he felt cold tears.

Had he been crying?

He hadn't noticed..

His senses slowly flooded back, and he registered Killer's half-gloved hand waving in front of his eyesockets.He turned his head, to see.. Killer was worried? He didn't have enough strength to register what Killer was saying, until it hit a quiet, shaking level of worry.

“..Horror..? ..You okay?.. You're k-kinda scarin’ me..”

He shook his head and everything flooded back.

“Oh.. oh yeah.. yeah, I'm okay.”

Okay or not, he felt an aching feeling pulling down his soul like blue magic. Fear. Doubt. Guilt?

He waved Killer away.

“..You should try to get some more sleep. It's 3:37.”

“Ah- y-yeah- of course-..”

Horror turned to the wall, trying to begin spacing out again.

But he noticed that Killer.. never actually left?

He looked back, seeing Killer hesitate

.“..We’re both worried, Killer. You should go to Nightmare. I think Cross is doing first watch on Dream tonight.”

Killer was silent, as he nodded stiffly and left the room.After a while, Horror's eyesockets shut.He had fallen asleep.

But that nagging guilt still tugged.

~~~

Dream was tired. He could make out that much. He felt the pain. He felt the cold, until someone had wrapped him up. Someone had given him candy.. and bandaged him?His head still ached more than anything. Hadn't they fixed it? Or maybe that was the adrenaline in his soul wearing off.

From all he knew, he had hit the bottom of the river. He had passed out after.. Nightmare saved him? Was it Nighty?

He really didn't know right now..

He wanted Nighty now.

He wanted to hold his goopy tentacle. Dream knew that Nighty was not near. From what little awareness he had, Crossy was with him.

He wanted to wake up.

Yes, that was what Dream wanted!

He needed to get up! And apologize!

After all, it was pretty early.

Or maybe that was just his head aching that convinced him of the time.. it could be the middle of the day for all Dream could know..

Eventually, Crossy swapped for Rory.

He wanted a hug from Rory.

Dream was in pain again.Like when he lost his tooth, but a billion times worse..

Okay, maybe he was overreacting.

Even a child could tell that much.

---

It's mine and a few others' headcanon that Horror pulls on his socket when he's nervous! :3

I accidentally cut off the last few sentences, but I'll pop them into the next chapter <3

merry christmas everybody!!!

[sulasnsleep]

“i do not recall the taste of love. i remember being fed poison and told it was sugar.”

— sulasnsleep

[slafgoalskybaby]

Max's success doesn't validate jos's abuse

[suc1d3-1z-th3-0nly-3sc4p3]

TW: MENTIONS OF R#PE, CHILD TRAUMA, AND SA

stop using daddy by Korn for aesthetic posts.

“oh but that songs a guilty pleasure to me”

“it’s just for the aesthetic”

“i like the music not the lyrics”

“then don’t listen to the lyrics”

as someone who’s experienced the same thing, shut up shut up it’s not a guilty pleasure it’s fucking horrible how the fuck do you find pleasure in child r#pe no what the fuck fuck you just because the song sounds a certain way doesn’t mean you can do this shit what the fuck its child r#pe it ruins people shut up this shit causes ptsd this song wasn’t made for the aesthetic it has actual meaning behind this shut up this isnt cute this isnt pretty this isnt horny its actual shit

trigger warnings in tag

[bl0w-m3]

I was a child.

Three years old, and I discover that love is conditional. My father has left physically, fully tearing open the wound of longing for him. He tells me my mother is evil. I believe him.

Five years old, and I discover there is more out there. My mother and I moved to a new state, far from what I know. I’m not scared. I learn what relief is. I don’t know why I feel it.

Six years old, my father looms over me. I had upset him, along the lines of crying too much or coloring too loud. He threatens me and turns red. I learn what anger is. I question what fear is.

Seven years old, my father calls me a whore. Another man had laid hands where they didn’t belong. I learned what real fear was. I still believed him. I tell my mother; she believes him.

Nine years old, I’m told I’m exceptional. To others the drowning is overshadowed by intelligence. After all if I’m getting good grades, I cannot be doing that bad.

Ten years old, he strikes me for the first time. I return to my mothers with a hidden bruise, and a emotional wound that could never quite be sewn up.

12 years old, I’m on a street corner with a backpack. After the fear of being struck was interrupted by the anger I had found inside myself, I was dejected from my fathers house. I call my mother to explain the danger. He says there is none. She believes him. I am assaulted and only tell my best friend.

13 years old, I fall out of my fathers clutches. I only feel a small difference. I realize there is something inside me. I realize how much I’ve learned. I keep going.

[strawberryspence]

Hopper first properly meets Steve Harrington when he was only 12 years old. Hopper was patrolling in the afternoon, like he does every afternoon, every morning and every night because you know, he didn’t have anything else to do after moving back to Hawkins after his daughter died. He drowned himself with work, cigarettes and alcohol.

When first sees Steve, he doesn’t even know he was the Harrington’s sole heir. He’s just a kid, a kid too small for his age, and Hopper has to reassure himself that maybe this kid just doesn’t eat enough, it doesn’t mean he’s sick. The kid was carrying planks of woods, too long and too heavy for his frame, hauling it on the side of the street.

Hopper takes pity at the kid and slows down beside him, opening his passenger window.

“Hey, kid. Need help?” The kid looks at him apprehensively. Like no ones ever offered to help him, like he’s actually been alone his whole life.

“I don’t need help.” The kid scoffs back, panting a bit as he carries the wood with struggle.

“Okay? You sure about that?” He hums, nodding, not even sparing him a glance.

“You should bring a wagon with you.” The kid stops on his tracks, realizing that he could have bought a wagon to ease his struggle.

“Thank you, Sir.” He courtly answers before marching to his destination.

Hopper has always been curious, has always wanted to know everything. So he waits for the boy to walk further before following him, the kid walks to the forest and there, Hopper watches as the kid struggles to make… a tree house. Alone. He wonders where are this kid’s parents? Why is no one watching him? The kid goes to the hardware store to buy tools, carries them, builds a tree house half of the day and no one looks for him?

Hopper investigates, goes back to work before going back to the forest, staying hidden and following as the kid goes home. He’s surprised when they enter the rich end of the town, the kid walking all the way down to Loch Nora and… to the massive, always empty, Harrington house.

Oh.

So this was the Harrington kid, alone in the house at the age of 12. Hopper won’t lie, he felt pity for the kid but the burning rage comes first. Because he just buried his kid, the one he wanted for the rest of his life and here’s a kid, who lives alone in a big house with parents that didn’t even care about where their son is.

It becomes a routine, Hopper wakes up, eats some shit breakfast, goes to work, goes for patrols, he uses his lunch break to check on Steve in the forest as he slowly builds his treehouse, he patrols around, checks on Steve again, goes home to eat shit dinner, goes back to the forest, checks what Steve has done, makes sure everything is safe and tight for him, he hammers down nails, because no child should be using that, checks on planks, then he goes home and sleeps. Repeat.

Until halfway through the summer, it stops. The treehouse is almost finished, outside it’s a whole treehouse. But inside, Steve’s still putting finishing touches. At the door, SH is carved out, and inside there’s boxes of food, even clothing and a bed. It’s not a kid’s tree house with toys and chalkboards, Hopper realizes, it’s a safe house away from home.

He only finds out why it stopped when he learns from the newspaper that Steve became one of the best swimmers Hawkins have ever seen and might be growing to be the next basketball captain for Hawkins High.

Steve grows up, throws parties and gives Hopper this look whenever he tries to break up the loud parties. Hopper’s always tries to decipher it, but Steve has always been better at masking what he feels. He tries to keep an eye on the kid, but between him, the Hagan kid throwing too many parties and the Munson kid who he thinks is selling drugs, he doesn’t have enough eyes to focus on just one thing.

Because life is weird, he gets a super-powered kid. The kid he tried to lure out with Eggos. He asks her one night, where she stayed in the middle of winter to keep warm. Eleven answers him, with big brown eyes, hair curling in the ends, “A house, up the tree.” Hopper has to clench his eyes to stop from tearing up, the treehouse Steve built at the age of 12, the place he wanted for refuge, the place Hopper helped built secretly, gave his daughter a safe place to stay.

Steve becomes part of his world, gets his shit rocked, and Hopper wishes he can keep all these kids away from this evil underworld, keep them all in a treehouse where they can just relive their childhoods, free of monsters and blood and death.

Hopper dies.

Hopper comes back.

Hopper does everything he wants to do. He hugs El a little tighter, proposes to Joyce, treats Will and Jonathan like his own sons, they’re little shits but he agrees to as many sleepovers the kids want and he finally, finally keeps an eye on Steve, becomes some semblance of a parent to the kid and tells him that he’s never alone. They never have to fight monsters ever again and maybe they’ll never get over it, maybe they’ll always jump at the slightest blink of a light, will always have to sleep with a weapon, but for now just knowing is good enough.

Now, he’s in Steve’s back porch, swinging on a rocking chair, watching as Steve carries planks of wood with ease. If he squints really hard, he can see 12 year old Steve and it makes his heart clench in nostalgia. There’s a 6 year old screaming, running around, clapping as Steve smiles down at him. Hopper can hear them faintly, as Steve explains what they’re about to do, the steps they’re taking to build a brand new tree house just behind his own home.

“Pa! Pa! Look at my helmet!” The kid comes running when the yard door opens, flailing to his other father as he brandishes the helmet Steve makes him wear when he’s near constructions.

“Well, aren’t you looking metal? Safety’s always important, bug, so good job.” Eddie Munson bends down to kiss the kid on the head before walking to Steve, pulling a wagon full of planks.

Hopper watches as the three try to visualize the tree house, laughing, smiling, just happy. Steve turns to them, waving, turning to whisper something to Eddie before he nods, giving Steve’s temple a kiss and helping his kid hammer the first few planks.

Steve walks up to them, holding out his hand as Hopper passes the second Harrington-Munson kid to his arm.

“Hi, love. Did Peepaw treat you well?” Hopper scoffs, because he still had an image to maintain and yeah, he melts every time the kids of the kids he watched grew up calls him Peepaw but no one has to know that.

The baby in his arm coos, almost like saying a yes. Steve smiles down at her, “We’re building a treehouse right at our backyard, darling. Me, your Pa and your brother. So when you grow up you’ll have a safe space just for the two of you. Just like how Peepaw helped me finished my treehouse when I was younger.”

Hopper blanches, “You know about that?”

Steve laughs quietly, “Yeah. I go home everyday with unfinished work and when I come back the next morning it’s always finish. Also, you don’t hide very well.”

Hopper scrubs his nape in embarrassment, “Oh.”

“Thank you.” Steve whispers, “It was a safe place for me when I was younger. And now I want to build one for the kids too.”

“Your kids will never need a treehouse for anything but playing because yours and Eddie’s home is already a safe place.” Steve makes a choked out sound, as he nods.

Hopper helps build the treehouse with Steve and Eddie. They finish the treehouse in two weeks.

And no one says a thing when Hopper tears up when he sees the wooden door up in the tree house, with SH, EM and the kids initials engraved.

JH is carved at the bottom, written by a 39 year old Steve Harrington, still with the same handwriting as 12 year old Steve Harrington.

[loveyourlovelysoul]

Childhood neglect and abandonment may show up in different ways in us. We may realize we find it hard to watch movies in which caregivers show up for their child in ways we couldn't experience; we try to overwork for others and show how good and worthy and helpful we are so that they won't leave us (we feel unlovable or unworthy in first place); we have troubles setting boundaries, even s3xual ones, cause we fear disappointing the other (we second guess our own feelings and voice); we overshare very soon in our relationships about our tough experiences (and rarely exaggerate them too) in order to have the other feel sorry about what happened to us and care for us; we label ourselves as too needy, too much, too damaged cause we believe nobody will ever love us, and what many people experience in their romantic life will never happen to us; to cope with our pain, we may start fantasizing about being saved from danger or just be surrounded by people that care for us the way we want them to.

We may end up believing these past painful experiences are the only possible life for us and become disconnected and emotionally unstable, even if the truth is that we're worthy of healthy relationships and love, and what we had to go through wasn't our fault. We're so much more than what we were made to believe, we're deserving of people staying and showing up for us (and we should allow ourselves to experience that too, without trying to -unwillingly- manipulate others into doing that).

(source - morganptherapy on instagram)

[youraverageventblog]

Sometime i just sit and remember that elementary school kids (4-10 year olds) should not be intensely suicidal like I was at that age.

[gracegrove]

Idyllic

tw warnings childhood trauma, child abuse, implied child abuse, implied child sexual abuse, blackmail

_________

He was struggling, a half-cocked grin under wiry and unkempt hairs as plain-clothed officers moved his father out the front door. "Billy? You do exactly as they say boy, you hear me?!" he barked, startling the moping child back to reality. A woman moved into the space, her brown paisley dress shifting as she squatted to his eye level.

"Billy?"

The boy looked up through watery eyes, the rhythmic beams of red and blue lighting up his face from the police cruiser parked outside. The woman stretched out her hand to wipe at his cheek, and Billy flinched, his face already bruised and yellowing around the edges from days prior.

"Honey I'm so sorry. We're gonna make this right." She put a hand gently on his shoulder. "We're gonna get you out of here," she promised.

Lounging, head tilted back against the concrete, Neil whistled a long flat tune. He was waiting on the detective to pull his ass out of bed. He continued piping out wistful ditties until a man approached his cell an hour later.

"Name's Detective Kasey, stand away from the bars. Remember that anything you say can be held against you in a court of law..." he droned wearily as he fumbled with a ring of keys.

Neil stood brushing off his wranglers and approaching, as the cell door swung wide and the detective entered. Neil held out his wrists to be cuffed but paused with a visible wrinkle in his nose. "Wait. Kasey? Duke Kasey, from Fresno High Class of '64?"

Neil leaned into the man's space, their eyes locking as the detective looked up at him suspiciously from bushy brows. "Who wants to know?" he inquired.

Pulling his cuffed wrists back, Neil gestured to himself proudly, "Neil. Hargrove. Remember me you sonnuva bitch?"

The detective nodded a fond smile. "Well, you bastard you're in a pickle now. Let's talk."

Coming to the interview room, the men both pulled up a chair, Det. Kasey opened the file sitting on the table. "Let's see what you've gotten yourself into this time heh?" Reclining, he flipped through the file, page by page, the soft expression falling from his face.

Neil sat opposite picking his nail beds clean. "How much's this gonna cost me? Community service? A fine?"

The detective didn't answer, lifting a page over and wincing as he finally reached the section with photographic evidence. "Jesus H. Christ!" he cursed. "This is bad Neil. Real bad. This ain't no pickle."

Neil frowned, resting his arms on the table. "I can't discipline my kid?" He stated calmly.

Kasey pulled a pen from his breast pocket and reached for the tape recorder. Clicking the record button, he stated the date, time, participants, and purpose of the interview.

"Neil Hargrove, are you aware of your rights?" Kasey asked.

"I am," he replied.

"And as previously stated do you hereby waive your right to an attorney?"

"I do. I got nothing to hide." Neil shrugged.

Kasey cleared his throat. "It's alleged that you have been harming your son, William, physically. On multiple occasions. What do you have to say to that?"

Neil looked around the bare room with an air of boredom, "The boy's hard to manage. Gets into trouble an awful lot. School. Home. Fights with neighbor kids." Neil slouched out in his chair, "What am I supposed to do? Someone's gotta raise that boy, teach him right. How to be respectful. Ever since his mother left, he's been an absolute pain in the ass."

"Is that an admission?" Kasey probed, scratching out notes onto a legal pad.

"An admission of being a parent who's trying their damndest? Sure." Neil reasoned. "You would understand..."

Kasey raised an eyebrow, "I don't think I follow."

Neil gave the man a baleful smile, "Your old man really was quite the guy."

Kasey bruskly paused the recording. "What the hell do you think you're doing?!"

Neil leaned in across the table, canines glinting in the low light. "Easy Duke, we're just talking. We're old friends after all, right?"

Kasey scoffed, he and Neil had hardly been what you'd call "friends."

"All I want is this over with," Neil continued, "I need to be home. My boy needs me. And you're gonna help me do that." Neil sniffed.

Kasey closed the casefile, "And why would I help you?"

Neil looked at the other man in mock innocence, "Because I know."

"I know it wasn't an accident."

Kasey's face paled, "And just what would make you think that?"

His voice was dry and wary, as he licked his lips, nervously padding his breast pocket for a carton of cigarettes. Lighting it, he took a deep drag.

"My old man had a bad habit of mixing booze and cigarettes. The whole house went up."

Neil leaned over the table, snatching the cigarette with a cuffed hand and smirking. "He also had a habit of keeping you around when Mommy was outta town..." Neil chuckled darkly.

"You sonnuva bitch" Kasey snarled, fingers curling into fists. "I don't have to listen to another word of this shit!" He pushed his chair gruffly away from the table, coming around and grabbing Neil roughly by the collar.

"Up! Your ass is going back where it belongs!" Kasey growled.

Gingerly holding the cigarette with his bound hands, Neil casually blew out, "I'm sure your Chief would be interested to hear about all the 'quality time' you spent with Daddy. All the -" He took another drag. "love you two shared. The hammer you buried with his blood -"

Kasey's grip slipped on him, dropping him askew in his seat. Leaving Neil to reseat himself.

Kasey loosened his tie, a visible sweat covering his face and dampening his shirt. "Wha-what hammer?"

Neil laughed, "Oh come on Dukey boy! The one I saw you bury beneath the dogwood by your toolshed. The one I dug up..."

Kasey swallowed on thinning air. "You ha-?" Neil nodded. "Yeah. I do." Kasey came back around and slumped into his seat, the chair groaning across the linoleum floor.

Moments passed in slience, marked by the monotonous ticking of the clock in the room. "So, here's what we're gonna do Duke." Neil stated resolutely as he ashed his cig on the table top. "You're gonna make this go away. And then I in my gratitude to you, will leave and never return. How's that sound?"

The detective nodded his head numbly. "That's a boy."

_______

"I don't know what more we can do Marsha," the man said from his seat at the kitchen table.

Marsha was putting the finishing touches on dinner as they spoke.

"Henry, we have to keep trying," she said gently.

"Marsha," Henry pushed, "How much is there even left to try? He's fighting at school again. He's angry about everything. He never lets us help him. How can we help Billy when he's like this?"

He was exasperated, rubbing a hand over his forehead, his wife giving him a supportive pat on the back.

The foster parents that Billy had been living with over these past few months were reaching their wit's end. They tried their best, welcoming him with open arms. They were very kind, but when Billy rebuffed them and avoided them they were hurt and confused.

Just then a little boy ran in the kitchen door crying. "Ma! Ma!" Marsha pulled him into to her side, thumbing at his tear-wet face. "What's wrong Sam?" "B-Billy..." he blubbered out before tumbling into tears again.

Henry shot Marsha a look. Marsha sighed, ushering the boy to sit at the kitchen table, as she went out the kitchen door to find Billy.

"Billy!? Billy?!?!" Marsha called as she entered the yard. "Come here please, we have to talk." Looking around she spotted him hiding behind the large trunk of the oak tree.

"Billy...." she sighed in disappointment as she approached. "What did you do to Sam?"

"Go away!" Billy yelled, tucking himself further behind the tree.

"I'm not going away Billy we have to talk." Marsha pushed.

"No!" Billy yelled, running from behind the tree to find a new place to hide.

Marsha reached out, grabbing Billy and wrapping him up in her arms. "Stop running Billy. You're in big trouble!"

"NO! NO! NO! NO! LET GO! LET GO!" Billy screamed. He began kicking violently, throwing his head back and hitting Marsha in the chest.

"Billy stop!" Marsha groaned, tightening her grip.

"Noooooo!" Billy bellowed, flailing and fighting even harder. Digging his heel harshly into her shin, Marsha yelped and let go, Billy running free.

He fled from the yard and was out of sight. Throwing open the kitchen door Henry looked at Marsha, "You wanna go after him?" Marsha shook her head vigorously, catching her breath. "No."

The doorbell rang. The couple composed themselves and came to the door. "Can we help you?"

The man smiled, "Good afternoon, I'm Neil Hargrove. I'm here to get my son."

[qumiiiquinnquin]

this family very much does not understand mental health, but i cant talk to them to educate and be able to talk to them about what is wrong, without them always getting frustrated at me or demanding an answer as to what i want them to do. i often get shot down or my answer isn't good enough for them. they've accused me of using anxiety and depression as excuses to act shitty, which is not true. ive explained my problems to my sibling numerous times only for them to snap back at me and they refuse to read what i wrote. every time, it is up to me to apologize for displaying symptoms, though i cant phrase it like that, but rather apologize for "how i acted." my dad does not want me to say i have anxiety and depression because self-diagnosis is bad. he has yelled at me and been physical with me during multiple depressive episodes or anxiety attacks.

i cannot say i was abused or have trauma either. just, people werent very great, thats all i can say, but i cant talk about those that hurt me too much because "they're family" and "they loved you." my mom did not care about my sa story, responding to it with "that happens" and moved on to talk about her own trauma. i hadn't told anyone but her in my family about the incident and i do not want to. in 2021 she stopped me from talking to her about the abuse from my nana because "its not nice to talk about people behind their backs." even though my dad has since apologized and stopped when i was 12, my dad's yelling and spanking since we were little made me nervous to accidentally set him off. i dont know if im wrong to feel that way about spanking, but he intentionally would do it very hard and my sibling and i would feel pain for several hours or longer. but since he feels guilty about it, we aren't allowed to call it abuse and i cannot say it caused me trauma. this same situation gets applied with my stepdad who has yelled at us for numerous things. and, of course there is what my nana and "aunt" have done.

apparently, this same lack of understanding and ignorance of mental health was present when my parents were still married, where my dad did not know much about bipolar disorder, which my mom has, but would not listen to my mom or try to understand.

my grandma seems to be the only person i can talk to and actually understands and cares about mental health.

i want to be able to tell my family whats going on. they're my family. i do not want to separate from them both physically and emotionally. i genuinely feel at a loss.

[awritingotaku]

Me slapping the new Jason Todd X Reader I’m writing: This baby fit so much trauma and exploration of the affects of childhood neglect and abuse on the mind. Even got space to use Constantine in a short story as a foil to the reader.

[scarrinotspooky]

i dont have a title for this one, but im lowkey proud of this sooo, poetry!

(also blah blah blah, it’s art, i’m fine, etc)