#abandonment issues

[yumeyuyumeyume]

[doehdeer]

The issues are issuing, and I just want to be hugged and cuddled right now.

[euphoricmoon]

[raincitygirl76]

I’m thinking about how Ilya always calls Shane boring.

I think for Ilya, boring really means stable and safe. Things he hasn’t really had in his own life since his mother died. I’m sure Svetlana was a very supportive friend, but there was only so much she could do. Shane is an oasis of stability and safety in Ilya’s otherwise chaotic life.

Shane isn’t impulsive, he’s cautious, he’s reasonable, he’s thoughtful. All “boring” traits, but the good kind of boring. And yet somehow he still wants to be with moody, impulsive, emotionally messy Ilya. And not only puts up with Ilya, but cherishes him.

Plus, I think Ilya probably mentally labelled Shane as “hot but boring” at their first meeting. When 17 year old Shane politely introduced himself and said he didn’t think Ilya was allowed to smoke there. From early on in their hookup history, Ilya was calling Shane boring. While moving heaven and earth to hook up with this boring guy (coming up with the idea for the joint commercial, etc).

Old habits die hard. By 1.06 Ilya has just turned 26, and still thinks Shane is damn hot. But he continues to tease Shane about being boring because it’s kind of their thing. And because to him, deep down, boring means safe.

You can anchor your heart to boring, and it will never come adrift.

[crownedhades]

"why do they never reach out to me"/"why am i always the one who reaches out first" -> just ask. seriously. please. most people genuinely don't mean to avoid interacting first. a lot of the time it's unintentional.

i've met so many avoidants over the years and a lot of the time it's usually out of social anxiety. or they're depressed. or maybe they actually have you reaching out first as part of their routine, so when you finally decide to not, they think you just want space, and they're too afraid of asking themself.

ask. work things out. express your own worries. maybe you asking will make them reach out more, or maybe you'll realize that you're actually fine with reaching out first, you were just worried that the feelings weren't mutual, but they are. they are mutual. it's okay.

i've met so many avoidants who have profound abandonment issues over these things because they have such a hard time interacting with people. please be patient. please try and work things out with them. please try and communicate with them. please try and compromise your needs. be gentle.

please start asking why before jumping to conclusions and leaving. please.

[mightyuncomfychair]

We, as a Fandom, don't talk nearly enough about Hardison's abandonment issues and how he uses gifts as a way to try and get people to stay. Or how he tries to put down as many roots as possible to try and create a home even if he knows it wouldn't be permanent. Honestly, I find it speaks a lot about his character with how he cycles through love languages but constantly goes back to words of affirmation and gift giving.

I'd love to explore more about how Parker and Eliot deal with his issues, especially since he's the voice of reason and the one who will give up everything he owns so his partners are happy. I wish there were more Hardison based fanfics. 😕

[xxlionheartedgirlxx]

[pocketstories]

Recompense (Gator Tillman x Reader)

Chapter One: Rock Bottom.

Instead of being arrested, a blind and injured Gator Tillman is hidden on a farm by a kid who thinks fugitives are more interesting than homework. What starts as temporary shelter turns into something dangerously close to family.

TW: Graphic descriptions of injuries, past abuse, abandonment cannon-typical with the Fargo series

Word count: ~3.5k

(Cross-posted to AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/78456726/chapters/205683856)

Contents:

Chapter One: Rock Bottom.

Chapter Two: Mole.

Chapter Three: Outed.

Chapter Four: Seen.

Chapter Five: Fever.

Chapter Six: Shape of You.

Chapter Seven: Idle Hands.

__~*~____~*~____~*~____~*~____~*~____~*~____~*~____~*~____~*~__

...This is what happens when you outlive your usefulness.

A wry, fruitless thought that seeps in slowly like the snow pressing cold through his clothes.

It soaks through denim, through the thin layers meant for standing, not lying still. Gator Tillman can feel it against his back, melting, refreezing, damp in places that already hurt too much.

His breathing fogs the air in front of his face. He can feel it against his cheeks, damp and warm before the cold steals it away. His arm throbs inside the cast, a deep, nauseating ache that pulses in time with his heartbeat. His head feels wrong. Too light. Too heavy. The bandage over his eyes is stiff, tacky with old blood, pulling uncomfortably every time he shifts his jaw.

The rope around his neck burns when he swallows.

It’s stiff with ice and dirt, fibers biting against skin that’s already raw. He can feel where it rubbed him bloody earlier, where it dragged when he stumbled, where it tightened when he didn’t move fast enough.

Gator stays still at first.

Moving feels like admitting something he isn’t ready to face just yet. The wind scrapes over the field in low, empty gusts, carrying sound with it. Far away, something creaks. Wood, maybe. Or metal. He can’t tell anymore. Everything feels distant, like it’s happening on the other side of glass. His own breathing, too loud, too fast, ragged in a way that makes his chest ache.

He waits.

His eyes throb beneath the bandages. A deep, pulsing pressure that makes his stomach roll. Every heartbeat feels like it echoes behind his face.

Dad’ll come back.

That’s the thought he clings to first. It’s simple. Solid. Familiar.

He just… left to get help. That’s all. He wouldn’t leave me out here. Not like this. Not after everything.

He can’t tell how long he’s been there. Minutes, hours. Time stretches weird when you can’t see. Long enough for the cold to stop being sharp and start being heavy. Long enough for his arm to scream every time he shifts, the rough cast digging into his ribs.

He listens for footsteps. For a voice. For the sound of boots crunching through snow. Anything. He counts breaths instead, like he was taught to do when panic started clawing at his throat.

In.

Out.

In.

He waits longer.

Nothing happens.

The silence starts to feel wrong. Empty and all-consuming. No footsteps. No voice. No shape moving through the sound of wind.

He swallows thickly.

A thought slips in, uninvited.

Whatever purpose you had before, it’s gone.

Gator squeezes his jaw tight, like he can physically hold the memory back.

No. I just… I just need time. That’s all. I can still—

Still what?

The thought trails off, fraying.

He pushes himself upright on one elbow. Pain explodes through him immediately, bright and nauseating. His balance goes sideways, snow giving way beneath his boots, and he stumbles, barely catching himself before he goes down again. His heart slams hard against his ribs, breath coming too fast now, sharp and uneven. He hisses through his teeth, breath stuttering. Snow scrapes under his palm, numb fingers struggling to find purchase.

I can’t just lie here.

I have to prove I'm still useful.

That’s the rule. That’s always been the rule.

Gator drags himself upright, swaying immediately. The rope tugs unpleasantly, catching against his collarbone.

For half a second, his body reacts on instinct—goes still, waiting for the pull to come harder.

The world tilts even though there’s nothing to see. His balance is shot. No horizon, no reference point, just the dizzy lurch of his own body misfiring.

He takes a step. Then another. Each one feels wrong, like the ground keeps shifting when it shouldn’t. The open space around him is suddenly terrifying. Too much room. No walls. No edges. Nothing to anchor himself to.

I can’t see. I can’t see. I CAN'T SEE—

The thought loops, loud and frantic, drowning everything else out.

He turns his head, searching for something. Any change in sound, any difference in the way the wind moves. He nearly trips when the rope catches under his heel, a sharp noise tearing out of his throat before he can stop it, and the humiliation hits sharper than the pain.

He takes another step.

The snow gives way unevenly beneath his boot and he nearly goes down again, barely catching himself. His heart slams against his ribs, panic flaring hot and fast.

His hands shoot out blindly, fingers scraping through empty air until... wood.

Solid. Rough. Real.

He gasps, chest heaving, and lunges forward, pressing himself against it. A wall. Boards. He can feel the grain beneath his palms, splinters catching at his skin. Relief crashes through him so hard it makes his knees weak.

Structure.

Okay. Okay.

Structure means direction. Means shelter. Means something he can follow.

He shuffles along it, shoulder brushing the wood, cast bumping awkwardly. Every few steps he has to stop, lean his forehead against the wall, breathe through the nausea. The bandages are damp now, sticky against his skin. Blood, probably. He can’t tell. Everything smells like iron and cold and dirt.

The ground changes beneath his feet. Less snow. More packed earth. The rope catches on something, tugging hard on his throat, and he stumbles back. His hands fly out to catch himself, palms scraping against rough ground. Pain blooms, white and dizzying. He gasps, the sound tearing out of him, and curls in on himself instinctively.

Underground.

The air is different here. Still. Damp. It smells like soil and rot and something old. The space closes around him immediately, and instead of panic, he feels something like grim comfort. The walls are close enough to touch on both sides. He reaches out, fingers brushing coarse dirt, grooves where tools once dug through earth.

He presses his cheek briefly against the wall, grounding himself. The cold seeps into his skin, but the closeness helps. Keeps him from spiraling.

I can do this.

He crawls at first, then staggers to his feet again, one hand sliding along the wall as a guide. The tunnel narrows and widens unpredictably. He misjudges the distance and slams his shoulder into wood, a sharp cry ripping out of him before he can stop it.

“FUCK—”

His voice echoes strangely, swallowed too fast. The sound of it makes his chest tighten.

Everything is too loud.

And too quiet.

He leans there, forehead pressed to the wall, breathing hard.

Blood smears wet and dark against the dirt where his face touches it. He can feel it. Sticky, crusted along his cheek, his nose, his mouth. Tears leak anyway, hot and useless, slipping down skin he can’t wipe clean fast enough. His nose runs. He doesn’t bother trying to stop it.

Don’t cry, he tells himself fiercely. It's pointless. Weak. Stupid. He gets up.

Every scrape of his boot, every ragged breath feels amplified, but there’s nothing else. No voices. No footsteps. No one coming to get him.

His thoughts start to splinter.

Maybe I just need to wait. Dad said—Dad—

He stops walking.

The realization hits slowly, sinking in like cold water.

He left.

Not temporarily. Not as a test. He left him here. Broken. Blind. Bleeding.

Whatever purpose you had before, it’s gone.

Purpose. Usefulness. Love.

They were always the same thing.

Love—

His thoughts derail.

All he can see are bruises blooming under skin. Hear the crack of knuckles. The way Roy Tillman called it discipline.

Love hurts.

The sound that escapes him is small and wrecked and nothing like the man he’s supposed to be. A wet, broken whimper. His shoulders shake, breath coming in jagged pulls that scrape his throat raw.

Can you cry without eyes?

Apparently, yeah.

He sinks down slowly, sliding until he’s crouched against the wall, fingers digging into the dirt like it might hold him together. Everything feels too loud. The rush of his blood, the rasp of his breathing, and too quiet at the same time. No voice. No footsteps. No sign of anyone else in the world.

No one is here to see it.

That thought makes it worse. And somehow… easier.

He curls forward, arms wrapped around himself, shoulders shaking as the sound finally tears loose. Ugly. Uncontrolled. Animal.

When it passes, because eventually it has to, he’s left hollow and trembling, breath rasping in his throat.

He wipes his face with the heel of his hand, smearing blood and tears together, and forces himself to stand.

Waiting didn’t save him.

If he’s going to survive, it won’t be because someone comes back.

He turns, hand dragging along the tunnel wall again, and keeps going.

Cold air hits him first.

Open, biting, sharp enough to sting where his skin is already raw. It rushes over his face, under the bandages, down the back of his neck. Snow presses against his hands when he crawls forward, the texture wrong after dirt, slick, wet, shifting under his palms.

He drags himself out and collapses half in, half out of the opening, chest heaving.

The world feels too big again.

Sound spreads out in all directions, no walls to catch it. Wind rushes over open ground. Something scrapes nearby. Light, rhythmic. A thump. Then another. Snow being thrown, maybe. He can hear it scatter, soft and hollow.

A voice follows.

“Uh… you okay, mister?”

It comes from somewhere ahead of him, just out of reach. Carried lightly on the wind, casual and curious.

Gator goes still.

Doesn’t answer. Doesn’t breathe.

“You stuck?”

The voice moves. He hears it circle, boots scuffing through snow, quick and unbothered. There’s a rhythm to it. Small steps, uneven, like someone who isn’t worried about slipping. Someone playing.

“What’s your name?”

Closer now. To his left, maybe. He turns his head slightly, trying to pin it down, but the sound keeps shifting, refusing to settle.

“Jeez,” the kid adds, conversational. “Don’t tell me you’re blind and mute.”

Gator’s jaw tightens.

Another step closer. Too close.

“I’ma just call ya Mole,” the kid continues, unbothered. “I mean... just look at ya. Blind. Dirty. Just came outta some hole.”

Something ugly twists in Gator’s chest.

Mole.

Small. Burrowing. Something that lives underground. Something you don’t notice until it ruins the yard.

He hates it immediately.

Hates that a stranger, a kid, has named him without asking. Hates that it fits.

What unsettles him more is the tone.

There’s no fear in it.

No hesitation. No sharp intake of breath. No recoil at the blood crusted on his face, the bandages, the rope dragging uselessly behind him. Kids are supposed to be afraid of men like him. Hurt men. Men who smell like iron and dirt and wrongness.

This one isn’t.

The kid sounds… amused.

The voice dips suddenly, closer, like the kid has crouched. Gator stiffens, instinct screaming at him to create distance, and he steps back without thinking—

His heel catches.

The rope.

He goes down hard, breath knocked from his lungs in a sharp, humiliating sound as he hits the snow. Pain flares everywhere at once, white and dizzying, the rope jerking at his throat as it drags behind him.

“Whoa—okay, yeah, don’t do that,” the kid says quickly, suddenly closer. Concern flickers through the words, but it’s still light. Still easy.

Gator grits his teeth, shoving himself up on one arm. “Don’t,” he snaps hoarsely, voice rough from crying and cold and disuse. “Don’t come any closer.”

The kid pauses.

Then, brightly: “Okay! I won’t. I mean—I already did. But I’ll stop now.”

There’s a beat.

“Name's Charlie, by the way,” the kid adds, like this is a normal introduction. “You don’t gotta tell me yours if you don’t want. But it’s kinda rude not to.”

Gator swallows, throat burning. “I’m not tellin’ you my name.”

“Hope ya don’t mind Mole then,” Charlie says easily.

Gator lets out something that might be a laugh if it didn’t hurt so much. It comes out as a huff instead.

"You got a home, mister?"

"No."

“I know a place that’s warm,” Charlie says. “Got blankets. And snacks.”

Gator scoffs weakly. “You shouldn’t be talkin’ to strangers.”

“Too late,” Charlie replies. “You talked back. That makes us acquainted.”

There’s a pause. Snow crunches as Charlie rocks back on his heels.

“I can help you get there,” he adds. “But you gotta play with me later. When you’re not, like… dying.”

That does it.

A real laugh breaks free this time. Short, incredulous, gone as fast as it came. He shakes his head weakly. “You’re serious.”

“Dead serious,” Charlie says with ease. “Deal?”

Gator thinks of the cold. The tunnel. The rope dragging behind him. The fact that he can’t even stand on his own right now.

He doesn’t have leverage.

“…Fine,” he mutters. “Deal.”

“Cool. C’mon, Mole.”

Something small brushes Gator’s fingers. Hesitant, then firmer. A hand. Smaller than his. Warm through the cold.

Gator flinches on instinct, breath hitching.

Charlie stills. “Too much?”

Gator swallows hard. The contact feels foreign. Unwelcome and, worse, steady.

“…Just help me up,” he says.

The hand tightens gently around his fingers, tugging him up with surprising confidence.

When he's on his feet, Charlie doesn’t take his hand.

That surprises Gator.

Instead, the kid grips the sleeve of his jacket, fingers bunching the fabric just above his elbow. It’s careful. Intentional. Like Charlie’s decided exactly how much contact is allowed and no more.

“Okay,” Charlie says, cheerful. “Step when I step. Try not to eat snow.”

“Real helpful, kid. Next you wanna tell me the sky’s blue?” Gator mutters.

“See, that tone right there?” Charlie replies without care. “That’s what we call ‘ungrateful.’”

A pause. "And the sky's grey right now, by the way."

Gator huffs.

They start moving.

It’s… bad.

The snow is uneven, drifting in places, packed hard in others. Gator can’t tell where the ground changes until his foot finds it the hard way. The rope drags behind him, snagging on clumps of snow, catching under his heel once and nearly sending him down again.

He stumbles, breath hitching.

“Whoa—hey, hey,” Charlie says, tightening his grip on Gator’s sleeve. “Easy. You walk worse than my baby cousin."

Gator grits his teeth. “Watch it.”

“I am watching it,” Charlie says airily. “You’re the one who can’t.”

That one lands.

Roy's killed for less.

He keeps going anyway, jaw locked, breath coming too fast. Every step feels like a gamble. He hates how much he has to rely on the kid’s grip, how small and steady it feels compared to the rest of him falling apart.

Charlie, meanwhile, does not shut up.

“So,” he says, after about five seconds. “How’d you get stuck in that hole anyway? You fall in or you live there?”

“Neither.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“It is if you’re askin’.”

Charlie hums thoughtfully. Snow crunches as they move. “Fair. But I’m askin’.”

Gator grits his teeth. “It’s called a mineshaft.”

“Ohhh.” Charlie sounds impressed. “Cool. Like treasure?”

“No.”

“Gold?”

“No.”

“Dead bodies?”

Gator stumbles again. “Kid—”

“Kidding! Kidding,” Charlie says quickly. “Mostly.”

They walk a few more steps before Charlie’s curiosity inevitably finds something new.

“What’s this thing?” Charlie asks suddenly.

Something pokes at Gator’s side, light but insistent.

He jerks instinctively. “Don’t touch that.”

“Oop. Sorry.” Charlie pulls back, then pokes again, gentler. “But what is it?”

Gator sighs. “Gun holster.”

There’s a beat.

“…Where’s the gun?”

“Not here.”

“Did you lose it?”

“No.”

“Did someone take it?”

Gator’s mouth twists. “Something like that.”

Charlie seems satisfied with this deeply vague answer. For about three seconds.

“So what happened to your face?”

There it is.

Gator’s steps falter. His grip tightens on the sleeve Charlie’s holding, knuckles aching. He doesn’t answer.

Charlie, undeterred: “Like—are you really blind? Or is this a pirate situation?”

Gator stops walking.

“Enough,” he snaps, voice rough. “You ask too many questions.”

The words come out harsher than intended. Too sharp. Too close to something ugly.

There’s a brief silence.

Then Charlie answers again, unfazed. “Okay. Just curious.”

They start walking again.

A few steps later, Charlie adds, conversational as ever, “You always this cranky, or is it just on days when you’re disfigured?”

... Disfigured.

The word hits sideways. It wasn’t cruel on purpose. Just… honest.

Gator’s breath catches before he can stop it.

He doesn’t answer right away. When he does, it’s quieter. “I’m in a lotta pain.”

Charlie’s grip on his sleeve doesn’t loosen. If anything, it steadies.

“Oh,” he says simply. “Shoulda said so sooner.”

“...I’ll kill you, kid.” 

Though his tone is just unserious enough that Charlie grins.

They keep walking.

Snow crunches. The rope drags. Gator’s breathing stays uneven, but the panic ebbs, just a fraction. No one’s yelling. No one’s pulling. No one’s telling him to move faster.

Charlie adjusts his pace without comment, slowing when Gator slows, stopping when he stops.

For someone who won’t shut up...

He’s weirdly good at this.

__~*~____~*~____~*~____~*~____~*~____~*~____~*~____~*~____~*~__

The pole shed smells like old wood and hay and cold metal.

Charlie guides him inside carefully, the air changing immediately. Less wind, more stillness. The door creaks shut behind them, muting the outside world. Gator exhales without realizing he was holding his breath.

“Okay,” Charlie says quietly. “Sit here.”

A wooden support beam presses into Gator’s back as Charlie helps him settle against it, easing him down into the hay. It prickles through his clothes, itchy and dry, catching against skin that already feels too sensitive. He grimaces but doesn’t complain.

He’s learned when to keep quiet.

There’s a pause. The kind where Gator expects Charlie to bounce off and start talking again.

Instead,

“Hey,” Charlie says, softer. “Uh. Can I… can I untie you?”

The words hit harder than anything else so far.

Gator’s throat tightens instantly. The rope is still there, a constant burn around his neck, stiff and unforgiving. He hadn’t even realized how badly he wanted it gone until the option is offered.

“…Yeah,” he manages, voice rough. “Yeah. Please.”

Charlie doesn’t rush.

He steps closer, movements careful, like he’s afraid of startling a wild animal. Gator feels small fingers brush his collarbone, then hesitate.

“I’m gonna be real gentle,” Charlie says. “Okay?”

Gator nods, blinking uselessly beneath the bandages.

The rope shifts. Fibers scrape against raw skin and Gator sucks in a sharp breath despite himself.

“Sorry,” Charlie whispers immediately. “I got it. I got it.”

The kid keeps talking while he works, voice light but focused. “My sis says you gotta talk to the patient so they don’t freak out. She did this once for some kittens.”

“Kittens,” Gator echoes faintly.

“Yeah. They got caught in barbed wire by the fence. Real nasty.” Charlie pauses, fingers adjusting. “She took ’em inside and showed me how to cut around it without pulling too much. Said you gotta think about where it hurts already,” Charlie adds thoughtfully. “Not make it worse.”

Gator swallows.

“Those kittens were flea-ridden. Ya got fleas?”

Gator can’t help the hoarse huff of laughter that escapes him.

“You think I’m kiddin’ till you’re itching all over. You got fleas, you sleep outside,” Charlie mutters with a shake of his head, though the smile in his tone betrays him.

The rope loosens a fraction at a time. Each movement sends a sting of pain through his throat.

Charlie’s hands are warm. Surprisingly steady.

“There,” Charlie murmurs. “Almost done.”

The rope finally gives.

It slides free, dropping uselessly into the hay with a soft, final sound.

Gator’s breath shudders out of him, uncontrolled. He lifts a trembling hand to his neck, fingers brushing skin that’s tender and burning and... free.

“Okay,” Charlie says gently. “All untied.”

Gator presses his palm to his throat and laughs weakly. It comes out broken, halfway to a sob.

“…Thanks,” he says, quietly. “Kid.”

Charlie beams. Gator can hear it in his voice. “That was a nasty bugger. Bet you feel like a million bucks— well, minus the rest of ya.”

Charlie leaves him for a moment, footsteps retreating, then returning in short trips.

A heater is set near his feet, humming to life with a low, steady sound. Blankets are draped over his legs, then his shoulders. A pillow is shoved awkwardly under his arm.

Something crinkles as it’s placed into his hand.

“And snacks,” Charlie adds, placing something into Gator’s hand. A crinkly bag.

“Do moles eat trail mix?” he asks seriously.

Gator huffs a quiet, broken laugh before he can stop himself.

Once Gator’s settled, Charlie steps back, voice shifting into something almost authoritative. “Okay. Rules.”

“Figures,” Gator mutters.

“No yelling,” Charlie says, counting on his fingers. "No runnin’ off in the night. We have a deal. No eating the animals."

“Wasn’t plannin’ on it,” Gator says.

“Good.” Charlie nods, satisfied. “I’ll check on you later.”

Then the kid is gone, the door creaking softly as it closes again.

Silence settles in.

Gator lies there, stiff and aching, blankets too warm and hay too itchy and everything still wrong, but different. The heater hums steadily nearby. Wind rattles faintly against the shed walls.

He doesn’t feel safe.

But he doesn’t feel hunted either.

And finally, Gator lets his eyes stay closed.

And rests.

A/N: Hello, lovely readers! This is the first part in a new series I'm starting for Gator Tillman because I watched the new season of Fargo and boy, does this poor man deserve a better ending. Definitely eventual romance here once Charlie's sister comes into the picture that you can look forward to. I hope people will enjoy this one, definitely painful to read and write at the beginning but it will get better!

-Pocketstories <3