#CW: Neglect

[sleep-drunk-kitten]

pairing: Sunghoon x fem!reader

genre: angst with a happy ending, fluff, established relationship

content warnings: emotional neglect, some swearing, hoon is kinda a workaholic ig?, I don't think there's anything that really needs warnings other than this is sad but lmk if I miss anything!

summary: your boyfriend comes home late after promising to be home on time for once, only to find that you're nowhere in sight...

notes: this is another one that I'm not sure how to feel about ;-; but I hope you guys enjoy it TwT fun fact, the whole thing was inspired by an rp that I did with an ai where the robot somehow managed to call me by another person's name while cuddling XD

I'm making a general taglist for my fics so if anyone would like to be added please either send an ask or a DM ^w^

Everything below the cut is NOT proofread

₊˚ ‿︵‿︵‿︵୨୧ · · ♡ · · ୨୧‿︵‿︵‿︵ ˚₊

  The white noise of your favorite movie buzzes through your living room, conversation and dialogue that you’d learned by heart filling the cold space with a false sense of familiarity. You sit cross-legged with your back pressed into the arm of the L-shaped couch in front of the tv, resting your chin on a plushie held close to your chest, looking not at the flickering screen to your right, but at the clock hanging in your kitchen–the only room in the house with the lights on. 

  9:17 pm, it reads. Roughly three hours and seventeen minutes since your boyfriend would typically get home from work. 

  Three hours and seventeen minutes since you’d been waiting on a barstool by the kitchen island where you both usually took your meals. 

  A tiramisu cake and a bouquet of flowers laid out in front of you. 

  Waiting.

  Waiting.

  So much waiting. 

  After an hour or so, you’d gently slid the cake back into its box, distracting yourself with the task of putting the flowers into a vase before they could wilt. 

  ‘He’s late again,’ you think sleepily, eyes struggling to stay focused on the clock, ’he promised he wouldn’t be tonight.’

  Your vision blurs as the long hand hits 12, eyelids too heavy to keep open, mind wandering to the conversation you’d shared with Sunghoon that morning. 

₊˚ ‿︵‿︵‿︵୨୧ · · ♡ · · ୨୧‿︵‿︵‿︵ ˚₊

  “What time will you be home from work today?” you asked sleepily, sitting up in your nest of blankets, having woken up to find that he was already in the process of pulling his socks on, careful not to wake you. 

  “I don’t know, Love, you know how crazy things have been with this update, I might be late again,” he said absently, looking around for his glasses. “Where the fuck did I put them?”

  He runs a hand through his hair frustratedly, leg bouncing in agitation. It made your heart ache slightly in your chest, disappointment, guilt, and worry mixing confusedly in your stomach. 

  You loved Sunghoon, more than almost anything else in your life, he was the man you’d chosen as your partner, who you’d decided to stand by through thick and thin. But ever since the game company he worked for had started work on a new update, you’d been seeing less and less of him. Always coming home late, tired and stressed, mind wandering and absent even when he was sitting right in front of you. You understood, you really did. Between the two of you he was the one with the bigger income, the burden of taking care of you, of making sure that the two of you could build a future together, was on his shoulders. And it was a responsibility that he did not take lightly. 

  But still. 

  In moments like that, where you slid off your bed to fetch his glasses off the nightstand–blanket wrapped securely round your shoulders to fend off the cold that permeated your apartment since the heating had started to malfunction–moving round the bed to stand in front of him… you couldn’t help but feel like he was breaking your heart. Just a little. 

  It was in the way he only met your eyes briefly when he took them from you before standing and gathering the rest of his things, sighing in what could’ve been frustration or relief, it was hard to tell. 

  It was the way he didn’t stop the flow of movement steadily taking him away from you and towards the office till you called his name twice, stopping in his tracks and fixing you with a look that, though probably unintentional, made you want to bury yourself under your mountain of plushies and hide. 

  “I’m going to be late, (y/n), what is it?”

  You winced. You couldn’t help it. Unaccustomed to hearing him say your name with so little emotion. “Just… could you come back on time tonight?” your voice is barely more than a whisper, tapering off into silence the longer you force your eyes to meet his. “Unless you can’t of course! I’m not saying you have to do anything, I understand that you’re busy and you can’t really dictate when or how things get done but just that it would be nice if you could be home on time tonight since-”

  “Okay.”

  “Huh?” 

  “I’ll make it home on time tonight.” 

  His voice was softer than it had been a moment ago, giving you the courage you needed to meet his eyes. They were still heavy with worry, brows drawn together to dig a permanent crease into the middle of his forehead, but they weren’t quite as cold or distant. He was looking at you, really looking at you for the first time in what felt like forever. 

  It wasn’t much, you knew that. But it was still enough to ease the knot building in your throat. Enough to bring a small smile to your face as you nodded. “Mnm! Okay, I’ll see you tonight then.”

   “Mnm, alright,” he said, a small, slightly strained smile coming to rest on his own lips.

₊˚ ‿︵‿︵‿︵୨୧ · · ♡ · · ୨୧‿︵‿︵‿︵ ˚₊

  The apartment was almost completely dark when the lock to the front door chimed, alerting the darkness that someone had arrived. The figure that stepped through was slumped over, backpack sliding off one shoulder with his jacket, shoes abandoned haphazardly. 

  It took a moment for Sunghoon’s mind to catch up to his body, for it to fully sink into his bones that he was home. That he was home and it was nearly 11 pm. Home and the tv and kitchen light were both on, white letters onscreen asking the room if anyone was still watching Netflix. 

  Something in the kitchen caught his eye, a handmade vase his sister had given you for your birthday set out on the kitchen island, filled to the brim with pink, white, and purple flowers he did not recognise. 

  ’Oh’

  It was his birthday. 

  That’s why you’d asked him to come home on time. 

  Sunghoon groaned, face twisting with what could only be described as pain as he quickly set his bag down by the front door and made his way to your shared bedroom. You were usually asleep by this time, unable to pull all-nighters the way you used to back when you were in high school, always out like a light by no later than 10:30 every night. 

  ’But she still stays up every night waiting for you,’ a voice in his head hisses.

  ’I know… fuck I know she does,’ his own voice replies, panic setting in when he finds your room empty, the bed neatly made, not even a dent to show that you’d been laying in it while working on your laptop during the day. 

  ’She’s not here… are you surprised? How long did you expect her to wait?’ the voice whispers, a chill cascading down his spine.

  The panic sets in with more vigor, wrapping round his throat and sending his tired mind into overdrive as he checks the bathroom, your home office, and finally the dark living room. Fear telling him that this was it. 

  He’d really gone and done it now. 

  He wasn’t a complete fool. He knew the moment you stood in the middle of your bedroom floor instead of closing the distance between you and wrapping your arms around his waist, choosing instead to clutch your favorite duvet like a lifeline, wincing when you heard his voice, all because you wanted to ask him to come home… he knew right then that he’d been an absolute idiot. 

  He’d meant to come home early, to be there to make it up to you, to apologise properly, tell you that he’d take some time off as soon as the update was done and dusted. 

  But he didn’t. He let work sweep him up again. Drowning in error messages and buggy code till the sky outside his office windows was filled with the flickering lights of the city at night. 

  And now… now you weren’t there. 

  He’d left you alone. 

  He’d left you alone too long and you were gone. 

  You were gone. 

  You were gone and-

  ’Oh.’

  There you were. 

  The relief when Sunghoon sees you–curled up on the couch, partially hidden by a small pile of blankets and stuffed animals–is immediate.

  He doesn’t really register the way he sighs your name, shoulders relaxing, body melting into the floor the moment he’s in front of you, hand brushing a few messy strands of hair out of your face. The need to feel the warmth of your skin, to confirm that you really are there in front of him more an instinct than a conscious decision. 

  You mumble something in your sleep, tilting your face away from his cold fingertips, eyes fluttering open. “Hoon… hi baby… welcome home,” you say tiredly, shifting under your blankets in an attempt to pull yourself up. 

  Sunghoon feels his heart crack in his chest. Why were you smiling at him? You should've been angry. You should've pushed him away, demanded to know why he was back so late, why he'd been neglecting you in the first place. 

  “Baby? My love… why are you crying?” you ask, reaching for him through the haze of sleep still clinging to your limbs. 

  Choking back a sob, he leans closer, tucking his head under your chin and doing his best to wrap an arm around you from his place on the carpeted floor. “Nothing,” he says, shaking his head, though the tears soaking into your sternum say otherwise, “just missed you…”

  Your vision blurs at his words, a thread of steadily building tension and worry that had been constricting your heart for the past few weeks snapping. “Oh…” your voice shakes slightly, lungs shuddering as your breaths begin to feel lighter, “I’m right here you goose, what’re you crying for?” 

  “Who says I’m crying,” he says, hoarse with tears. 

  “Right right,” you laugh despite the dampness now soaking through your own cheeks, “because my baby never cries, huh?” 

  “Never,” he sniffles, nuzzling closer.

  You stay like that for a while, eventually urging him to sit more comfortably on the couch, allowing you to settle yourself on his lap, his arms still wrapped firmly round your waist, hands occasionally kneading whatever part of you he was in contact with as if he needed to assure himself that you were there, solid and real. 

  He waits until he feels your heartbeat slow to a steady rhythm, trying his best to calm down so his own can match yours, beat for beat. The way it–in his opinion–should. 

  But it wouldn’t, there were words lodged in his throat, and every time he tried to get them out he felt that same panic wash over him, sending his heart into a frenzy. 

  You could feel like beating against your cheek, could sense that there was something he wasn’t saying from the way his grip on you would tighten almost imperceptibly, stiffening as if he was bracing himself for something. A part of you wanted to push him, prompt him and ask what was going through his head, why you’d woken up to the sight of him crying in the dim light of your living room. And you would’ve if he hadn’t beat you to it. 

  “I’m sorry, (y/n).”

  “What do you mean? For being late? I know you can’t help it, Hoon, it’s not some-”

  “No! I mean yes, I’m sorry for being late tonight but… I mean… I mean for everything… for not being… here, with you, like this… as often as I should be, I’m sorry,” he says, the hands at your sides nervously fidgeting with the fabric at your hips, nervously looking between your face and the static tv screen behind you. 

  Sunghoon had never been good with words. You’d learned early on in your relationship that he preferred to show how he felt through his actions. Yet here he was, fumbling through an apology because… because… 

  “My love… did you think I’d left?” you ask, gently cupping his face with one hand, urging him to look at you. 

  Puffy red eyes still wet with tears, messy unkempt hair from running his hands through it all day, tired and probably as emotionally spent as you’d ever seen him and still… still he was the most beautiful person in the world to you. He nodded, hiding his face in your chest again, hands stilling. 

  “Well,” you sigh, resting your chin on top of his head and running a hand through the hair at the back of his head, combing through it in a way he swears only you can, “at least you know you’ve got things you need to make up for…”

  “I know… I forgot for a while… but I know…”

  “That’s okay then,” you breathe, leaning back to kiss his forehead. “But Sunghoon… baby… darling… the love of my life… my little pookie bear… “ you both giggle a little at the pet names, “You know I’d never leave you over something like this right? I was sad, and hurt, and I still expect you to make it up to me by never doing this again but… I still love you, it only hurts because I love you… I’m not going anywhere.”

  Sunghoon pauses for a moment, letting your words sink in. You think that when he looks up, lips slightly parted, it’s to say something in response, but you really should’ve known better. 

  Slowly, giving you enough time to pull away should you choose to, his breath mingling with yours before he steals it away with a soft, lingering kiss. Neither of you is in any rush to take things further. 

  It feels like a small eternity before he pulls away, like time stills for you both, but then he’s pressing his lips to your jaw, butterfly kisses tickling you down to your pulse point, making you giggle so you almost miss it when he says, “I love you too… so much…” 

₊˚ ‿︵‿︵‿︵୨୧ · · ♡ · · ୨୧‿︵‿︵‿︵ ˚₊

  It isn’t until the next day when you’re shuffling into your home office dressed in one of his oversized jerseys, complaining about a meeting that he remembers the flowers he’d seen on the kitchen island.

  Pulling out his phone, he makes good use of his detective skills (and google lens), remembering all the times you’d spoken to him about the language of flowers, and the meanings behind certain blooms. 

  He wasn’t quite sure whether to laugh or cry once he’d figured it out, opting to dig through the cabinets for a pack of waffle mix to fix you some breakfast instead. He had a lot of apologies to make…

Baby’s Breath: pure everlasting love

Pink Camellias: longing for you

Forget-me-nots: true love memories, do not forget me

[withacapitalp]

Vanilla with Fresh Strawberries

written for ‘cake’ @steddiemicrofic wc: 311 | rated: T | cw: parental neglect

Steve's birthday cake is always vanilla with fresh strawberries.

It's always been vanilla with fresh strawberries, because that's what his mother ordered every year. And, once his mother started following his dad around the country, that's what Tommy and Carol remembered having, so that's what they got. Then, after Tommy and Carol dropped him, Robin somehow figured out that vanilla with fresh strawberries was Steve's normal birthday cake order, so she started to get that.

Vanilla with fresh strawberries from Joanie's bakery right in the middle of town. That was the routine. That was how it always had been.

And because that's the routine, because that's always been the routine, Steve feels justified in being confused when Eddie hands him a chocolate cupcake.

"Happy birthday, my darling," He crooned as he did, looking around discreetly before leaning over the counter of Family Video to press a quick kiss to Steve's cheek.

"What's this?"

"A cupcake?" Eddie replied, sounding just as confused as Steve.

"It's chocolate," Steve shot back, like that should explain everything.

"Yeah? It's your favorite," Eddie said casually, completely missing the way that Steve's eyes grew wide and his breath caught in his throat.

There were a lot of things Steve could have said at that moment. Things he could have said to Eddie

He could have told Eddie about his normal order. He could have told Eddie that he found out he was allergic to strawberries when he was eight, but no one else had noticed that he broke out in hives if he had anything with strawberries in it. He could have told Eddie what this single stupid cupcake meant to him, about the way his heart felt like it was going to burst out of his chest.

"Chocolate is my favorite," Steve said instead, taking a small bite and savoring the taste of actual, real, love.

[dreaminginpencil]

Found this in my drafts and had forgotten to post it soooo...

This art is based on a twitter thread drabble I wrote about Steve and his soft toy Bunny and growing up in difficult situations and loving people that are sick the best that you can.

It's also posted in full on AO3 if you wanna support me there ❤️

(CW: depression and neglect of a child) Steve’s mom suffered with poor mental health and Steve didn’t understand. Eddie does too, and maybe Steve understands better now.

When Steve was small, his parents’ door was open a crack most of the time, the sweet grown-up scents of perfume and cologne drifting out. Their bedroom was a treasure trove of wonders, their expansive closet full of clothes that swished and slipped over his little fingers, his mom’s dressing table cluttered with ornate glass bottles of perfume, sweet-smelling waxy lipstick, and delicate compacts of powders, her silver-backed beautiful hairbrush. Sometimes his mom even brushed his hair like hers, til it gleamed, shiny and soft.

When the bedroom door was closed, Steve knew to knock first, knew he should probably wait and ask for their time later.

Sometimes though, sometimes his mother would shut the bedroom door and she would not leave the room for days. His father would sleep on the couch, or make excuses and go away on “business”.

There would be no sweet smells of perfume, only dark and silence. His father told him that his mom was sick, to let her rest. Steve didn’t understand why she didn’t want to see him. When he was sick, he wanted cuddles and toast and hot drinks with honey and his Bunny with one ear loved almost all the way off.

Steve would sit outside her door with his Bunny and wait. He would wait and wait and eventually when he was lonely and tired he would knock quietly and creep into her room.

With the heavy damask curtains drawn, it drowned the room in blue shadows, the looming frame of the four poster and it’s mounds of blankets piled up. Steve felt like he was climbing a mountain to find his mom amongst them all.

“Are you sick? Do you want toast?”

He would offer her his Bunny, cuddle close. She did not smell like perfume, just something stale and forgotten.

“Mommy’s tired Stevie.”

Sometimes she wouldn’t speak at all, just touch his hair. Sometimes she would tell him to leave her.

“Go and play Stevie.”

Steve didn’t know how to explain with her there was nobody to play with and that his father had gone away somewhere and he was hoping she would make him macaroni.

Steve learnt to get to the high up pantry shelves for snacks until his father got home, or til his mom stopped feeling tired.

She seemed more than tired, but what did he know?

The older Steve got, the more often his mom was tired. He learnt not to ask anymore, just to lie down with her, to be patient, to be sweet.

He learnt to bring her food, even if she would not eat it, to make her tea and open the curtains up. He learnt to coax her from bed and to her vanity, so he could brush the dark tangle of her hair until it gleamed and fell like silk down her back. He ran her hot baths and always gave her his Bunny.

When his parents started to go away and not come home, Steve wondered who took care of her. If his father still left her alone.

She would sound far far away when he called her. “I’m tired Stevie, we’ll speak soon.” The dial tone felt heavy.

Steve gets tired too, but there is nobody who will come to check on him, so he cannot sleep through it.

Eddie is like his mother was, sometimes.

After the Upside Down, after Vecna, Eddie is dogged by the shadow of consequence. They won, yes, they won, but Eddie is scarred and scared and sometimes he is very tired.

Steve knows how to take care of Eddie when he’s tired.

He can come to Eddie in his quietness, in his tangled unwashed sheets and his dark bedroom and he can offer, piece by piece, the things he knows.

He can kiss Eddie’s clammy forehead, his tangled hair, curl up with him and pay no heed to the mortification of dirty sheets for a while. He can crack the blinds and bring him his painkillers and water and coffee. He can coax Eddie to a shower, washing the sleep and the sadness from his skin. He can change his sheets, trade them for clean soft cotton and comfort.

When Eddie is clean and so tired again, Steve can brush his long hair until it’s free from tangles and falls long and dark down his back.

Sometimes Eddie needs time to be tired, but Steve can care for him still, with quiet affection and patience.

Eddie may need time, sometimes, but he never entirely closes the door to shut Steve out.

[blankticket]

@punishercross

Vash wakes up on a bed—(where? when?)—to a wet washcloth being pressed against his face.

Makes sense, because he's been filthy.

Unshaven and unkempt and feverish and streaked with sand and grime and dried blood. There's an inarticulate sound he makes that only gets as far as the base of his throat, his only hand blindly waving, barely pressing against someone else's chest. It doesn't do much to stop the man from cleaning away his tear tracks anyway.

Disoriented and starved and thirsty, Vash's mind conjures the thought of the original Plant, buried deep in the Earth centuries ago, and the excavation of it. Humans had breathed life back into that fossil, had decided she needed to live past death, and his mind is content to assume the same case for himself.

This way, his intuition tells him this was not a moment where he needed to panic, to comply to the next deal he's instructed to make. He's being helped. His hand falls away, resting across his own chest.

"Where." It's more a rough sound than a word, causing the Plant to clear his throat, cough, rest for a moment as the washcloth is pulled away from his face. He licks his lips; cracked and bled and healed and bled again. Eyelids try to open against the light, dulled eyes unable to focus for the time being.

"Where're. You?"

[curlygrant44]

do you like finger puppets

"I guess I've never really thought much about them."

He had a vague memory of making some with his nanny when he was very, very young.

He'd tried to show his father, and when he didn't understand why he wouldn't even look for a moment, he started crying.

That earned him a caning, and that started a sobbing fit that had him sent to bed without dinner.

He supposes finger puppets never really did interest him that much anyway.

[eraserspiral]

Tav asks! 9, 13, 18, and 20! <3

9. favorite smell? astarion in the morning geranium oil :) 13. hidden talent? lythra is a very, very good liar. 18. favored display of affection (platonic and/or romantic)? platonic: being useful romantic: being useful + being physically present (small touches, proximity, care). she isn't opposed to more overt pda, it just... doesn't occur to her. 20. free-response! Is there anything else about your Tav you'd like to share? cw: neglect even for a drow, lythra is very petite because she's physically underdeveloped. everyone in the temple of bhaal assumed she was someone else's responsibility, or that a bhaalspawn could fend for themselves. she stole food where she could, but it wasn't much. when she was palmed off to unwitting foster parents, it was the first time anyone had made her lunch. but that didn't last long.

tav ask game

[simlaysimblr]

Part 5 (7 years later):

and that was the last time Monica ever spoke to her kids..

beginning | previous | next

[culling-protection-services]

(I svppose I ^eed to ^^ake this).

(^^y ^a^^e is Qvefi^^ Qvartz -Quefim Quartz- a^d I a^^ the ^^a^ager of the Thistle Grvb CPS hive, please report a^y pote^tial cvllee abvse to ^^e so that I ca^ i^tervei^).

(i ^^yself a^^ a cvsp ^^vta^t a^d a cvller, I have three cvllees, Railie, Bluiel, and Deases, I care for the^^ greatly).

Ooc account: @helpimanidiot

Enjoy this dumbass doing dumb shit

content warnings for everything to do with child abuse, general abuse, neglect, lobotomies, dehumanization, and just CPS in general.

[starsandauras]

Entry 24: Bar

FFXIV 30 Day Writing Challenge Prompt 24: Bar OKAY Y'ALL. I PROMISED BAD DAD YESTERDAY. HERE HE IS. Yes this is the annual Hereward fic, meaning the usual warnings apply: Alcohol Abuse, Parental Death Referenced, Parental Abandonment, Neglect, all that shitty shitty stuff! So please, take care of yourself. If I've missed something please let me know!

Hereward stumbled into the tavern and dropped down on a chair at the bar, blond hair mussed and face covered by his hand, perched on his elbow. After a moment the bartender came over with a shot glass of whiskey, placing it in front of the man. “We were hearin’ about your wife, Hereward,” he said quietly, and Hereward groaned deep in his chest. “Your drinks on all of us tonight.”

He looked up, blue eyes blurry with grief, looking for a long moment at the glass. “Thank ye,” he muttered eventually, picking it up and knocking back the contents. He welcomed the burn down his throat, the way it settled in his belly.

“How are yer children doin’?” asked one of the regulars in a nearby seat as the bartender brought another shot over, as well as a bottle.

Hereward shrugged and grasped the neck of the bottle. “Wrecks, th’ lot ay them,” he grumbled. Llewellyn was neck deep in books, trying to figure out what he could have done, Brigid wouldn’t stop crying, William was angry, Arthur had just shut down, and Connor couldn’t understand. “Needed t’get ‘way.” He drank half of it in one go.

“It’s hard, losing someone like that,” said another bar patron, nodding in sympathy, before taking a pull of her tankard. “We’ll be here for you.” Hereward grunted in reply.

He was back at the bar a moon later, but no one had the heart to hie him away, a man so recently widowed deserved the occasional vice. Even if he drank to blackout more times than he didn’t. Even if he spent coin that everyone was fairly sure he couldn’t spare.

It took several moons before his next appearance, near on half a year. He’d ordered a bottle of whiskey, no glass, and sat at the bar silently drinking. Eventually they got something out of him, how his little girl was starting to look more and more like her mother by the day. How it hurt to look at her. Looks were exchanged over his head, silent head shakes following equally silent conversations.

The next moon he was there again. And then the next fortnight. And then the next sennight. The bartender started to put limits on him. Then it became nightly, for several long moons. The regulars started to avoid him, either silently judging him or just not wanting to be in such close contact to so much condensed grief and anger.

Finally the bartender put his foot down. “Hereward, I dinnae where you’re going to get your next drink, but you’re nay going to get it here anymore. Go home. Be with your children. They’re needin’ their father.”

And Hereward had looked up at him, blue eyes blurry with grief and drink, tried to stare him down for a long minute. The bartender had stared back, and in the end it was Hereward who blinked. He skulked out of the tavern, and for the following year he didn’t set foot inside again.

Only, he didn’t seem to set foot inside anywhere in the small village, either. The village gossips would report on how the elder three of his children seemed to be running the tiny farm more often than not, and that the younger two would sometimes make sad eyes at the neighbors for food. But there was only so much to go around and most didn’t have much to spare.

It seemed like Hereward would blow in and out of town like the storms off the Rhotano, and his time at home was less and less. Until finally… they never saw him again.

[fiorexiv]

FFXIV-Write 2024: #2 - Horizon

When the sun sank at the end of the funeral rites, Fiore wandered alone. After burying his mother, he didn’t expect to feel like he could run along the coast from Red Rooster Stead to Aleport and back and still have the energy to prepare breakfast. This, he concluded, must be an abnormal processing of his grief. His sisters had sobbed and whispered quietly amongst each other (leaving him out as they often did) until they both fell asleep, exhausted from the day. Fiore, contrarily, was restless. Knowing that he couldn’t stay at home, he decided a short walk might be what he needed. Even with his mother gone, he took extra care to be silent—avoid the squeaky fourth floorboard from the wall, lift the door upwards by the handle so the hinges won’t squeal, twist the knob so the latch won’t click, hold the keys with two hands so they won’t jingle while locking up.

Outside, the stars were long in full bloom overhead, their cool glow giving him enough light to walk despite the thin grin of the crescent moon. Chilled air bit into his exposed arms, but it was too risky to turn back for a coat. If he went inside, he might convince himself to stay there, or worse, be caught and scolded by his sisters. The cold was a mild inconvenience in comparison, and nothing movement couldn’t stave off. So he walked. One step, and another, and another, eyes straight ahead to where the road curved out of sight.

Every ten steps brought a thousand thoughts with it, most about his mother’s life. There were no sparkling memories of time spent with her, no bright days of laughter and kindness to reflect on with fondness. She had been far too sickly, too paranoid, too hurt to be a doting parent. Perhaps—no, he knew for certain—it was because she lamented leaving her home behind for her unborn’s sake. For his sake. While his sisters had many tales of their childhoods with their mother playing with them, bringing them treats, and teaching them skills in the “homeland,” their mother’s agony, guilt, and loneliness tainted his own. His homeland was La Noscea; his stories were of time locked inside, apologizing to her while he cooked and cleaned. The woman they knew never made it across the sea.

It wasn’t as though he was happy she was gone. There was a strange emptiness in the days since her passing that left him feeling aimless now that he didn’t have to be her caretaker. He had never considered his mother’s death—the Viera lived too long for that, and she should have had much more time. She had escaped the brutality of invasion to save her children, but in forsaking her people, her culture, and her family, she cut herself off from any answers that would have brought her a semblance of peace. His eldest sister’s words from the funeral rites echoed in his mind. ‘Grief wields death’s scythe with a firm grip.’

What of his grief? Perhaps walking a bit further, he might find it.

—

Fiore wasn’t sure how much time had passed since he left home. The route was so familiar and his head so clouded with thoughts that he had walked in a trance. When he double checked his surroundings, he realized he was already halfway to Limsa Lominsa. Hours, then. Like finding a paper cut on a finger, the knowledge of the time made his pain set in. Not the aches in his feet, nor the screaming of his calves, nor the tenderness of his skin in the cold—but the sense of sadness. He wasn’t without sympathy, no matter how much he wished she had been different. However neglectful and broken that she was, his mother wouldn’t have been in such a state had she never been forced from her home. The years of making sure she was fed and comfortable were more than enough to give. There was nothing more he could have done, even as her only son.

He lifted his gaze, tears unfurling down his cheeks in an unending stream, their warmth stinging against the cold of his skin. In looking up, he realized that the stars had already begun to wink away and acquiesce to the rising sun. How strange to see that she should raise her head over the horizon to light the realm, knowing his mother would never raise her head again.

[quinn-mix]

yknow maybe mother did prepare me well for entering the workforce cause I never eat I wanna die and I'm supressing my gender dysphoria for the first time in a year

[chronoxtreme]

Cliffnotes on Nanne's Backstory + Timeline

CW: parental neglect/abuse, discussions of an intersex character and the bigotry they face

What's Up with Da and How Did Nanne Happen?

Nanne's Da is a tiefling bard who falls into the "slutty bard" stereotype. Very strong frat bro party animal vibes. The man bounced from patronage to patronage because he could never keep his hands to himself for long (or out of the bottle, for that matter). Eventually, he ran into a drow warparty that went up to the surface for a raid, and was "allowed" to sleep with the leader of said warparty in exchange for his life.

Meanwhile, Nanne's "mum" had desperately been trying to conceive a female heir. The surface raid was to blow off steam due to a lack of results on that end. It seemed Mum's prayers to Lolth were answered until the baby was born intersex, which wouldn't be viable for an heir. However, the child was still seen as a "miracle baby", so the decision was made to leave the child with the father instead of killing them. Nanne's da was tracked down, handed the baby, and let go.

While Da had never had his life together and wasn't emotionally mature (he was also twenty three), he did decide on impulse to raise the baby himself - abandoning them would mean they'd die, and he wasn't heartless. However, he found himself resenting that decision as the realities of child rearing set in. Da just wanted to sleep around, play a few songs, bum off nobles, and get drunk, and raising a kid does not allow you to do any of those things. He knew that, and he knew that Nanne deserved a better father, so there would be times he would try to give them something nice to assuage his guilt: candied orange peels, new shoes, stable employment.

However, Da was fundamentally a selfish creature from the start, and thus Nanne was faced with a lot of parental neglect. Da would go out drinking and to brothels at night, leaving them alone and vulnerable. They would have to become Da's caretaker when he returned home completely smashed. Da would complain constantly that Nanne was annoying and having a kid was "useless." So Nanne made themselves useful. They learned to play the lute at a young age and would perform with Da as a family act.

However, as Nanne grew into a teenager, they naturally began to chafe and push back. The idealism of childhood gave way to the reality that Da was both providing for the both of them and working his ass off to do so... and constantly causing problems which led to an unstable lifestyle. The cycle of getting a nice patronage then getting evicted and having to live in low quality housing until the next patron wore on them a lot and caused a lot of anxiety. They also displayed more genuine talent for performance than Da did, which made him jealous. Nanne's "usefulness" ironically turned out to be the source of Da's aggravation, which they couldn't understand, so all they could do was try harder to please him, which only made the situation worse.

Da leaving them at age 17 wasn't a spur of the moment decision, but a build-up of years of resentment for being "trapped" with a kid. The plan was always to leave Nanne so Da could "live his life" once they were old enough to take care of themselves. Nanne begging to go to the doctor for something that was "obviously" frivolous in Da's mind was the perfect excuse. Leaving them a lute and some cash was his final act of kindness.

However, Nanne had never been taught how to live on their own, and so they struggled immensely. Their money got stolen. They had to live on the streets. They learned the hard way that busking is high risk and often no reward. It took five years of grueling hard work to have enough money to short term rent a bed at Fraygo's Flophouse. Astarion actually approached Nanne before they got that bed; their luck turned around about a year later.

A Brief Note About Nanne's Hangups with Intimacy

Da gave Nanne some basic sex-ed, but also flat out told them that their intersex nature was going to be a problem and the chance of them having a lover without becoming a sex worker or hiring one was impossible. While it was meant from a place of protection ("don't get shocked when people reject you because you're different"), to say that this a. is a horrible thing to say to your own child and b. emotionally devastated Nanne is an understatement. It was a reminder that they were "broken" and "unlovable." This caused a negative feedback loop: they avoided intimacy and people, so people avoided them, and that confirmed that they were incapable of intimacy like "normal" people.

Going to the doctor (this happened after the Astarion meeting) only made this worse. They were essentially told the same thing: you are defective, and the only way you're going to have love and happiness is if you "fix" yourself through surgery. This is a profoundly awful thing to say to someone, and the fact that Nanne could never afford such a surgery (or equivalent magic) was salt in a deep wound. They did get top surgery, but it was a very sketchy back alley sort of thing.

While Nanne did have acquaintances, they never had friends or people they could genuinely rely on. The first person to break that barrier was Maria Oberon, and that was a very sketchy relationship, as I talk about here. Once that ended, it was another confirmation that they would never be accepted, and so we reach Nanne at the beginning of the fic: someone who is desperate for intimacy but terrified of vulnerability, who is offered something they've always wanted and think it's a prank, who's content with a situationship because it's better than being alone.

Thank goodness they get a happy ending.

[hideawaysis]

:[

[anonymousboxcar]

Neil Headcanons

After writing a little bit about Neil in one of my fics, I got to thinking more about him and his character. So here we go!

This a long post and it does get a little dark in places, particularly under the “read more.” Content warnings for discussions of discrimination, death, neglect, and toxic workplaces apply. I promise that I headcanon a good ending here for Neil, though!

—————————

-> I imagine Neil as a very affable, unflappable person. This is, in part, because of his early days on Sodor.

-> Being one of the first engines on Sodor, Neil is part of the island’s introduction to steam locomotives. Such machines are also still a new technology in general at this time. As it sometimes happens with these sorts of shifts, lots of people respond to Neil with fear or distrust.

-> Seeing these kinds of reactions to him, Neil goes out of his way to be kind and ingratiating. He strikes up conversations, tells jokes, and lends a helping wheel wherever possible. He wants to get along with his new home.

-> This strategy works on some people. Others don’t get over their initial ignorance or gut reaction. Neil soon learns that it’s a waste of time trying to get through to people determined to hate him.

-> While never being unkind — he doesn’t want to shake that habit — he stops trying to convince these people of anything. He lets their words roll off him like water.

-> This is also a response to people considering him ugly. While upset at first, he comes to embrace the label and is very happy with his appearance because he “knows it’s mine.” He makes his home with those who care about and respect him.

-> One such person is Skarloey, the excitable engine he brings to the narrow gauge railway. They have a similar sense of humor and bond over the difficulties of building their railways.

-> Neil only says “So what?” in response to his harassers until they leave him be. Skarloey, if he overhears such an exchange, leaps in to defend Neil and shout down the attacker. This goes on until he’s blue in the face and Neil is blushing. (Even as Skarloey matures and mellows out, he remains very sensitive to attacks on Neil’s character.)

-> Many like to joke that where Neil is non-confrontational, Skarloey kicks off a whole battle, wailing bugles and all.

-> However, “non-confrontational” Neil knows hatred can’t stand. A railway requires cooperation among its engines to run at full efficiency. And if left unchecked, such behavior could run rampant in the yards, sweeping up other engines in its tide.

-> Many a person thinks Neil is an easy target because he’s so kind and unbothered. The same person then finds themselves getting into a rash of sudden, minor mishaps.

-> These mishaps never injure anybody. They never cause insurmountable or substantial delay. They always embarrass the person in question, drawing watchful eyes to their every move.

-> Regardless of whether the person shapes up or gets shipped out, Neil never stops smiling at them.

-> Of course, all this subterfuge is necessary because the Sodor and Mainland Railway isn’t… the best. Overambitious and scattershot, the upper management ignores complaints about “tiffs” between engines and personnel. Things get lost in the self-inflicted noise.

-> The death of S&M engine No. 3 reinforces Neil’s methods. He hears them ask three times for lighter workloads, their voice weakening. They don’t wake up one morning to ask the fourth time.

-> In the aftermath, Neil uses his methods as he did before. He also feels out alternative employers for everyone.

-> The S&M begins to bleed out from thousands of self-inflicted cuts. Neil does his work and nothing more. “It’s only fitting,” he tells his friends when asked why he won’t try to save the place. “Now they know how No. 3 felt.”

-> His friends accept the job offers he lined up for them. When the S&M closes, he himself goes to the Crovan’s Gate Mining Company.

-> This new workplace is something of a shock to Neil. While it does experience financial difficulties on occasion, it proves stable and competent. It’s also easier for him to meet with Skarloey now. Even when Skarloey goes into disrepair, he dictates letters to him and they maintain a correspondence. (He also might tap into his old networks to tip off the struggling Skarloey Railway to engines no longer wanted by an aluminum plant.)

-> He has happy years with the company. Not even the arrival of diesel engines upsets him, as he understands what it’s like for people to fear your intrinsic qualities and personhood. He only has to use his “methods” on a couple diesel supremacists. The rest become new friends who respect his experience and capacity for kindness.

-> The only substantial hiccups are Neil’s habits of subterfuge and avoidance. Years of trauma and neglect on the S&M makes it hard for to Neil to shake. Once called out on it, he works to communicate issues to his colleagues, rather than trying to shoulder it all himself in silence. Skarloey supports him in this, just as Neil supports Skarloey’s efforts to moderate his temper.

-> As he always does, he adapts to his situation and even embraces it. He grows fond of all the dust and steep, craggy cliffs of the quarry. It feels like the full service life he never got to enjoy on the S&M.

-> By 1960, with the sale of the quarry to the Ministry of Defense, Neil decides to retire. A rail museum almost finished with construction accepts his request to become one of their engines. He feels content with his work and wants to try a slower, quieter life that gives him more freedom to focus on himself and his relationships.

-> Neil adjusts very well to this life. In fact, it’s here when he and Skarloey decide to court each other. After years of trouble and inactivity, neither of them want to miss out on any more opportunities.

-> These days, Neil channels most of his subterfuge instincts into goofy pranks around the museum grounds. A recent favorite of his is scattering garden gnomes in improbable spaces, assisted by the staff and fellow engines. It becomes an official scavenger hunt with fun for the whole family. (He remains coy if the real joke is that he meant for it to go this way the whole time.)

-> He can be plenty ruthless in a prank war or on poker night, but he’s glad he doesn’t need to be anymore. He’s happy to be the welcoming, easygoing old engine next door.

[blankticket]

📣 + Freestyle answer!

🎵 // (a very distorted version of) If We Save Just One Child It Will Be All Worth It - Lauren Bousfield

Transcript:

thank you! i think i'll take this opportunity to talk about the "wanted poster arc" that's currently concluding.

it's main inspiration's definitely ursula k. le guin's "[the ones who walk away from] omelas", which is a utopia that thrives on the condition that a lone child suffers an eternal hell; the dilemma of the 'tortured child'.

the concept's compelling to me, as is other derivative work, like isabel j. kim's "why don't we just kill the kid in the omelas hole". for the isolan stamptwins, whose plot's central conflict depends on how these two clash morally, i wanted to express another facet to the dilemma.

what if there was someone who volunteered to be the tortured child?

but, of course, spirale is not omelas; even with there being a tortured child (figuratively. vash is 150+ years old), there clearly is no utopia borne from that. and the tormentor in question is the one who has had utter control over the situation—knives decided to stop, decided to return his brother back to his home. and, of course, those who the (figurative!) tortured child had aimed to make happy are made unhappy all throughout the devil deal

there's quite a bit of background and lead-up going into this, which is easier if you're familiar with at least trigun maximum and easier still if you're familiar with trigun stampede, and what i've been getting up to before this. regardless you can still glean what's inferred to thematically reverberate from the reactions of those involved from the trigun roster.

as with any Big Thing i put stamps through, most of my interest is in the consequences—positive and negative—following what happens.

even though i know it, i don't want to write the objective truth of what happened, for the sake of everyone reading behind the screen; i want to write how it is (specifically) distilled from those involved. that way, i'm encouraging interaction from whatever intrigue that might've been piqued from reading this.

or at least, i hope so! i don't bite…

[curlygrant44]

https://open.spotify.com/track/757cx0iJx1pcwLv4lnX39B?si=4qPAes8pRvu72f0p08ifOw

here ya go, captain! -☆

The song clearly makes him viscerally uncomfortable -- maybe he relates to this one a little too much?

He's starting to regret doing this little game, but...deep down, a part of him relishes the pain, too. It encourages familiar refrains in his mind, whispers of shame and self-judgment he doesn't know how to live without.

(cw: heavily implied child abuse/neglect)

The words twist in his brain, becoming 'when does a monster become a man', and the only answer he has is

five years old on the playground in the park skinned knees no parents in sight messy brown hair hasn't been brushed in a week no one cared enough to make him sit still to do it scrawny limbs covered in bruises is it a growth spurt or hunger those dark eyes look so greedy at [his] lunch [he] walks over half a sandwich in hand tears [him]self away from [his] nanny when she tries to hold [him] back the sandwich falls the brown haired boy dives for it he eats it off the ground and glares at them and spits on the ground in insult just like he's seen adults do and when the wind blows cold he folds his arms tight and glares at everyone and flips a teenager off and gets in a fight bloody nose and bloody knuckles and nanny is pulling [him] away now voice scared she says it's time to go home G[****] it's time to go don't look at him he isn't worth your time he'll always be trash just like this remember what your mother said

[he] sees eyes filled with fear and hate in equal measure and [he] knows this won't be the first or last time for that boy [he] doesn't pull away this time [he] leaves without looking back

when does a monster become a man

when he's made into one

our worst moments don't make us monsters

but our choices do