#But you're haunting my phone's keyboard

[alerrison]

It's pumpkin season and pumpkin carving and pumpkin seeds and y'know. Pumpkin stuff. Which is great! Until I noticed my predictive text was like "did you want to capitalize pumpkin?"

...and then I got sad because I miss my dude. Thanks phone.

[stareiiez]

𝑳𝒊𝒕𝒕𝒍𝒆 𝑴𝒐𝒖𝒔𝒆 ------ five

simon ( ghost ) riley x female reader.

content : dark?? ghost. fingering. orgasming. voyeurism. modern settings. mentions of stalking. gore. death. gun violence. graphic descriptions of gore. torture. obsession. drinking. sex. female genitals. unhealthy attachments. violence. blood. implied death. blood. smut in later chapters. dark topics. this is just my version of haunting adeline but for ghost. adult cis female reader. MDNI. 4.2k words. proof read to the best of my tired eyes.

note: just got back from the movies! decided to finally finish this chapter, so the ending to this chapter doesn't really sit well with me. Just another ' encounter ' with Simon :), he's getting ballsy.

likes and reblogs are loved and appreciated!

Ice water runs through your entire body at the single line of text that glares up from your illuminated phone screen. A feeling that isn't associated with the pure comfort of knowing a deputy had your phone number and decided to text you something wildly inappropriate just to make sure you had his number as well. Your fingers hesitate, hovering over the small keyboard while you watch in tandem another text comes in from the unknown number. Three dots bubble in a smooth wave of ups and downs.

" My pretty girl, you look so scared, what's wrong?" reads the text.

Your throat constricts. Skin deciding to grow clammy at the ever-taunting three dots that dance along your screen; your thumbs hung in a perpetual freeze over the keyboard. Your brain can't get your neurons to fire quickly enough to come up with some reply or snarky response. You can't even force the muscles in your small thumb to block the unknown number as any good-minded person would. You're the person who pokes the baby bear and waits around for the momma bear to come over and rip your throat to pieces while you scream out and ask why this happened to you in the first place.

Stick in hand, you poke the bear with sharp jabs of pointed wood. Thumbs slowly tap against the finger-smudged screen.

' Who is this? You some kind of weirdo that scams innocent people for fun?'

The swoosh of your green-colored text message floats on the ample space of your new conversation with an unknown number.

Your teeth bite down on your bottom lip, watching your phone. Your fingers tap on the screen to keep the bright LED awake just in case you miss another notification as if that were possible. Seconds turn into one minute of you standing stock straight in your bedroom, ignoring the pretty cream-colored beams of the full moon that now beam into your open Victorian-styled window. The gossamer of your curtains flutters on the rain-flavored breeze that filters through the small crack in your window. It brings goosebumps up your bare legs, and the short skirt you still are wearing does nothing to warm the external and internal chill you feel wreaking havoc on your body. You shiver, your arms close around your chest to tame the chattering of your teeth.

' No. Don't worry your pretty little head trying to guess who I am. You'll hurt yourself.'

' Don't need my girl aching so early over me.'

You frown at your screen. Lines appear on your forehead at the patronizing tone that rings loud and clear through the digital letters. You want to scoff and roll your eyes. You want to turn your phone screen off and flop onto your bed, just to count the number of rotations your overhead fan does till the sun graces the sky and you regret every decision you've ever made for the past few days of living here.

' Tell me who this is before I go and tell the police some no life is texting me for fun.'

Three dots do their familiar dance on your screen. They dance on your nerves. They do the tango on your growing irritation at your phone, at yourself, at this entire night. Then they disappear like your unknown number decided he spooked at the half-empty threat of yours. That little threat worked half of the time whenever you used it, you're glad someone decided to take you seriously for once. You expected the texter to laugh in your face with another patronizing text and keep up the game until it drove you into throwing your phone into the hallway and leaving it there till tomorrow morning. You exhale out through your nose with a victorious smirk on your lips when another minute passes and your text remains unanswered.

" Serves them right, " you mutter, setting your phone back down onto your nightstand and striding to your bedroom closet for a comfy set of pajamas to stay in for the night. A loose pair of superhero sleep pants warm your legs and a short messily cropped shirt threatens to slip further down your shoulders with every swing of your arms when you pull it on over your head.

The rest of your night routine goes unbothered, your phone pitch black and silent on your nightstand under the soothing glow of a thrifted vintage bedside lamp. Your pajamas are ditched onto your mattress when you decide a hot shower is something you need to forget about the uncomfortable texts you got from a random number. The pressure and spray of the showerhead wash away the traces of Graves' cologne from your skin. Another pang of worry clouds your brain at the thought of him. You send another prayer to some god to watch over him or even make sure he got away from whatever crazy person/ stalker decided to attack him for no good reason. Hot perfumed-scented steam follows you into your bedroom after a much-needed shower, your skin is a bright cherry red under the tight wrapping of a bath towel. Your phone screen lights up on your nightstand while the moonlight illuminates sweet-scented water droplets that bead on your shoulders and race down the planes of your chest till they soak into fluffy cotton. You're the picture of innocent seduction when you pass in front of your still-open window and grab your phone to see if another text infested your messages from the unsaved number.

' Good luck. '

Some say it's stupid for criminals to return to the scene of a crime after it happened, but Simon isn't stupid like those knuckle-headed twits who are sloppy with their work. He knows what he's doing. He's never done this before, the whole stalking the practical love of his life ( is that a little too early to say? ) after just seeing her once and for a couple of seconds at a buddy's bar. He's never done the whole ' touch her and I'll kill you ' kind of thing for women before either. He's always the one to sleep around if he needs a good stress reducer. Always doggy style and fast-paced so he can clean his dick off and throw the condom out on his way out the front door while his one-night stand wonders if they can cuddle after. Such a classic pump-and-dump dickheaded bloke thing to do.

But for you? For those pretty eyes and the way, your lips wrapped snuggly on the rim of a cheap beer bottle. His world exploded into every stereotype under the sun and moon. He would kill for you. He would kill himself if you demanded it. He would crawl on his knees over broken glass if he ever broke your heart when you two got together. You have taught an old dog new tricks, and this old dog wants to show you how it can blow you sky-high if you let it happen.

The deputy sitting in his car was not even an obstacle Simon had to bypass or even waste his time killing if he wanted to overstay his welcome. The cop did himself in by passing out on duty while listening to the static noise of his stereo and the monotonous droning of police chatter on his radio. He has to thank Price for putting the weakest member of the police force on active watch duty without even giving it a second thought. Always looking out for his boys is like a subconscious tick for old war-torn veteran John Price.

Simon's bulky figure strolls through your front door like he owned the house. Picking apart the lock in the dead of night under the beam of the moon was a cakewalk, his fingers prodding and poking at the locks that never got an upgrade when you moved in. Your aunt had stripped off the original walls and flooring and gutted out the attic to create an artsy smaller environment for her dotting niece. How kind of her to never fix the faulty front door lock that never really fully slid into its place. Bless your aunt. His eyes adjust slowly to the shadows of inky midnight in your home while he moves like a dead spirit in your home. His thick-soled boots make little to no noise on the glossy cherry wood flooring. His gloved fingers slide over the smooth marble of your kitchen island when he passes by it. He can almost picture you standing there, standing in nothing but one of his t-shirts and making yourself a coffee in the morning.

His delusions of you in his twisted brain show your pretty neck marked with teeth indents that are akin to a ravenous dog. Red and so dark blues that are nearly black are scattered on your jawline and throat like galaxies. Thick finger-shaped gangrene green bruises are splattered on your upper thighs that get revealed when you reach up for the bag of ground coffee, and his shirt rides up a little too much just to show your perky ass and the teeth marks and still red handprints left behind. You're every man's morning-after dream, still smelling of his cologne and sex. Your blood stains of too deep bitten marks stain his shirt collar a rusty red. Simon's chest puffed up just a bit in pride of how good you'll look when he brings his daydreams into a reality; yet for now, he ignores the sticky heat that works from his mushy brain down to the cock in his jeans.

The stairs audibly creak under his combat boots, yet he pays them no mind when he takes them one at a time. Memorizing which ones to step on next time he decides to break into your home so he doesn't cause too much unnecessary noise to echo in the warm interior of your home. His palm slides up the smooth, same-colored wood as your flooring, banister of your stairs while he takes his time to cast flickering glances at the framed photos displayed on deep green colored walls. Photos you have hung up that display pieces of your childhood home and you on your tricycle with two front teeth missing in your glimmering smile. Other photos of you in graduation cap and gowns of high school and college with friends that wear similar attire. The small glimpses of moonlight gift Simon with the warmth of your pretty smile from every precious picture you deemed important enough to hang in your home. Small normal accomplishments of your normal life and childhood only make the male fall further and further into a deeper cesspool of admiration for your quaint domesticity he vyes for with you.

Your bedroom door swings open without a creak in its aging hinges. Your sleeping form is swaddled so angelically in deep red colored sheets. Your curves are framed ever so slightly in thin satin threads that are twisted between your legs and tugged up to your chin. Simon doesn't close the door behind him when he enters your bedroom, his large figure casting their own monumental shadow on your body. His deep brown eyes watch your eyes twitch behind your closed eyelids now and then, signaling to the man you're off somewhere in your dreamland and far away from his opposing figure that reaches out for you. One of his pointer fingers graces the apple of your cheek with the gentlest of touches. His blunt fingernail moves a few strands of hair away from your face so he can admire your sleeping expression without anything blocking his gaze.

His eyes sweep from the top of your head, and how the way your hair falls in waves of colors to then fan out over your pillow, to the bridge of your nose, to your cheeks once again, then finally to settle on parted lips that glisten with the smallest amount of drool. You're gorgeous. There's no doubt about it, he confirms to himself as his pointer finger lazily carves a path from your cheek down to follow the curve of your soft jawline.

His finger stills its ministrations of gentle stroking when he watches your brows furrow. Your nose scrunches so cutely in his eyes, your damp lips mumble in sleep-talk gibberish and you roll onto your other side. Your back faces him. Even in your sleep, you reject his touches, which is mildly disappointing. No matter, that'll change sooner than later.

On the spare pillow of your bed, Simon sets another crimson-colored peony in a slightly wrinkled condition onto its surface. The confines of his pockets had caused the color of the petals to grow darker. What looks like watery red dye stains the pillowcase from such disgruntled-looking flower petals.

It's his goodnight to you, even if he much rather would settle on pressing chapped lips to the curve of your temple. He wouldn't want to rouse you from sleep by hunkering over your bed and nearly squishing you down on the thick mattress of your bed for just one kiss. Seeing the fear in your eyes, the look of shock that pales your complexion at the sight of an unknown skull-masked man hovering over you in the dead of night with an indescribable look in his eyes would surely send you into cardiac arrest. Simon wouldn't be able to contain himself if he saw his pretty girl looking like a little mouse under his heavy weight and on the verge of screaming for help.

The comparison suits you. Little mouse. His little mouse.

" I can't believe you never called earlier about this! This is insane." Victoria's hands throw up over her head. Her frustrated expression is something you expected after shutting yourself in your house for four days after your encounter with the police.

You finally had the balls to call at least one of your friends to tell her everything and beg for some kind of company when the silence in your home got a little too loud, and the sounds of your house settling at night were affecting your sleep. You hadn't gotten a proper eight hours of rest in what felt like in while, a couple of thirty-minute power naps, and the occasional luck of being able to get more than two hours of sleep at night was your new sleep schedule. Sick-looking bags dragged down your eyes with exhaustion. Your undereyes were starting to get that deep blue hue along your waterline, really selling the fact you're losing your health over some potential serial stalker.

The both of you were curled up on your leather couch, the cushions squeaking under you as you moved into a tighter ball of shame when she didn't lift her irritated gaze off your frame. The throw blanket you had decided to cover yourself when you two sat was pulled up to your chin. Rounded eyes portraying vulnerability flick away from the woman to stare out the expansive floor to the ceiling window.

" __, you need a security system. Put cameras outside or even a fucking bodyguard that follows you around, you can't live like this." Victoria's hands gesture at your rumpled complexion. The smell of sickly sweet bodily odor wafts off the thick throw blanket. Your paranoia was putting your hygiene at risk. You couldn't handle showering.

You tried once, the night after deputy dipshit hauled his donut-loving ass off your front porch when he told you he was no longer needed here; and to call the police if there was another sign of your stalker outside bothering you. It was Price's call, after all, he withdrew your protection with a condescending pat on your head and a ' you'll be okay, sweetie. '

The hot water was a comforting sting to your skin when you stepped in. Your head tilted back to soak your hair and allow the feeling of pins and needles prodding at your scalp to try to distract you from your shit-stained predicament right now. Your eyes closed as you stepped back further into the harsh spray, yet you couldn't begin to relax fully when your mind began to play sick tricks on your decaying sanity. Your heart picked up in erratic beats. Your ears strained too hard at the faux footsteps you imagined stomping your hallway right to your bathroom.

Behind your eyelids, you swore you could see the dark visage of a stranger growing against your floral shower curtain. One of the stranger's hands outstretched to grab at one end of the curtain and pull back just to touch you in your most vulnerable st----- NO!. Your eyes flew open, blinking through the downpour of water just to stumble forward and end up falling onto your bare ass. You ignored the prickles of pain shooting up from your tailbone and yanked back the shower curtain to stare out at your bathroom. No threatening stranger standing there with a knife in one of his hands. No presence of another person invading your bathroom, going through your things before they got to you. You were alone. Alone and dripping cooling water onto your floors while you ran naked through your home just to triple-check with yourself that no one was here with you.

You shrank further into your blanket as if that was even possible. Tired tears announced themselves to your sagging waterline, Victoria was right. Even if her words hurt, you needed security. You needed more than contemplating begging her to spend the night just so you could feel safe and maybe get through an everything shower without going into hysterics. Your sinuses clogged, and those hot tears of every frustrated emotion you felt to yourself, to the police, to your fucking life, and to the asshole who decided you were worthy of driving over the edge of insanity, dripped down your oily face.

" I'll call Izzy, see if she can come over later with some takeout and we can stay in all day." Victoria sighs out, reaching across the chasm of space you had put between her and you. Deeply tanned skin, the comforting color that reminds you of herbal tea, brushes against one wet cheek. Her thumb and forefinger swiped away salty water with loving caresses. You wanted to weep harder from your friend's consoling efforts to ease your feelings.

Her thick brows turn upwards with concern when you blink another fresh trickle of tears down your chin, your nose ruby red and threatening to snot with every sniffle you let out. "I can spend the night too, you don't mind sharing a bed do you?"

She's saved you from the embarrassment that would send you catapulting over the edge of your home, hoping to god you land on your head so your neck can break clean in half. You'd hate to bother your friends with your new fucked situation, but your angel incarnate of a woman named Victoria saves you from suicide. You give her a watery smile and lean into her lavender-scented palm when she swipes more salty water off your skin. "I'd like that."

Your angel smiles so warmly, her concern melting just enough to soften around the edges like melted butter at your acceptance. Damp fingers of her's gently pat your cheek. "That's my girl, why don't you shower? I'll call Izzy, and we can google security systems that are available to install on such short notice. I think my brother knows a guy, I'll call him after Izzy gets here."

You nod. The weight in your heart and head lift just enough to get your legs out from under you without any help. A shower sounds so good, and with the comforting noise of Victoria piddling around your home; filling the chilling silence with a playlist of her's playing on the living room flatscreen. You can get through the tasks of scrubbing and rubbing your entire body red till you think every greasy pore is clean once again.

One hot steamy and long shower later, you emerge back into your living room swathed in a fluffy cotton robe. You feel like yourself again, or as close as you can be to your normal self. Izzy, now present in your kitchen, is pouring through Google reviews of security companies and tech cameras that are up to a decent standard. Victoria is on the phone, pacing back and forth in your kitchen. Her voice is thick with Portuguese spilling into the speaker at such a rapid rate that it makes your head spin. She must have gotten a hold of her brother, which is good to know. Your heart flutters in your chest at the sight of having such support and help from the only two people you know in the city.

You can't help your lips pulling into a smile when both girls notice you're out of the shower. They smile at you back, Izzy wiggles her skinny fingers at you before she turns back to the computer screen she brought over.

Your phone buzzes in the pocket of your robe. The once fuzzy feelings you have about adoring how wonderful your best friends are are ruined thanks to the automatic pang of fear that comes from the vibration. You decide to climb up the stairs to your bedroom, your hand retrieving your phone with shaky fingers. The screen illuminates with the movement of your hand and your face begins to pale when another unknown number pops up on the lock screen. A different set of numbers than the one that texted you the first time. Yet, you wouldn't doubt in your mind it was a different sicko that would message you out of the blue.

A couple of days of silence on the unknown number's end after your last conversation. It was agony, to say the least. Every buzz and ring of your phone had your heart racing and cold sweat beading on the palms of your hands in anticipation of getting another text from your newly claimed stalker. No matter what the police denied or said, you wouldn't change your mind about it.

Now, your stalker decides to text you. Just when you thought you could have a moment of solace. Just when you thought you could enjoy the company of your girls and maybe pretend like it was just another night with them, they decided to ruin it. It's like they were watching you through your windows, taking a moment to wipe that happy little smile off your face and replace it with trembling lips and wide eyes. Your thumb presses on the text when your phone unlocks with a small click noise.

' Having a party without me, little mouse?' reads the text.

Your stomach begins to swim in that all too familiar ocean of nausea, yet you hold down your nerves enough to quickly retort before you lose your small amount of breakfast at the thought of being watched.

' What party?' ' Are you watching me right now?' Your fingers fly over the screen and hit send in a matter of seconds.

You swear you could hear the scoff through the text that gets sent back, just as quickly as yours. They dodge the question like your questions were too fucking dumb to answer. It's obvious.

'The girls are pretty, but not as pretty as my girl.' They're watching you and like the dumb blonde in every single horror movie. You get a little too curious and finish darting up the rest of your stairs, the sash of your robe slips loose around your waist as you crash into your bedroom and press against the open window for a peek at your stalker.

Maybe it's paranoia finally catching up to you and letting you witness early-onset schizophrenia that's most likely not inherited through your family. Or maybe you want to will and believe in the murky black and browns of the forest's shadows just enough to pretend you can see the outline of a person standing in the treeline—your palm streaks against the glass of your window. Your nose threatens to crack and pop like rice cereal from how hard you strain your eyes to hyper-focus on the humanoid-looking blob near your home. You don't even realize that if this is your stalker? You're giving them a titty show with the way your robe has fallen open just enough to reveal the soft curves of your breasts and stomach.

The rest of your tidbits and intimate curves are still concealed by the robe. Thank god for your failing dignity.

' If you're watching me, then wave, you sick freak.'

The final text goes, another round with the sleeping bear and your sharp stick. You want to prove it not only to yourself but to the small light not only in the police force's eyes but your friends when you told them you thought you were being stalked by some crazy person who gave you flowers and possibly hurt your potential one night stand.

The proof comes in the form of your phone screen gaining one small crack in the glass when you drop it without thinking. You miss the way the screen's light is suffocated by the cool hardwood of the floor, the next text you get back is unseen. You're too busy letting out a scream to care anyway because your proof for all those deniers in your life comes the way you demanded. With the human-looking shadow, you were having a staring contest with tilting its head up and waving up at you in your bedroom window.

' Hello up there, little mouse.'

[lavendermin]

also tipsiness but in a more sfw context

note: reader is a shitty texter with atrocious grammar and shorthand because the weaklings who use autocorrect will not survive when the abundance invades

you get invited by your friends out to a bar of some sort after-work party, and despite your usual reservations you somehow end up overindulging (˚ ˃̣̣̥⌓˂̣̣̥ ) perhaps it was the sweetness of the cocktails you'd ordered that masked the liquor's burn, or getting caught up in the tale your coworker was divulging of her cheating ex that was begging for her to take them back (and maybe in your tipsy mind you think, jing yuan would never do that, but it's merely a passing thought that you don't linger on, gliding past your focus as she drops another deranged attempt at winning her affections again) but whatever the reason—your head's spinning not even halfway through the night.

It'd be a lot less cause for concern of circumstances hadn't aligned how they had, your place of residence far further away than the usual haunt, and your friends are realising how intoxicated you actually are when you start rambling, dropping anecdotes about your definitely-not-a-crush, and definitely merely admiration fueled fixation on the Luofu's General. By the fourteenth metaphor of 'eyes like sunbeams shining through slow-flowing honey, except vibrant in a way that nothing else could ever stand up to', they are more than just a tiny bit worried about how they're going to get you home.

For reasons unknown, you've somehow acquired Jing Yuan's number, and for reasons slightly more known, your friend group ends up huddled around the table, your phone opened up to the chat and placed on the sticky surface.

The muttered comment of "dear Lan, I think I'm going to be sick—and it's not because of the alcohol," at your contact name—⭑⊹｡𖦹°‧ general ⋆₊˚⊹♡  is a perfectly acceptable name and you will live and die by this truth— has you offended enough that you demand they dictate your speech, instead of simply letting them convey a general sentiment from the group.

You would have texted him yourself, if your hands weren't suddenly the least cooperative they've been in your entire life. Typing is surprisingly difficult when the extremities on the ends of your arms just flop uselessly against the keyboard—despite what it seems, and no matter the effort you put into it, gems like "meklokwhb ebjsiiwnn hjeins ??×?" don't convey the intended message very well...but you didn’t get as high in the ranks as you did without being adaptable, and the honor of being your scribe has been bestowed upon your closest friend.

> so, how has your night been?

His reply is quick, surprisingly fast for someone who you'd assumed to be rather busy—but it's the question he texts back that has your friend throwing his head back in raucous laughter, wheezing interrupting his exclamation of, "No way, your textspeak is bad enough that he can recognise it with one glance!?"

> Who is this?

If anyone asks whether your chest constricted oddly at that, you'd deny it. Even now you're explaining it away as a bad reaction to having three cocktails in the span of a hour, rationalising your suddenly fluttering pulse into a neat little box, to be locked away forever as you dictate the next message.

> my friend's borrowing my phone because my hands aren't working right at the moment, I think I had too much to drink

> but answer the question, it's important

> Your hands aren't working because you've drank too much? That seems to be a rather pressing issue that I wouldn't mind solving, if you don't mind me turning up to take you home.

> But very well, in response to your oh-so urgent query—my day has been severely lacking without you to keep me company.

(this entire interaction was inspired by a momwnt in a fix i read where the mc asked his friend to text someone for him, and said someone instantly recognsied that it wasn't the same person typing bc of the use of apostrophes ₍^ >ヮ<^₎ .ᐟ.ᐟ !!! this has been 🔥 anon too THE GRIND NEVER STOPS ‼️‼️‼️‼️‼️)​

jing yuan knowing right off the bat your kind of horrible texting is such a cute trope ^^💗 10/10 no notes 💗

🔥anon (now wifeguy anon per your most recent ask ^^) this was such a treat to read thank you 🥹 im always a sucker for some fluffy jing yuan tropes

Also “weaklings who use autocorrect will not survive when the abundance invades” has me CACKLING

[cabotwife]

i need a comfort fic and I never see any of this topic🥹

if you could please write a Olivia/daughter reader or Olivia/reader!!! Preferably Olivia catching on to them restricting/failing into an Rd and comforts them about it!!!

City of Angels

Olivia Benson x Foster Daughter!Teen!Reader

warnings: ooc liv? kinda mention of an eating disorder, not proofread

word count: 1788

a/n: this is actually so bad i wanna rip my hair out.

--

living an easy life wasn't something you were entirely familiar with. for the last two years your life had been a chaotic whirlwind, being shuffled from one home to another.

the idea of an easy life becomes complicated when your existence has been laced with a constant stream of pain and the need to run from everything good. it's challenging to imagine such a life when your reality has always been like this.

even before you found yourself lost among the countless faceless children within the foster system, all you had known was a life filled with fear and adversity.

but now, you have your Olivia.

your Olivia who tells you she loves you, but who’re you to believe her? how could she possibly love a child that’s not hers?

this is the question that haunts your thoughts during your countless long, sleepless nights. the painful realization that you're just a charity case to the brunette detective, a lost delinquent she's taken under her wing to "fix" is something you can't shake. she’s never said it outright, but you can see it. it's there, hiding in the depths of her eyes.

—

you've been living with Olivia for almost half a year now. during this time, you and her had been growing closer, your defensive walls have started to crumble, allowing the other woman to step into your world and take you into her arms.

everything seemed to be going well, or at least that's what you thought. but one day, everything took a turn when Olivia brought home Noah.

Noah, an undeniably adorable little boy.

the moment he was brought into the apartment, you could sense a shift in the atmosphere. at first, you managed to adapt to the change. but then, you found yourself being pushed to the side, overlooked for Noah.

the moment you found yourself sidelined, your defensive walls shot back up, leaving Olivia and now Noah on the outside.

and once again, you were alone.

the love you can see in Olivia’s eyes when she looks at the little toddler is a kind of love you've never experienced for yourself. it's a stark reminder of the unfair differences between your experiences and his.

it didn't even take a month for Olivia to officially adopt Noah.

things took a turn for the worse rather quickly.

it began with you avoiding shared meals with the two brunettes. you started eating later or earlier, making sure to finish before Olivia got home. but recently, you found yourself skipping meals altogether.

Olivia had noticed you pulling away from her, but she chose not to do anything in fear of worsening the situation. despite your growing distance, she continued to reach out, hoping to assure you that you're welcome in her life. but your actions have been making it increasingly difficult for her.

—

in the midst of a typical day at work, Olivia sifts through the details of her most recent case, surrounded by the familiar hum of activity in the precinct. the sudden ring of her phone disrupts the rhythmic tapping of her fingers on the keyboard.

answering the phone in a questioning voice, she says, “hello?” the unknown number on the screen does nothing to prepare her for the conversation ahead.

a professional, yet strained voice responds from the other end, “hi, is this Olivia Benson?” the question hangs in the air, causing Olivia to furrow her eyebrows in confusion. she straightens up in her chair, her police instincts kick in.

the change in her demeanor catches the attention of Fin, who is now visibly alert. “yes, it is. who’s asking?” Olivia responds, her tone guarded yet curious.

the voice on the other side of the line calmly explains, “you’re listed as y/n l/n’s emergency contact. i’m calling to inform you that she is currently with us at Mercy General Hospital.” the words are delivered with an air of professional detachment.

the brunette springs up from her desk, grabbing her jacket hurriedly. her mind is a whirlwind of questions. “what? why? what happened?” in her panic, she barely notices Fin rising from his desk, his eyes locked with hers in shared concern.

briefly pulling the phone away from her mouth, she manages to choke out to Fin, “y/n’s in the hospital, i have to go.”

the severity of the situation is evident in her voice, “i’ll drive,” the older detective quickly offers, swiftly grabbing his keys and ushering Olivia out of the precinct, the hum of activity fades as they rush out to his car.

by the end of the call, Olivia is left with a sinking feeling of dread. despite the explanations given, she can't fully comprehend what is happening. her mind is filled with concern for her little girl.

before she knows it, Fin's car screeches to a halt in front of Mercy General Hospital and without a moment’s hesitation, Olivia jumps out, her heart pounding as she practically sprints through the entrance. once the brunette reaches the front desk she slaps her hands down on the counter, “y/n l/n, what room is she in?” she demands, her voice strained with urgency.

the desk attendant looks up, her gaze questioning as she scrolls through the records on her computer. “I’m sorry, who’re you?” she inquires, her head tilted slightly in confusion.

taking a moment to collect herself, Olivia responds, “oh, Olivia Benson. i’m her foster mother, her emergency contact." she leans over the desk, trying to catch a glimpse of the room number on the screen.

the woman hums in response, scrolling for a few more seconds before finally speaking, “y/n l/n is in room 281.” she looks up, meeting Olivia’s desperate gaze.

mumbling a quick ‘thank you’, Olivia speeds off towards the room, her heart pounding in her chest. when she finally reaches the room, she is met with the sight of you, lying in the hospital bed with an IV drip in your arm and a small, untouched cup of red jello on the bedside table.

“y/n.” Olivia manages to breathe out, making her way over to the bed. her voice is soft and filled with concern, “what happened? are you okay, baby?” she gently takes your hand in hers, her touch as soft as her voice.

you simply hum in response and pull your hand away from hers, settling it back in your lap. “yeah, ‘m fine.”

Olivia’s eyebrows furrow as she looks down at you, her maternal instincts kick in. “you are not fine. you’re in the hospital. now, are you going to tell me what happened or do i have to go ask a doctor because i can’t trust my own daughter?”

for the first time, your eyes snap to Olivia, finally meeting hers. “i’m not your daughter, Olivia,” you retort, rolling your eyes.

the sharpness of your words takes Olivia by surprise. her frown deepens and her eyes soften. “what’re you talking about, y/n/n? of course you’re my daughter.” her voice is gentle, filled with warmth as she squats down beside the bed to be at eye level with you. “what’s been going on, sweet girl? you haven’t been yourself.” she takes your hand again, her thumb soothingly rubbing the back of your hand.

you just mumble in response, avoiding Olivia's gaze and instead focusing on the wall, which has suddenly become very interesting. “nothin’..”

sighing, Olivia stares at you for a moment before standing back up. she leans down and presses a tender kiss to your hairline before heading towards the door. “i’ll be back. i’m going to go find your doctor since you won’t tell me anything.”

as she reaches the door, your voice stops her in her tracks. “wait, Olivia,” your voice is louder than you intended. you look up at Olivia, your eyes teary and pleading. “i’ll tell you, please, i’m sorry.”

the older woman turns around, her arms crossed as she waits for you to speak. “okay. i’m listening.”

"you know, i've just been... i don't know how to say it..." you mumble, searching for the right words, the right way to phrase what happened.

Olivia sits on the edge of the hospital bed, by your knees. her gaze, full of concern and empathy, watches you as you struggle to articulate your thoughts.

"i've been struggling with eating recently.." you admit in a whisper, your words barely audible in the sterile silence of the hospital room. heat rushes to your cheeks, a mixture of embarrassment and shame. "i passed out while i was with Luka. he brought me here after i woke up.. i'm sorry, Liv, i know how expensive it is and i know you’re mad-"

"oh, my sweet girl," Olivia interrupts, her voice filled with love. she surges forward, wrapping you in a comforting embrace. when she pulls away, her hands cup your cheeks, her words a soothing balm. "my sweet, sweet girl... no, i’m not mad. I'm just happy you're okay," she whispers, her eyes locked onto yours.

and in that moment, you see it — the same love you've always seen in her eyes when she looks at Noah. but now, it's directed at you.

a silence descends on the two of you, heavy but not uncomfortable. Olivia leans forward to hug you again, and you find yourself lost in your thoughts.

after a few minutes of quiet reflection, you break the silence. "hey, Liv?" you whisper, your voice barely audible.

"yes, y/n/n?" she replies after a moment, pulling away to look into your eyes.

"why... um, why did you adopt Noah and not me? are you going to send me back?" you ask, the words tumbling out in a rush, a slight rasp in your voice revealing your fear and uncertainty.

Olivia's eyes widen in surprise before they soften. "oh, honey... i'm not sending you back. you're my daughter, you understand? it's just... it's a little more complicated when your biological mother is still alive," she explains gently. "i've been trying so hard, you have to believe me. it's just that these things... they take time."

you stare at her, tears welling in your eyes. after a moment, you lean forward, hugging her gently and burying your face against her shoulder as you try to hold back the tears. "i'm sorry, Liv."

"you have nothing to apologize for, okay? we're going to get you the help you need. we're going to sort everything out, and we'll be a family," she promises, her voice soft and reassuring. she kisses your hair as she wraps her arms around you in a comforting embrace. "how does that sound?"

"good... sounds good," you whisper back, a sense of peace settling over you.

[inkwolvesandcoffee]

Siúil a Rún (Alfie Solomons x Irish Fem!Reader, Modern AU)

Genre: Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Romance, Modern AU

Pairing: Alfie Solomons x Irish Fem!Reader

Word count: 5.5K

Warnings: Allusions to past violence & trauma, talk of the IRA, mild swearing

Summary: On a day you're not feeling your best, fighting yet another hard battle with your greatest enemy, your mind, Alfie has a little surprise prepared for you. After all, all he wants is to see you smile.

And make a lasting promise to his Irish queen.

Author's Note: Gods above, it's finally here! At long last I had the energy and time to finish this piece, which is partially inspired by my recent moods. Ah dinnae ken what it is, but don't you worry about my head or how I'll fix it. Instead, enjoy this piece.

TH Masterlist

Tag list: @hecatemoon87 @potter-solomons @zablife @vir-tual @liliac-dreamer @dreamlandcreations @mollybegger-blog @babaohhhriley @hoodeddreams13 @rose-like-the-phoenix

Alfie's POV

I’m no fan of the Irish, who can’t even remember what they had for fucking breakfast. However, right, they can perfectly recall their great-great-however many times- grandfather’s best friend’s cousin’s name and the unjust treatment he got from Oliver Cromwell if not the Black and Tan if they have a particularly clear check in with reality.

Yet here I am.

Engaged to my Irish queen, come all the way from Belfast. Raised in a family that supports the IRA, a bunch of hooligans that’ll do well to be tossed in the lock and left to drown.

But not her.

No.

She cut ties to home the moment she set foot ashore in Liverpool and boarded the train to London. She ain’t English, doesn’t particularly like them. So fancy the shock me ticker got when it turned out she liked me.

Or I her, as she likes to remind me, bringing up the time I asked her to taste the Irish sourdough I made her. She’d just arrived in town, wandered into my bakery looking like a parched twig on a stormy day, and sat by the window with an awfully glum face. Curious about this darling little dove who flew in, I lumbered over to see what had her caught up in her phone and laptop. One look at the screens told the whole story behind the erratic fingers flying over the keyboard or tapping away.

A place to stay, to call home.

In a land that had oppressed hers for centuries, still sees her as an outsider.

In the very capital of the cyclops, king of northern giants.

Now I, yeah, saw an opportunity to earn a little extra cash on the side. Sure, Margate is about two hours outside London by train so I couldn’t charge the full price for the room I had left over.

I didn’t.

For when those dove eyes turned to me, haunted and scared to death, whether it be due to her circumstances or me as a man I still do not know nor want to, I hadn’t the guts to ask her for a single penny.

Only a sliver of trust.

Though my rings, my kingdom, are covered in blood, I fortunately pleased Yahweh enough to have her put her trust in me. It’s a fragile thing, built over various meals, starting with silent breakfasts which gradually have filled with drowsy small talk. Normally I loathe small talk because if someone wants to say something and wants me to understand, they should talk. Nonetheless, Y/N doesn’t have to. Her voice is like an angel’s song, pleasant to wake up with.

And to fall asleep to on the nights the insomnia hits hard again. You get that, living a life of violence. Yet, even gods can’t simply forget.

I can only hide my crimes, spin a pretty yarn for an excuse, and pretend.

Pretend I’m a good man.

For her. 

If only because my midnight baking episodes have reduced since we met. Because I don’t, no, can’t do without those small hands leading me out of the kitchen and back up the stairs to what is now our bedroom. Pathetic, innit, how I also can’t live without those pretty fingers running through my beard until I can breathe normally. Close my eyes without ghosts creeping from the darkest shadows of my mind. To not feel the rage simmering beneath my skin.

For the first time in years, I can sleep again.

And if neither of us can find peace in slumber, we’ll slip into the old habit of having coffee or tea in the living room until the sun rises. No matter if we have an outing planned the next day or not.

It was on an outing like that, to Oxford, after a brief visit to that shithole called Birmingham, she first held my finger.

Two weeks later, when we popped by Hastings, she held my hand.

A month passed before she hugged me, in Cecil Court, during our first book and antiques shop hopping trip. I had bought her a vintage bound copy of one of her favourite books, Gods and Fighting Men by Lady Gregory.

However, it was in Camden, right outside me own bakery, on a bloody rotten autumn day, we first kissed. Cinnamon sugar and pumpkin spice, that’s what she tasted like.

My Irish queen.

Y/N will always claim it’s me who first confessed. Regardless of whether that’s true or not, in my opinion, right, and through genuine testimony, it was her wistful smile and timid ‘thank you’ as I served her a ham sandwich made with the sourdough I learned during one of my visits from a lovely old lady in Donegal and O’Neills ham which makes her the first to confess. Little did I know the brooding sadness around her could get much worse.

Since there are days she gets like this, reluctant to interact with the world. She’ll go out with Cyril, a barely mustered smile on her gentle face. 

It does her good. Our big bugger takes me on walks that are manageable even when my leg’s bad and her on those long enough to let her mind wander and forget about the desire to stay home. Like yesterday, they are again sitting side by side on the shore.

Y/N wrapped in my coat and scarf.

Cyril at her side.

Watching the waves.

Funny, innit, how a man of many words absolutely can’t stand the silence of his own house. Tragic, too, because it means he can’t live with himself. Perhaps that’s why I always bury myself in work, the bakery.

Our bakery.

Look, Y/N was the one who insisted on helping out. I was ready to give her board and room for free, though I was also desperate for help since business had taken a hit. Too cold, manly, rough. In need of a woman’s touch.

It was only when she told me it ain’t right to accept the offer without repaying the debt she never had and called me mister Solomons I took her on.

Mostly because she’d call me Alfie right from the start, wouldn’t see me as her boss or landlord. I never was nor am a fan of formalities, polite behaviour or whatever the fuck you wanna call it. You only get to know a person and their intentions once you place them in an informal environment, lull them into a sense of safety. Or, in her case, a sense of friendship too.

After a few more moments of watching them from the balcony, I head back inside to busy myself in the kitchen. Now, normally, yeah, on my rare day off, I love to bake. Gets the mind off things since you only have to focus on what your hands are doing and you get the ingredients right. Alleviates some of the stress the bakery saddles me up with, but those involved with the business need discipline so I can’t take a break. Would leave it to the dogs. Regardless, Ollie, the bloody bastard I hired as an assistant branch manager, forbade me to come into work. It’s my fucking bakery! Yet, though I’m loath to admit it, I am thankful he did this particular day. Must’ve felt Y/N had been different these past days, always has been good at dealing with people and emotions despite his panicky disposition. Better than me.

At least leaves her with one person to understand her entirely whereas I still grasp at straws at times.

Godhood comes with its complications, but I’ll do my best for Y/N.

For Mrs Solomons.

It’s worth the tightening in my chest, the battle for air while the same concerns keep milling in my noggin like some damned ever-turning grinding stone. I ain’t afraid of anything.

Anything except this mood.

It’s like Yahweh has established the terrifying truth of what she might be like when me health finally wins the battle, granting me a vision of a future in which we’re separated. Or perhaps it is an alternate reality in which I don’t exist or we’ve even never met. This morning, as Y/N stood by the door, her vacant gaze saw right through me as I draped my scarf around her neck. I kept rambling, not nagging, no, rambling on about how she’d catch a cold if she didn’t dress warmly despite knowing she wasn’t paying attention. As I placed a kiss on her forehead she likely didn’t feel, the comforting sense of normalcy shattered, turned into dust along with the little bit of sanity I had established by acting like everything was fine. Thankfully she felt warm in my arms because we might as well have been spectres moving past each other. Then she sauntered out the door, slow and ghostly.

My beautiful Irish queen.

When this mood strikes her, it takes away her voice. She won’t talk, reluctant to participate in any sort of conversation. Although, I think she hopes her quietness proves enough of a hint to not want to be surrounded by any voices at all. Not even mine. Now, any other man, right, any other sod who’s too self-obsessed to understand his girl, would go mad. I, on the other hand, the very image of an understanding and wise man who cares about his girl, his wife, speak less if at all to accommodate her. Instead, in the fleeting moments she’s here, Y/N communicates via small gestures.

A tug on my sleeve when she wants attention.

A brush over my fingers, a silent request for guidance.

We don’t go out in London on days like this. We tried once and while everything went fine, all things considered, the thought something happens in the split second I don’t pay attention breaks my already damaged nerves. Trafalgar Square is tricky enough as is to navigate with the fucking awful traffic, but when she’s barely here and we don’t cross the street in time or our hands let go of each other…

Eyes squeezed shut, I breathe in deeply and exhale slowly to remedy the tightening in my chest. To burn the claws crushing my ribs to ashes and let them take the nauseating vision in my banged up nogging with them. Blown away on the briny wind outside, past the lonely beach.

Left to drown in the sea across the road.

Right in front of her, vanishing beneath the waves. Cyril will make sure she won’t notice, keeps an eye on her when I can’t.

Especially when I’m too caught up in my own head, engulfed by something very, very grim. 

Eyes closed, I breathe in and exhale deeply as I repeat the thought like the verses in the Torah, embedding it further and further into my entire tainted being with each repetition. Only when my breathing has evened out and me ticker beats at regular intervals do I carry on.

I quit drinking after we met. Y/N needed a safe home and with an old drunk brute you ain’t going to find that. So I poured the rum, beer, and wine down the drain the very same evening and a drop hasn’t entered my house since. The day she first put her suitcase across the threshold, I’d been sober for a week.

We’re now a year further.

For all the bloody good he does me by banning me from my own business, Ollie makes for a fine lifestyle coach. I’ll admit that if it hadn’t been for him, his incessant texts and the brave efforts to pluck a glass from my hands, I might have lost her. Fuck, she might have hated me.

Or we might never have even met.

The house now finally knows silence.

No violent words. 

No drunk ravings going nowhere and anywhere.

True, genuine, silence.

I put the kettle on and pull the sourdough from the bread box. Bought it on our last trip abroad, to Amsterdam. It’s one of the things in this house which makes it ours because I used to plonk bread in a zipper bag and toss it on the counter. Not anymore. It goes in the box.

The mixed fruit blend I used for the dough we recently bought at Borough Market. Y/N was staring at it with a tender look on her face.

“Those special, love?” I hugged her from behind, my head on her shoulder. That morning, she had washed her hair and granted me the intense honour of brushing it. A smile grew on her lips in tandem with mine as I worked the brush through her strands. Nonetheless, while I was flattered and delighted beyond imagination, for being thus allowed in her space is a rare gift every man should know how to appreciate properly, she was amused with my attitude. But it’s alright. I don’t mind her laughing at me. 

Eyes closed, I drank in her presence. The sounds of the food stalls and crowd faded into a background hum, each sense overtaken by her frame in my arms and the scent of Argan oil and Shea butter in my nose. In that single moment, I didn’t have to think, to scheme. Just be.

With her, I can just be.

And I like that, makes me love her all the more.

Y/N regularly gives me an earful, but there are times when I truly listen and not only enjoy the sound of her voice. So when she gave me a piece of her story, I immediately snapped out of my reverie. “Nan used a blend of these when making brack.”

“What’s that?”

“It’s a type of bread with sultanas and raisins. Officially, that is. But she added currants and other dried fruits when we had it and it wasn’t Samhain.”

“Tell me about the tradition. What does bread ‘ave to do with it?”

“We’d put items in the brack. A pea, a stick, a piece of cloth, a small coin, a ring, and a bean. Each of these items had a special meaning, applicable to the person who got them.”

“Which were?”

Occasionally, right, I enjoy teasing her because I adore the way her frown naturally flows into a bright smile as her distrust melts away. However, the calculating coldness in her stare even gave me the chills. Terrible, it was, and I don’t say that lightly. “Alfie, where’s this coming from? I thought you hated the Irish.”

I thought you hated me.

She didn’t say it, but the words were there, precariously dancing on the tip of her tongue. The shopkeeper gave me a warning look, ready to beat me with her cane if I didn’t watch my mouth.

“It’s your culture, innit, love?’’ I said, quick to placate both women lest we had more than a simple situation on our hands. Moreover, dangerous as it normally is, curiosity genuinely got the better of me. There’s little I know of her previous life so I am overjoyed when my Irish queen, obviously unintentionally, indulges me like this. ‘‘I know the past hurts you, but this clearly means a lot to you. Your Nan’s obviously important to you too.”

“She practically raised me. Didn’t want me involved in politics, give me a normal life. Well, for as far as that’s possible when…” she froze in my embrace, paler than a ghost at midnight in Highgate. Bit by bit, I could feel her fade in the chaos she had kept firmly under lock and key. We’re rather alike in that, keeping the mess in our fucked up noggins hidden until we choose to open up.

Or come across a trigger. 

I scanned the surroundings for hers. Men conversing as they’re hauling boxes. Tourists and locals squeezing together as they navigate the narrow spaces between the stalls, leaving no room to breathe without doing so down someone’s neck. The sizzling of oil on a hot surface.

Like a lit fuse.

“When…” She flinched when one of the other shopkeepers dropped a couple of crates.

I remember how my heart dropped into my stomach as her knees gave way. Her nails dug into my skin as I gently coaxed her to the ground, though she relaxed her grip a bit as a vague inkling of recognition made her realise it was me holding her. “Y/N? Y/N, can you hear me? It’s Alfie, your boyfriend. You’re in London. Safe. There ain’t no guns ‘ere. Just a couple crates. Just crates. That’s all.” 

I glared at the bastard who reduced my queen to a shivering husk of herself, breathing way too fast as the current of grim things swooped her along. Once he noticed I was looking at him, he quickly scurried to the back. After cursing him under my breath, I held her tight against my chest, cradled her lovely head and the funny mind in it as I gently rocked back and forth like me mum used to do when I was a child. “No guns. No bullets. No fighting. Just us, dove.”

For a few moments we sat like that on the cold paving stones. The shopkeeper fetched Y/N a glass of water which she managed to make her drink. Perhaps it’s only because the subconscious ego of my Irish queen saw her Nan in the woman. Do not misunderstand, right, I was grateful for her kindness. Nonetheless, what Y/N needed was space, fresh air. So I picked her up and carried her bridal-style to the central seating area. One day, I hope to carry her the same way across the threshold of our home.

Colour began to return to her face the longer we sat on a bench removed from everyone in a quieter area of the market. With each passing minute, I saw the demons causing those awful vacant eyes and suffocating her with every breath leave her body. The best I could do was wait and do my damn best to not let my own fear and impatience get the better of me. After all, I was not a god at that moment.

Only a man praying for the better. 

A man overjoyed when an angel gave her back her voice.

“My brothers were killed in shootings.” Slowly, Y/N sought my gaze. She blinked a few times like she woke up a second ago and did not really know whether she was still dreaming or awake. “Cillian was shot in March. Seàn the month after. They rather died than be tried by law.”

It was easier to phrase it as such than tell the truth.

They killed themselves.

Died for the ideal that had left her with a broken family. Although, perhaps it’s better to say she never had a family to begin with.

“And the man who I was meant to marry to get our family higher up the ranks, Patrick McHugh, a man I loathed, was ready to shoot me when the Gardaí had us cornered during a car bomb attack. We were meant to go on a date, so he told me, but… we stopped in the street. Alfie, he- he-’’ I put my arm around her shoulders, pulled her against me, and rested my head on hers. She didn’t owe me an explanation for her behaviour, but before I could tell her it was alright to stop, she continued. “He took me hostage. Was ready to burn me alive with him.”

“Y/N, you don’t have to-”

“Rory turned on him. His second in command, the only person he trusted. I pulled Patrick’s gun in the same moment I freed myself from his grip. Shot him in the head. In cold blood.” She bit her lip to fight the ugly sob which made her shoulders heave. “I have blood on my hands, don’t you see? Rory didn’t make it either. Stayed behind after he negotiated safe passage for me. Later I heard he saved me because he loved me. Had been crushing on me for years. Never said a word, Alfie. Never.” The fight with self-control lost, Y/N’s voice cracked with the tears yet unshed. “And now he’s gone. Everyone’s gone.”

‘‘No, not everyone. I’m ‘ere and I ain’t going anywhere. You and I, yeah, we’re gonna build something fucking biblical. A ‘ome, right, in Margate. You and I. And it’s gonna be safe. No violence. I’ll even get rid of me gun if that makes you feel better.”

“No, keep it. Still, thank you.”

I pulled a tissue from my pocket to clean up her mascara, which had stained her cheeks with little black rivulets. “If there’s anything I can do to make you feel safer, you tell me, yeah? If need be, I’ll build a fucking wall that’ll put Daedalus to shame. With me own ‘ands. Anything.”

“Thank you. I think I should repay that kindness with a clean shirt.’’ She sighed as she surveyed the damage done to my clothes. ‘‘Sorry for the stains. I know you got it fresh out of the closet.”

“Nah, it’s just a shirt. No worries. But, knowing you and your bloody adorable stubbornness, you won’t let this go. So, instead of beating yourself up over nothing because you got nothing to be sorry for, yeah, can you tell me more about the bar- barm- the… thing. Bread.”

“Barmbrack. Brack, for short.”

“Barmbrack,” I repeated. “Brack. Gonna try and remember. The items in it. You said they have special meaning.”

“Right. The… pea, a stick, a piece of cloth, a small coin, a ring, and… something else.”

“A bean.”

“Yes, a bean. A future without money. Anyway, so, now, the pea meant the person would not marry that year. The stick meant they would have an unhappy marriage or continually be in disputes. Now, the cloth or rag no one wanted to find because it meant bad luck, though it was also regarded as an omen of poverty. In contrast, and perhaps very bloody obvious, the coin meant good fortune or riches were coming for the person. If you got the ring, you’d be wed within the year.”

Say what you will of the Irish, but they are bloody creative.

We went back to the stall, got a full bag of dried fruit and went on our merry way. Y/N fortunately hasn’t noticed I’ve used some of the contents for a little surprise. For once her adorable drowsy noggin in the morning comes in handy, when she’s too sleepy to notice nor doesn’t check the bag’s contents before she puts a little in her yoghurt.

The kettle goes off. The steam creates a thin layer of condensation on the tiles and warms my face when I pour the water in a mug. There’s nothing like a cup of char regardless of the time of day.

I wager they’ll be home in fifteen minutes. Until they are, I sit on the chaise longue in the living room. It’s a gorgeous thing, a real beauty we found while antique shopping in London. I had my doubts about the red velvet, but Y/N convinced me to get it regardless because “it fits the house’s aesthetic” whatever the fuck that means. It’s a sturdy piece of furniture, definitely worth every penny.

We tested it thoroughly.

Multiple times.

Nipping the gingerbread tea we bought yesterday at M&S, when I barely managed to prevent Y/N from buying three boxes on top of the three boxes of Christmas spice tea already in our basket, I watch my family. A low chuckle tickles in my throat, proud and amused. Who’d ever thought I, Alfie Solomons, the Divine King of Camden, would stop wandering, settle down, become a family man? Tommy, the self-proclaimed head of the Shelby family though they’re all bad people, would have a bubble if he heard that. 

I ain’t like him. I’d marry my wife, the lovely and downright bloody gorgeous goddess currently down on the beach, the one and only true Mrs Solomons, out of love. A love based on loyalty, right, and not out of convenience or business. No whoring when she ain’t about, no secrets, no dirty business.

No more blood on my rings.

We’d raise our children together, perhaps spoil them rotten. Y/N would chastise me for it, I already know, but I want the best for my girls. Maybe two or three, though I’m not opposed to having a son, yeah, but he’d have to be born before my princesses so he can protect them when their good old man can’t. Hopefully, one of them would like to take over the bakery, keep the business in the family. 

I might have to be on my best behaviour, be more of a father rather than a boss if I don’t want to have her tell me over dinner one night “Papa, I’m not taking over. None of us wants to, least of all Seraphina. She’s more one for painting.”

Yes, they’d be artisans in their own right. But if one of my girls wants to paint, no way she’d learn it from Arthur Shelby, who’s head is like a broken vase what is glued together badly. Nah, I wager she’d be clever enough to teach herself. All of them would be talented like their mother.

The sound of the front door opening resonates in the hallway, followed by Cyril’s happy padding, merrily trodding past me on his way to his bed in front of the hearth. We never should’ve gotten him that pillow, has made him lazy.

But how could I tell her no?

Not that she’d have listened anyway. Y/N would’ve used her own card at the till. However, being a proper gentleman, right, and maybe because I wanted to gain extra what they call ‘brownie points’, which is a stupid phrase in and of itself, a show of being too incapable to use one’s speech properly, I paid.

Y/N follows the happy bugger, head hung low and eyes cast towards the ground. Headphones in her ears.

It’s one of those days.

I step in front of her when she makes for the living room. For a moment, she stays still, like a ghost puzzled by why it can’t move forward. Nevertheless, our eyes meet for a second when my hands touch her shoulders.

“No need to wear a coat inside, is there, darling?” I doubt she hears me, my voice drowned out with the rest of the world.

Perhaps, no, no perhaps.

I am sometimes too loud for her as well.

Although she always tries to play it off afterwards, me intestines tie themselves into a pretty tight and suffocating bow tie when it happens. When the world gets to her.

When I, the real me, The Mad Baker of Camden, get to her.

From the corner of my eye, I’ve seen her flinch when disciplining my staff or stiffen when removing rude customers. I especially hate those who bother her, how they make her freeze in their presence and how she’ll avoid my touch afterwards. Breathing is an art in and of it-bloody-self when I watch her from a distance, headphones blasting music as she sits bowed over a cup of coffee which will grow cold.

Yet, when she’s ready for contact again, those earbuds leave her ears. I don’t fucking care what my men say at this point, but I rush over as fast as I can what with my me fucking leg. I can bear that pain, incomparable to what I unwillingly inflict on her or its effect on me.

Her fingers only take my palm, mapped out from a distance, if she sees no violent lines in it. Some days it trembles, those days when her breath is shivery and I feel tears roll down the good, to her trustworthy, lines as she presses them to her cheek.

Although she doesn’t know it, then again my clever little dove likely does, I’m proud of her for trying to go without headphones nowadays. Recently, it’s only one she’ll keep in, in the ear opposite of the side I’m on. Left if I’m on her right, right if I'm on her left. On really good days, those splendid days which make you wonder whether Yahweh wants to give back to humanity, she’ll go without completely. Fortunately, most of the time this doesn’t result in situations like Borough Market.

Nevertheless, today is a day she needs them.

While Y/N moves to the living room, I head to the kitchen to finish setting up the little surprise I prepared for her. By the looks of things, she needs it. It’s hypocritical, innit, that I’m doing this despite hating when it’s done to me? Still, a good man, a proper man, yeah, a proper fucking gentleman, a bloody king, will try his damned best to surprise the woman he loves whenever and however he can.

Because she deserves it.

These acts of love.

If only because words have a tendency to fail.

As mine do.

A lot.

Tray in hand, I make for the living room. Exactly as I envisioned, Y/N has curled up on the sofa, headphones in while she’s doing that funny yarn thing her Nan taught her. She’s good at it, has made me a very nice scarf and beanie for Hanukkah last year. 

Recently, after our little getaway to the Scottish Highlands, where they speak some form of English she fortunately seemed to understand, worse than the Irish except for her, she made a blanket with a deer’s head. Got inspired by our surroundings, she said. I think it’s the show she watched on her phone every night or in the car.

I put the tray on the coffee table and sit down next to her, a little distance between us. “Hard day, dove?”

“Yeah.” She glances from the slices of sweet soda bread to the glass of whiskey and then to me, her fingers expertly holding up the yarn wrapped around them. “That for me?”

I nod, trying to contain the excitement ignited by hearing her voice. One decibel too loud and I’ll lose her again. Gotta play me cards right, so I speak as evenly as I can without showing her the precarious edge I’m balancing on. “‘Cause you look awful homesick.”

“Thank you, mhuirnin.”

For a few moments I watch her nibble on a slice, vacant gaze cast towards the cold hearth. “We can go on a trip to-’’

“No.”

“Y/N, we don’t have to go to the place your people live. We can go to, fuck, I don’t know, the Republic. It’s safe there, innit? Cork? Enjoy the sea. Waterford? Dublin for an urban-’’

“Alfie, I said no.”

“It’ll do you good.”

“I left Ireland for a reason.” Finally she meets my gaze and me ticker almost sinks through the floor once those pretty eyes shimmering with tears meet mine. “The whole fucking island. Don’t make me return.”

“Alright. We’ll go somewhere else.” I open my arms in invitation. Fortunately, it seems she’s in the mood for contact with me. Face buried in my sweater, her small fist clutching some of the fabric, I wrap her up on my arms. “Or nowhere. We can stay ‘ere.”

As an answer I’m given muffled mumbling, worse than me own.

“What was that?”

“Hotel night.”

“Where?”

“Don’t know. London?”

“We already know the town well. What about the Lake District, hm? Nice and quiet. Lots of green. We can rent a cottage or a nice B&B. Cyril would like it too, right, lots of places to explore. Makes for nice walks, yeah.”

As in agreement, Cyril lets out an excited though low bark, sensitive to what she gets like when her mood’s as it is now.

“See?” I say, pulling her a bit closer. “‘E likes the idea.”

In acknowledgement of our shared sentiments, she hums.

“We’ll figure it out later. For now, ‘ave another slice, drink some whiskey, crochet. But lean on me, eh? Lean on Papa Solomons.”

She grabs another piece of bread and starts nibbling on it, occasionally nipping on her glass.

For a while we sit in silence as she crochets and I simply watch her eat, occasionally shutting my eyes to drink in the moment.

Until my plan comes to fruition.

Feigning innocence, I lift an eyebrow when Y/N pulls a difficult face and spits something into her hand.

She once told me that according to Celtic philosophy, all things come in three.

Third slice of bread.

A ring, of course not the one I mean to present to her properly.

Her head snaps up at me, so fast I’m both glad and impressed she hasn’t broken a vertebrae.

“Yeah, this ain’t a joke.” I kiss her forehead. “Within the year.”

On a better day.

[lilith-little-world]

Hi, if you still do request I was thinking of a reader x swk or sem. The reader is a sort of time traveler (much like the guy from that movie the butterfly effect) in which she can posses her past selves bodies by looking at picture, video, or reading her diary from that current version of her. During those possessions of get past self her current self (who she posses has no memory of that time of being possed "blacks out") the whole reason for the diaries. She posses an old version of her after her body had previously been dying killed by possed swk during the lbd fight. So she had lived through everything previously and knows whats going to happen.

Ahhh, I can smell the angst from here, I love it! Also don't worry, I'm still doing requests, just been busy and my had to switch from writing on my phone to my laptop, since my Grammarly keyboard officially broke on my phone...

Had to deal with my mom asking questions about what I was writing, since it was now obvious I was up to something.

Anyway, I'm sorry if this wasn't how you expected it, I got too caught up with the angst.

Saving Myself Then You|| Oneshot

Fate is cruel, and the path that leads to it is more brutal. Never have you thought of the person you cared about most trying to take your life. Well, in his defense, he was being possessed and was forced to. However, that didn't stop the fear rushing through your veins. Those piercing, cold blue eyes never left your fearful ones. Yet bravely facing the ruthless creature that brought havoc to heaven itself. Even so, you caught glimpses of the man you love trying to break free from that demon’s control, yet it wasn't enough. 

Nezha happened to be trapped in a thick layer of ice, stuck until someone got him out. Mk disappeared to who knows where, one moment was right behind you, and now he was gone. Which left you to fend for yourself, to survive on your own. You mentally pat your back for lasting this long, questioning if you have gotten good at dodging or was just pure luck.

“Well, at least I got to say I went up against the Great Sage, Equal to Heaven… You're not going to kill me, right? I'm on the ground, defeated. You win.” You said weakly. 

It didn't take a genius to realize things were about to get messy. You didn't want to believe it, trying to last long enough for Wukong to break free. Be that as it may, there was one thing you had forgotten. You were going up against a being that had fought the celestial army and defeated it with ease. 

In other words, you were getting your ass kicked and will not last long enough. Wukong steadily walks towards you. Ready to finish this fight, once and for all. 

“And here I thought, I was never going to use this power.” You mumbled.

Wukong glances at your hands when he sees you pull out the small diary. Quickly, he lunges at you, trying to tear the small journal out of your hands. 

Perhaps, you shouldn't have said that out loud in hindsight.

He pins you to the ground, putting his entire weight to keep you from moving. The air from your lungs forcefully escapes. The heavy pressure on your chest prevents you from taking another breath. Panic floods your mind, trying to open the journal. Any situation was better than this. You tear out a page from one of the recent entries. Wukong expression never changed from the intimating stern look. He glances at the book, casting it aside before settling on the torn paper. Your lungs burn from the lack of air, putting every last energy into reading the text. Your vision fades as it changes to the once-familiar setting.

You gasp loudly. The burning in your lungs serves as a haunting reminder of the future. You fall to your knees with tears falling from your eyes. Not only that, but you try to take as much air in your lungs, afraid of losing it again.

“What happened? Are you okay?” Tang gently places a hand on your shoulder.

You wiped the tears from your eyes. Finally, register where you ended up. Everyone was staring at you, worried. However, you stare at the person who tried to kill you in the near future. His lovely golden eyes were wide with worry. He was close to the cliff, ready to fly off to fight LBD. You push yourself up and rush at him, anger written on your face. Clasping on the hem of his shirt, you brought him down to your level.

“You better sit your ass down and listen! We are not doing this again!” You shout, letting your temper take control. 

Wukong stays silent but nods. Yet you didn't dare let go of his shirt, your glare never leaving his nervous face. 

“I’m assuming, from your mood right now. I failed to defeat the Lady Bone Demon.” Wukong laughs nervously, hoping that your foul mood lightens up. It did not.

“What do you think?” Your eyes narrow.

Wukong didn't say anything, silently cursing his future self for upsetting you. A sigh escapes from you, finally breaking the death glare. You let go of his shirt and wrap your arms around him. 

“Please don't go.” You whispered, leaning close, locking your lips with his.

Wukong body was tense, before relaxing and returning the kiss.

“I won't go, alright? Don't worry, I’ll be right here.” He said softly, resting his forehead on yours. 

The two of you, enjoying the small moment. Tears once again fall from your eyes, not from sadness, but in relief. 

“Sorry to ruin this cute moment, but please tell me you have a plan.” Mk said.

You let go of Wukong, wiping the tears away, and face the bruised-up group. 

“I- do not… I kind of nearly died.” It was your turn to nervously laugh.

“You, WHAT?” Everyone yelled in unison. 

“It wasn’t fun and I rather avoid that, so Wukong, stay here and come up with a decent plan this time.”  You glance at everyone, seeing their shocks faces turn serious but determined. 

“Any ideas?”

[lunaccult]

I found my original timeline for milo and edited a few things, switching up his story a smidge. if you're interested in liminal spaces....... teehee...... heed the trigger warnings.......

Birth - Todd and Shannon Bishop welcome their second child, who they name Adam. His older sister, Caitlyn, is 5 years his senior and is immediately enamored of her little brother. She is diligent in helping her parents care for this boy. The Bishop family lives in the small town of Nimilla, Missouri, and Todd is the only, and highly esteemed, pastor of the local Church.

5 - This will be the first memory Adam has of his drunk father hitting his mother, though it had long been happening even before his birth. It is his first glimpse into the reality that his father is not the decent holy man that many believe him to be.

6 - Adam befriends another boy in the first grade. Isaiah becomes his first, and only, friend as long as he is in Nimilla.

8 - One night, after a violent and destructive fight between Todd and Shannon, Todd takes Caitlyn from her bed and drags her out of the house. Adam, despite being afraid and concerned for his mother who had gone to bed weeping, follows his father and sister into the woods past his backyard. What he witnesses that night is only the first of a long series of horrifying events in his life and can only be described as despicable. Ignorant to what goes on for many years even after this night, Adam later realizes that this night was the first time Todd had tried to give something permission to possess an innocent person, this time being Caitlyn. When the possession does not happen, Todd grows furious and unhinged, so much so that he proceeds to beat his oldest child. Young, and terrified, Adam flees back to his house. In the morning, Caitlyn is declared missing and, later, dead. The mystery around her death is no mystery to Adam, who will be haunted by this memory forever. The Bishop family, specifically Adam and Shannon, are devastated.

10 - Two years after the death of his sister, Adam is the one dragged from his bed one night and submitted to a cult ritual conducted by his own father, though this time Adam is successfully possessed by the entity that his father had been desperate to contain and control. This possession will trigger in Adam hallucinations, dissociation, and the ability to hop through realities into what he refers to as the Spaces. 

11 - During an episode where he is caught in the Spaces, Adam is startled to discover another person with him, which has not happened in the entire year that he has been experiencing his possession. They talk, though Adam is still afraid of what it means that she is there and also the Spaces themselves. Before she leaves, the girl gives him what Adam learns is an iPod, which contains music in it. This will become his most prized possession and will send him spiralling into the one escape he has, music.

12 - When the few songs on the iPod become not enough to satisfy Adam’s love for music anymore, he finds himself drawn to create his own. He begins to teach himself how to play the piano at his father’s church, though he has few resources to do so. It is his mother who teaches him how to read sheet music when she discovers him trying to play; she also is the one to secretly purchase for him his own very small keyboard.

13 - Adam discovers the Internet, but does not have access to it for very long. He finds that the only time he can use it is late into the night, so he begins watching YouTube videos on his very small, cheap cell phone (which he is only to use to contact his father in an emergency). He discovers more music and even starts watching tutorials on how to create music so that he can better his own songs. 

14 - Adam buys his own laptop in secret so that he can start trying to make real music. He begins putting out short snippets of songs he’s written on YouTube under the username musicsaves212. During this time, he continues to witness his father’s abuse toward his mother and is subjected to cruel verbal and emotional treatment himself, as well as his own mental decline from his possession.

16 - Adam is woken up in the middle of the night by his father fighting with his mother. Unbeknownst to them both, he sneaks out to check on his mother, who he can hear crying. Very quickly, the fight escalates and Adam watches helplessly as his father retreats into the kitchen. When he returns, Adam is forced to watch his father cruelly and mercilessly murder his mother in their living room. When Adam begins to cry, Todd finally catches sight of him and lunges toward the boy. Horrified and shocked by what he’s just witnessed, Adam runs from his childhood home and is thrown into the Spaces.

17 - When Adam emerges from the Spaces again, he is shocked to discover that he had been in there for five months and his father has given the same lie he had for Caitlyn several years before: Adam has gone missing, though this time Todd appears to be searching for him. Several townspeople spot and recognize him, though Adam realizes very quickly that if his father finds him, he will likely be given the same fate as his mother and sister before him. So he flees Nimilla.

17 - For the next several days, Adam begins a trek away from Missouri. He hops trains, stows away in semi trucks, walks and hitchhikes - anything to get him away from his father and that town. After a week, he finds himself outside of New York and decides that the city is where he wants to go. 

18 - Adam changes his name to Milo McKiernan. He is unhoused, but has begun job hopping to get enough money to get himself a new laptop and eventually a guitar. He begins writing music again and even posting to social media, though he remains anonymous by keeping his face covered when he does upload content. 

20 - Milo’s music is discovered by a music producer. It lands Milo an offer to work at Manhattan-based, Agony Records. Initially, he is wary because he does not want his father to discover his whereabouts, but it doesn’t take long for his love for music (and need for a roof over his head) to take precedence over his concerns. Despite what appears to be a switch into the right (and safe) direction, Milo continues to suffer from the effects of his possession. During his initial time working at Agony, he is mentored by Zander Riles, the very producer who'd discovered him.

[mx-lamour]

Food and Death: An Outing With the In-Laws

If you're ever at a place called Tavern Grill, I recommend their brunch. The roast beef is a juicy medium rare, the bacon is crisp, the strawberries ripe, and the potatoes are loaded with butter. There are blueberries in these pancakes*, chopped vegetables in scrambled eggs, and the caramel rolls are brought out by request so they don't dry out on the table. I love to be in a place called "Tavern", and their recipes do not disappoint. I've eaten several things here, all delicious.

*Roman's Cafe has the best pancakes, though, bar none. Best place for made-to-order breakfast, but Tavern's brunch is a solid buffet option.

My husband and I met his parents (my in-laws) there. Of all things, of course, they were in town for a funeral. Death must have been on their minds, then, especially for my father-in-law, because he regailed us with a few casual tales of real-life hauntings while we were gathered around these products of succulent cattle and trenched earth.

For context, he lives in a rural woodland area. The place is literally a village by population count. The village has two bars and a gas station—and the school, which trucks in children from surrounding farmland and doubles the town's population while class is in session.

My father-in-law works or volunteers at a local history museum in an adjacent village, which houses relics and stories from the pasts of many of the little towns in the area, including his own. There is a little cafe in the museum—once an old school building, itself—called the Mermaid.

Because the population is so small, there are people he sees regularly. One of them, a thin old guy who seemed to be distracted, would come in everyday to order takeout from the Mermaid. At least once, he had stumbled in and asked the waitress why he was there. The waitress set him up with his usual fare in a bag, so we wouldn't need to awkwardly juggle the containers, and sent him back home to his wife.

One day, the thin old man did not visit the Mermaid. He didn't order food, and he didn't carry it home to his wife. His car was found on the side of the road, next to a snowmobile path leading into the woods.

In the meantime, his wife, whose weathered mind was going, simply waited for her husband to return. She waited for five days. And then she died. She hadn't eaten in that time, and starved to death.

They held a funeral for the woman. They're still searching for the thin old man's body, hoping to bury him alongside his emaciated wife.

In contrast, my father-in-law had also encountered a man who had come into the history museum (he did so regularly) and, one day, could not leave. The man made the winding circuit of its exhibits multiple times, until my father-in-law asked him what was going on.

"I can't find my car," the man had said.

He was trapped in the museum, cycling through its corridors like an echo on repeat, and did not have the wherewithal to recognize the front door. There had been no escape.

This was when I started buzzing. We had finished our fabulous meal and lingered in our booth while, luckily, the morning rush was coming to a close. There was no escape for me, either, so I scrambled through my husband's go-bag and found myself a pen with which to write. A pad of thin brown paper tickets with build-your-own omelette or bloody mary orders was handy on the table, and their backs were blank.

It would have been rude to pull out my phone and type furiously on its screen, despite the act of record-writing being the same task either way. I had forgotten about my husband's fountain pen phase. That rich ink and brown paper in the Tavern setting propelled me back into Ezra, and my Craft way better than any keyboard could have in that moment.

My mother-in-law talked about our neices. She and my sisters-in-law had bought a house even farther north, in a slightly bigger town, where my brother-and-law, his wife, and their four children had migrated to before them.

But my father-in-law likes his house, in his tiny village, where he has lived for many years. He knows people there, and helps them out. The man's a fixer—and, as I said, he is involved with the local history museum. He doesn't care to leave all that behind. So he retains the house, and lives there mostly by himself these days.

They talked about the class sizes in the school that year, from which my second neice will finally be graduating. She hasn't told us of her plans beyond that, keeping them close to the vest, and I don't blame her. I hope that wherever she goes is spectacular.

My father-in-law used to be the school's janitor, when my husband and all his older siblings had once been students, too. He's worried that the school, with its dwindling population, will perish. If there aren't enough children there to keep the school running, it might close. No influx of parents would come into town to bolster local business. He's worried that, if the school dies, the village dies with it.

The general store Mercantile that my husband grew up in, trading his quarters for candy bars, has already been turned into a museum, too.

The rural woodlands are a ghost town of museums and memory. A fly trap for the waking dead.

[everybodyshusband]

You do NOT look at that ask regularly, please shhhhhh that's not true I'm going to scream and cry!!!❤️🩶💜💖❤️‍🔥

I sent it like oh he has to know how obsessed I am over this even if he thinks I'm unhinged! I actually thought either you hadn't received it or you thought I was too unhinged and ignored/deleted it adfgvdxdgb I even had post notifications on in case you replied so I wouldn't miss it

My biggest question is if you plan on writing anything similar at all? (Bc I'll be there ready to send you love)

also did you know you were gonna ruin someone's brain w it?????? Lmfao but in all seriousness, I enjoyed how enamored she was of him in general and even like his scars, for example. I loved that he almost drove himself as crazy as he was driving her at the same time. I love that the tail seemed to be moving of its own accord at one point (which I mean I too would like to be all up in aether, so I get it). I love that cheeky fucker that shows up at the end! I love everything!

I guess I do want to know what's your favorite part if you have one? Any plans for a sequel? 👀💙

i do, haha, i really do !!! i read it after my first shift today and i couldn't stop smiling at my phone, haha :D <3

i don't think you're unhinged at all (well... maybe a little, but i promise that you're in good company, my friend !!) and GAH these asks you keep sending me make me extremely happy, so i'm very sorry if it seemed like i was ignoring you :0 i have a tendency to hoard my asks for a veerrryy long time, haha 😅

honestly? uhm, no, i hadn't planned on writing a sequel. mostly because out of all of the fics i've written, this one is actually my least favourite :0 (which is why i get so excited about your asks, my friend ! it's a very nice feeling to know that even if i don't like it, there's someone out there who does !!). that being said, the idea of a swiss/aeth/sister ritualistic threesome does haunt my mind quite frequently, so maybe one day i'll write a sequel. at this stage though, unfortunately the answer is no :(

i think my favourite part is the middle (i.e., aether using his tail to feel the sister up and letting her grind against it) because i am not immune to tail fucking or fuckery, haha ! if i had to pick a specific part that i like the most, i think i'd go for: They both lean in at the same time, kissing each other with a softness Aether didn’t know was possible. Her lips are soft and taste like berries—strawberries, if he had to place a name to the sweet taste that floods his mouth through the kisses.

thank you for your asks, lovely anon !! and thank you so, so much for pointing out all the parts you enjoyed the most, it makes me happier than you could possibly know <3 <3 <3 (i think i'm going to have to continue hoarding your other ask until i have the ability to reply in a manner that isn't a paragraph of keyboard smashes, haha ! :3)

[myalchod]

Weird Writer Questions - 5 and 16 and… all of them?

Aw man, I'm so tempted to answer all of them 😂 I answered a few over here already, but as for the rest ... let's see ...

5. Do you have any writing superstitions? What are they and why are they 100% true? Not that I can think of ... although, come to think of it, I'm currently petrified about posting anything that's a WIP with the intention of posting chapters incrementally because I left a fully-framed one abandoned in my last fandom and I'm convinced it'll end up the same way. (I'm almost 10k into a Silrah WIP, which considering my longest work to date was 30k is a lot, and yet it hides in GoogleDocs ...)

16. What’s the weirdest thing you’ve ever used as a bookmark? On a temporary basis I've used all sorts of wild things because it's literally what's on hand. My normal bookmarks are pretty pedestrian. (This is more of a reader ask, isn't it? 🤣)

Additional answers behind the cut because ... well:

1. What font do you write in? Do you actually care or is that just the default setting? So it's not the font that's notable, it's probably the size. I work in GoogleDocs on my phone, and I'm normally using 8pt Arial. (And yes, that's tiny. And yes, I'm probably a bit insane.) I tend to do my final editing pass in Times or another serif font because it's easier to find the italics for coding, but that's about it.

2. If you had to give up your keyboard and write your stories exclusively by hand, could you do it? If you already write everything by hand, a) are you a wizard and b) pen or pencil? I enjoy writing longhand, though I like the conversion from paper to digital as part of the editing process. Some of how I write -- when I shuffle things around, for example -- would be impossible on paper, though. I'll take a hybrid. (Standard gear: Clairefontaine pocket notebook, Platinum EF fountain pen, various inks.)

6. What is your darkest fear about writing? That nobody likes my stuff because I am a walking bundle of anxiety. Also, not finishing, sob.

7. What is your deepest joy about writing? I really love those moments when you're deep enough into a character's head that you write something down and then end up blinking at the page going, "oh. OH. I never thought about that but it makes perfect sense." (Also, getting a sentence just right, especially if someone swears at me about it later.)

8. If you had to write an entire story without either action or dialogue, which would you choose and how would it go? Okay wait. Is this action as in "action movies" action or as in any sort of movement? Because if the former: BYE ACTION. If the latter, dialogue is getting yeeted SO FAST.

9. Do you believe in ghosts? This isn’t about writing I just wanna know 😂 The house my unbrothers grew up in was haunted and had serious horror-movie-type dolls at the top of the stairs. I'm pretty sure I never had a choice in believeing.

10. Has a piece of writing ever “haunted” you? Has your own writing haunted you? What does that mean to you? Flippant answer: I'm haunted by the ghosts of all the fics I never finished, and they're obnoxious bastards.

11. Do you believe in the old advice to “kill your darlings?” Are you a ruthless darling assassin? What happens to the darlings you murder? Do you have a darling graveyard? Do you grieve? ... does it count if I bring them back? Asking for pretty much every damned ship I've ever had because damn you, canon. (No. I do not murder my darlings. Canon does it, and then I have to fix it. 😭)

Oh man I want to answer so many more of these, except I promised myself I'd write tonight so I'm mostly stopping here ... except for one because I am a goddamned sucker for poetry. (Please feel free to drop more in my inbox if you want though, especially if I didn't hit a specific one you wanted. I will take just about any excuse to babble, hi. 😂)

40. Please share a poem with me, I need it. George Seferis is my current obsession; here's a short one:

Three red pigeons in the light inscribing our fate in the light with colours and gestures of people we once loved

[warriorsdebt]

Every day I look at my chosen career in tech and then I look at my freakishly tiny, inflammation-ridden baby hands that already can't use most peripherals, even before their ongoing embiggening, and I simply despair.

[aritany]

I'm inspired to write, but words don’t come out. Even I know what scenes I’ll write. It’s been a year of taking a break from writing. :c

hey, anon. this is a really tough spot to be in and i sympathize. we all have dry periods, and as tough as it is to admit, that's part of the creative process.

however, when it's been stretching on for so long that it starts to feel a little bit like despair, then it becomes important to address it and see what you can do to help yourself out.

How To Escape Writer's Block

what i would suggest is to walk yourself through these questions. if the answer to any of is 'no', take the necessary steps to make them 'yes'. usually when i do this, the gears kick back into place before i've even made it all the way down the list.

so, in order of importance:

1. are you sure you're not just burnt out?

this can happen when you have been working hard in any area of your life and can affect your writing even if you haven't burnt yourself out with writing.

if you're burnt out, the cure is time and giving yourself grace. it's ok, you'll get your spark back. i recommend consuming a lot of media you love to get your charge back.

2. are you physically taking care of yourself?

sometimes we get to the keyboard and we are exhausted, hungry, dehydrated, etc without even realizing it (especially if you're neurodivergent like i am and can disconnect from your body pretty easily!! y'all, don't procrastinate eating and drinking and going to the bathroom. don't do that).

take care of those issues before you try writing. i highly recommend youfeellikeshit.com, which guides you through a questionnaire to help you figure out why you feel gross.

3. do you have a regular writing practice?

sometimes you can be not burnt out and physically fine and you just can't seem to write anything when you get a spare moment to.

i highly recommend setting a super super low goal (50-100 words) to hit daily, whether it's for a single project or just overall for whatever you're writing (i do the second one) and then making sure you get to your notebook or your computer or your typewriter or your phone or whatever you use to write and making it happen.

brains are silly and sometimes need training. finding a routine that words for you can do wonders for opening the word floodgates.

4. are you excited about the project you're trying to work on?

simple question. easy answer. sometimes we get caught up writing what we feel like we're "supposed" to be writing. enough with that bullshit. write what you love. write about something that makes you so excited it distracts you from your real life on occasion. write about the thing you daydream about. you can worry about marketability and all that later. this is just about getting the words out of your head and somewhere you can look at them.

yes, this is permission to write that super self indulgent thing. i wrote an extremely self indulgent book and it's being published by a big 5 publisher so like. do it.

5. have you tried writing something unrelated just to get words flowing?

you've made it through the questionnaire and you still draw a blank when you get to your desk/couch/bed/ground/haunted cave/office. it's time to wiggle your pencil. it's time to write literally everything that crosses your brain until you are typing or writing words and making them happen. they don't have to make sense. they don't have to be remotely related to your project. they are just words to get your word-making muscles working. it sounds stupid. try it tho

that's about it for my advice! one note that is essential, though:

if you are ill in any way, mentally or physically, do not beat yourself up if writing doesn't happen. it can be really discouraging to try and write through chronic pain or mental illness, but just know that you are not alone.

it's okay if it's not happening right now. you'll get there. you will have good days. putting pressure on yourself to write isn't going to help you.

remember that writing is fun and unless it is your job/career, you are under no obligation to anyone but yourself, and you're also the only one who can give yourself grace and permission to just be.

for all writers struggling with mental/physical illness and seasonal depression as we approach fall (and the dreaded month of november that is usually either horribly overwhelming or full of FOMO), reach out to your other writer friends. chances are, somebody else gets it. it's always easier to go through it with somebody who understands.

i believe in all of you.

[miedei]

omg at least your school's got a choir 🤧 we don't have one cause that's a club & we're only allowed to join ONE club 🤡 so although i have 0 chance @ getting that club loyalty award i say fuck it lmao that only happened in elementary when i joined the home economics club with my bestie skdjskdj but like i've been going around clubs in hs like fucking mad sjdnksjd i've been in band club for 7th grade, some sort of revolutionary shit club or something idrk for 8th (only joined that cause i loved the club's teacher lmao), then online in 9th grade i got into the book club (where i did absolutely nothing cause online classes in itself is already stressful but then the band club teacher heard about me struggling in book club so she just let me pass like 1 performance of svt's fallin' flower on keyboard & give me a grade for the whole year for club 😭😭😭 she's the only teacher i've ever been comfortable around ngl hhh)

also lol we were gone for the weekend here & spent it with family friends but i felt kinda bad at the end while thinking about it cause all of it included my boy bestie (not the home economics bestie, though she was there too lol) making fun of me for doing literally fucking anything :// tiny mistake? follows me for my whole life. he's got a list of jokes he repeats when i make one mistake. "hahaha you're so fucking short and blind you can't even hit the shuttlecock how can someone be so shit at sports lmaooo" (dw though i'm planning on talking to him about it next time bc i really don't want to wallow in bad feelings esp with him since ik it's his defense mechsnism- i only know part of what he's going through so i just want him to know i'm already getting hurt by it after all those years yk)

but to like attempt to make myself feel better that night while i didn't have wifi to comfort myself by drowning in enha content, yk what popped into my head? the band au. rivals au. riki brainrot. yk those one-sided rivalry shit? so riki "hates" reader/vice versa & every time they have a show together one of them will try to 1-up the other while the other's just oblivious to it yk like tricks, solos, fills, just anything & everything petty 💀 could end romantically could just not bc i just ✨riki✨ at this point 🛐 (why does this damned phone not have the other kneeling emojis 😒 but this one works ig 🤡)

also idk if you stan txt but like in their relay dance for lo$er=lo♡er kai spins on the mic stand & nearly faceplants lmao that's literally what i imagined jungwon doing while trying to copy hee in the exchanged instruments thing 💀💀💀 (tell me if you don't know what i'm talking about & i'll send you a link next time i conmect to wifi cause i'm on data rn sjdhjsf)

- drummer anon who's gonna go sleep now 😙

omg only 1??? i would not be able to choose 😳 what are you going to do this year?

oh no that sucks :(( those sort of friends can really hurt your feeling i hope he understands and apologizes you don't deserve that bby

ENEMIES TO LOVERS BAND AU????? IM THINKING LIKE SOME SORT OF TOURNAMENT??? (this is eerily similar to a stray kids fanfiction i wrote when i was like 13- a singing tournament enemies to lovers on wattpad ughhh those days haunt me) the talent that would arise and people would always want them to work together because they're so fucking talented but they REFUSE??? hhhhhh brainrot

omg yeah that would be jungwon hahahahahah i burst out laughing every time I see that chbdksdondmsk

[littlewalken]

Aug 23

Got my phone hotspot thing figured out, plugged in, and I am sitting at the computer proper using a keyboard to blog for the first time in nearly 3 months.

Yes, a little over a year ago I wan't wanting a phone but I was also living a lifestyle where I wasn't in need of one. The smartest decision I made was to opt for the unlimited plan. The only anything was after I was making a lot of downloads they told me that I had reached an amount where my speed would be slowed until the next billing cycle. I don't stream or game so meh.

It's little shit like tabs so I can look something up while blogging and screen layouts that I've missed. My phone is the little SE one. Even when I replace it I won't need the fancy one unless I decide I want a fancy camera. Some of my zoomed pictures have that gaussian glass blur to them but whatcha gonna do?

But like shit, dude I can access my whole photo library again, not just those on the phone, only the camera roll and my art to save space, and it's easier to save, and just live what I feel is normal.

We bought real food and more than a few days worth and it can just sit frozen in the fridge for however long and we don't have a check out time we have to eat it before. A hotel with a kitchenette is a nice place to stay if you have or can get to your pans.

I know some of y'all are facing evictions, hopefully thru no fault of your own, and you're going to be staying on places like you never thought with Budget in the name.

This is the king sized bed at a hotel with Budget in the name we only spent a night in because it was on the road.

And the one with Suite in its name we spent three weeks in and if we didn't end up here we only would have left when the legally made us because you can only stay in a hotel for so long I think.

Bless this place with its lead pipes and load bearing paint.

Don't be homeless.

That's not my purse. That's the replacement we had to get in the state of humidity when mom's broke beyond repair and use.

Still facing some little toxic thoughts left over from the trip. Kind of turning them into bounce back curses. Bitch at me for eating you out of house and extremely well stocked home in less than the three days we were there when half of what I ate we brought and left the rest of the food we had with us? Bitch, we were going to the grocery store the day you kicked us out. We were planning on making everyone in the house a big chicken dinner because we hadn't had one in months. You haven't began to know what it's like to be hungry.

All the nice strangers we met on the road, a blessing on to thee. All those who were nice to our faces then turned around and cost us money, that price will come to haunt you.

You ain't a witch or practicer of magick just because you have tarot cards and the occasional candle. It's something that comes from inside, something you can't just take from, it's something you have to thank.

Just sitting here at my Babbage differential engine for a little while has me so thankful I'm finally home.