floralexchange

[floralexchange]

Ghillie

Cross-posted on Ao3 >Read there for the rest of the story and more details!

Chapter 1| Fuck You, American

Steady breathing, body still, total focus.

That’s the steps you kept repeating in your head, fingers wrapped around the cold metal of the Barrett M82 you held. You ignored the feeling of the fake grass and other debris poking into your uniform, the weight of the ghillie suit adorning your body pressing you further into the uneven terrain.

Your target— British soldiers.

You didn’t know why they were targets— they never told you much— but you stuck to following orders to avoid any unnecessary consequences. All you knew was that you were tasked with being a lookout for your team, waiting behind as you usually did to clear the way for them.

Your radio crackled, echoing in your ear before your Lieutenant Pavlova spoke through, his thick Russian swaying your focus for a second.

“Гилли. Вы на позиции?” Ghillie. You in position?

“Да.” Yes.

“Следите за Борйс. Убедитесь, что это ясно.” Watch for Bravo. Make sure it’s clear.

“Копия.” Copy.

The radio crackled off and you were left with the ambient sounds of nature, readjusting yourself until you got into the familiar position.

Steady breathing.

You spotted a British soldier snaking around the side of the building, your chest rising and falling against the flattened grass.

Body still.

You flipped the scope cover, pressing the butt of the sniper against your shoulder before wrapping your finger around the trigger.

Total focus.

The swaying leaves, birds singing through the sky, you focused on the sounds, eye peeking through the scope. The distance markers sliced through their abdomen, raising it up to accommodate for distance.

Your finger curled tight, pulling against the curved metal.

Steady, still, focus.

It happened in a blink, the sharp buzzing in your ear from the sound wave, watching the bullet dart across the field.

Headshot. The blood stains the building’s wall.

That deserves a pat on the back.

“Хорошая работа, Гилли.” Good job, Ghillie.

You were tempted to thank him, but the orders he soon spat out towards Bravo made your lips tighten, instead opting to reload your sniper for the next target.

You watched as Bravo team made their way through the field, moving on the building in their practiced formation you’ve seen a dozen times. You always hated watching them run it, especially after begging your Lieutenant to join but was continuously dismissed by him.

Gunshots quickly pulled you out of your daydreaming, pushing up slightly to try and get a view of what was happening, but they were already in the building.

A mix of Russian and English shouting reached you in the quiet of the air, before quickly being covered by shots and returning fire.

Based on the codes, commands, and communication on the radio, you concluded Bravo team was doing fine, especially as they announced room after room clear of enemies. So you did what any adolescent would do when bored, letting your mind wander and conjure up something to do to pass the time.

Your brain decided it’d be picking at the grass around you, pulling a blade out from the dirt between your pointer and thumb— watching the dirt hang on desperately before you shook it off. You ended up pulling an entire patch of grass out, leaving a bare brown spot in the field. You sighed softly, moving your gaze to another full patch before tugging at those as well.

Though, it wasn’t until multiple brown spots littered the ground around you that the radio crackled back on— the sudden urgency in your Lieutenant’s voice making you jump up.

“Гилли! Что, черт возьми, ты делал?!” Ghillie! What the fuck have you been doing?!

The radio broke up as he yelled, mixing with the yells and warnings of your other teammates.

“Здесь есть другие люди!” There are other people here!

“Они американцы!” They’re American!

“Мы попали в чертову засаду!” We’ve been fucking ambushed!

“Где Антон команда?!” Where’s Alpha team?!

“Нам нужно подкрепление!” We need reinforcements!

You flipped up the scope cover and quickly looked through, you couldn’t see around the corner clearly, but you definitely saw soldiers rushing in the building.

You pushed yourself away from the grass and towards the sniper, cursing at yourself, “Ебать ебать ебать…!” Fuck fuck fuck…!

You didn’t pay attention, someone snuck in, your team was getting ambushed, it was all your fault.

The streamline of gunshots only quickened your already rapid heart rate, trying to get a shot of anyone— to at least be some kind of help in the situation.

Though, you couldn’t take the shot. You were breathing heavily, too fast, and you couldn't stabilize yourself. You couldn’t get yourself in the right position, feeling the sweat pool under the ghillie suit. You couldn’t focus on the target, the shouting coming from the radio and the incessant gunfire ricocheting in your mind.

You couldn’t do it.

In the flood of your emotions and growing frustration, you failed to detect the subtle footsteps behind you, the soft unsheathe of his knife covered by the chaos at the building. You realized it too late, picking up on the sound of the grass crunching under heavy boots made you look over your shoulder.

The man came down with his knife, making you scurry out of the way— the sharp edge just barely nicking your suit.

He quickly recovered, using his heel to kick the sniper away from you. He turned his attention back to you— pathetically trying to scamper off the ground, the heavy suit weighing you down. Wasn’t all your fault— ghillie suits don’t typically come in teen sizes.

He reached down and grabbed your ankle, pulling you back towards him. You flipped over instantly, pulling your foot back before jamming it into his shoulder.

Despite stepping back, the kick seemed to have no effect, his grip tightening around the knife’s handle before bringing it down on you again.

Your hands shot up and blocked him, struggling against the force of him pushing down. It was clear he was much stronger than you, his biceps bulging through the material of his uniform. To say you weren’t scared shitless would be lying to yourself, the guy was huge, even for a soldier.

From this position you could see his face, well, not entirely. He adorned a black balaclava with a grotesque skull plastered on the material, only leaving a slit for his eyes.

Another thing you noticed— where he was trying to stab you. Instead of aiming for your head or neck, he was aiming for your shoulder. For his strength and expertise, he had to know a stab like that wouldn’t kill you, only immobilize you.

Maybe that’s what he wanted.

You pushed with all the strength you could muster up, forearms trembling as he pushed against you, the knife edge poking into the suit’s fabric. You looked down, utilizing your free limb, pulled your leg up before driving your heel into his stomach.

“Отойди, чертов пиндо!” Get off, you fucking pindo!

He recoiled back, giving you a small window to pull out your own knife and swing it at him.

It caught his arm, the knife leaving a long cut in his uniform, but not nearly enough to keep him off you. Despite the non-damage, he retaliated by shoving you back onto the ground, snatching the knife from your grip and throwing it like a piece of candy; before taking his knife and plunging it into your thigh.

You didn’t register it at first, but the searing sensation that took over your entire leg quickly made you realize.

“Can’t kick me now, can you?” His voice rumbled in his chest, twisting the handle into your torn flesh.

You desperately tried to push him off you, a yell ripping itself from your throat. Unwanted warmth dripped down your leg, pooling in the fake grass of your suit. He eventually pulled it out, blood dripping down the blade of the knife before switching it to his other hand and plunging it into your other thigh.

The knife caught on a pad underneath the ghillie suit, making him push the blade harder before it pierced through the fabric and straight into your leg. You were fully aware this time, feeling the blade rip through the fragile layer you call your skin.

Your voice was too hoarse for it to make any call for help, feeling your conscious slip from your grasps in protest of the pain.

Though, he handled that for you— balling his hand into a fist before wrenching it into your jaw, making quick work of your vision.

You preferred it, at least you didn’t have to feel the pain.

_________

You don’t remember when you woke up, but you do remember being dragged through… somewhere. Based on the sound of heavy boots shuffling around and commands being directed, you guessed you were on another military base.

It wasn’t your base though.

The incessant English told you so, not that you couldn’t understand, you just hated it with a passion.

Once you fully grasped consciousness, you realized what was happening— bag over your head, hands restrained on chair arms, tight grip on your shoulder, you were kidnapped.

Why couldn’t they just kill me?

The familiar feeling of a wooden chair made your ass ache, trying to readjust yourself before realizing that your ankles were also restrained.

“He’s awake.”

A gruff voice from behind you made your struggle halt, despite the bag on your head, you realized there was more than one person in the room.

The bag was ripped off your head, exposing your sensitive retinas to the light positioned above you. It buzzed incessantly, highlighting the stale dust particles floating in the air. That probably explained why it was so hard to breathe, or the fact that your worst nightmare had come true.

Your eyes adjusted after a second, peering around to get a lay of the room. You couldn’t see much besides the table and someone circling around you— assuming they’re the one who took the bag off— making you glare at them as they disappeared beyond the light’s reach.

“Russian soldiers invading a British base,” the same gruff voice sounded from behind you, making you crane your neck in an attempt to see him, “Why?”

You assumed he was talking to you, the lack of any response from anyone else confirmed so, “Черт возьми. Я не говорю по-английски.” Fuck you. I don’t speak English.

They must’ve been trained on a bit of Russian, because he grumbles dissatisfied, “You’re under our custody, and I know you understand English. So speak up.”

You had no other choice, sighing deeply as you let your head hang forward, “I do not know. They don’t tell me much.”

“Lies.” His boots echoed as he approached the table, slapping down papers in front of you as he circled in front of the table.

You could see him clearly now, even from where you were sitting you could tell he was a giant compared to you. The bucket hat he adorned casted a shadow onto his eyes, which were not pleased to be looking at you. You could say the same thing, but your eyes were focused on the table instead. His finger pressed against the papers, making your gaze travel to them.

“I can not read it, it’s in English,” You deadpan at him, nudging your head towards the table.

“You can’t read English?”

You shake your head, you weren’t lying entirely, you just had a hard time deciphering English words. Though, that seemed to ruffle his feathers, making him grumble and point to a specific part on the paper.

“March 3rd, undercover Russian soldiers were found snooping around that British base. March 12th, it was infiltrated, soldiers were killed, actionable intel was stolen from that base, and hasn’t been seen since.”

March 3rd, March 12th, you had to think about those dates for a moment, you couldn’t even recall the current date.

“You think we stole it?” You pressed, biting your cheek to prevent yourself from slipping.

“I don’t think, I know,” He stood up straight, looking down at you with an unreadable expression, “Now I didn’t bring you here to chit-chat, start talkin’ or it’s gonna be worse than two stab wounds.”

The mention reminded you of the throbbing pain, making you glance down at your thighs. They weren’t tied up, so you could see the dried blood and rashly wrapped bandages around them. At least they didn’t take off your ghillie suit.

“I told you, I do not know anything,” You gritted, tearing your gaze away from the papers.

He sighed deeply, rubbing his beard as he circled around the table.

“I’m givin’ you a chance here, and it’s your choice whether you want to take it.” He stood beside you, making you glance at his chest to prevent craning your neck.

You scoffed, shaking your head as you looked at your restrained wrists, “Doesn’t matter if I had information, I would not tell you anyway.”

The minuscule amount of mercy in his eyes flickered away, sending a small shiver down your spine. He unsheathed his knife before reaching and plunging it into your hand, your bone stopping the blade from going completely through.

You tried to pull your hand away, the pain shooting in your arm as you cried out, but the restraints kept you bound to the chair.

“Now, you wanna start talkin’?” He spoke, his voice carrying considerably more weight.

A tremor shook your body as you slumped forward in the chair, the blood from your hand dripping and staining the wood before plopping onto your thigh— joining the rest of the spilled blood.

“My… my loyalty is not to them, if that is what you’re thinking,” You groaned, trying to ignore the immense burning in your hand, “Even if I knew something… they would kill me before I tell it to you.”

Something flickered in his eye, confusion or intrigue, urging you to continue, “So… if you want to kill me, fucking do it. I see gun in your pocket, they will shoot me anyways, might as well do it now.”

Before he could respond to your plea, aggressive knocking rang out through the room. He looked into the darkness, nodding his head presumably at someone near the door, before footsteps made their way over. You squinted in an attempt to see where you were as it opened, but the bag was thrown back over your head, shrouding your vision again.

“You have to stop the interrogation, now.” The man’s voice was higher than the one interrogating you, but still carried the same accent.

“What’s the hold up?” Another voice from inside the room spoke, lighter and more annunciated.

“That’s a fuckin’ kid, we just ran every soldier’s files from the attack, he’s not even officially registered.”

You felt the man’s presence leave your side, following his footsteps to the door, “What do you mean, kid?”

“Lasater was helping me unencrypt the files for the soldiers, we found everyone who participated in the ambush— except him,” He spat out, continuing before they could stop him, “We thought he was just recently enlisted. But no— he’s not registered because it would be illegal to.”

“How old?” The lighter voice questioned.

“From what we gathered, I’d guess fifteen to seventeen.”

“Bloody fuckin’ hell,” He dragged.

There was a slight pause before the gruff voice spoke again, “Russian army with underage recruits? And you’re sure he didn’t lie?”

“That’s what we thought initially, but records show he’s been under them for at least a year. Higher ups would’ve noticed the first week, meaning they knew about this.”

Collective chatter started buzzing around the room, picking up on the immense amount of curses and words of disbelief meant that it was a shock to all.

“Settle down, we need to get to the bottom of this,” He sighed heavily, something you deemed a habit of his, before speaking to the man again, “You and Lasater just try and figure out what Russians were doing on that base, I’ve got this one.”

With that, the door closed with a heavy click, and you picked up on the man making his way back to you.

The bag was ripped off your head again, making you squint, though your eyes adjusted much faster, “You wanna tell us about that?”

You shrugged your shoulders, “They took me in, I do not remember much from before.”

“You don’t have parents? A family?”

“No. They were killed because of America, and the UK, whichever one you are,” You spat, straining against the bonds despite the flash of pain that consumed you, “I had to watch my family die because of you fucking people!”

Sympathy stopped him from retorting back, all he saw was a kid— but all you saw was pity.

Every spec of fear melted out of your body, your hands balling into fists as you glared at him, “Do not pity me! You stab me with knife, and now look down on me?!” You yelled, yanking on your restraints before someone pulled you back against the chair.

“Look,” He sighed, “That was before I knew you were underage, and pity you because you’re a kid, not because I feel bad.”

Your breathing became heavier by the second, unbridled rage starting to bubble in your chest, “Fuck you.” You growled.

He huffed and stepped back, motioning someone over, a man with short curly hair approaching him.

“Radio medical to prep for someone.”

The man nodded, “Yes sir.” At least you had a face to the lighter voice now.

He turned back towards you, his expression stern as he contemplated something, “You’re still under our custody, so don’t fuck about.”

[floralexchange]

please reblog the fundraisers you see on your dash. please. if you claim to care about palestine, NOW is the time to prove it. everyone said gaza will be worse off if trump wins - well, now he has. the least anyone can do now is reblog and share and DONATE to as many fundraisers as possible. especially if you're american. you want harm reduction? this is harm reduction. help gazan families.

you can't decide where to start?

gazafunds

mohammad, nawal, and baby roaa

yousef, khadija, and baby majd

ahmed, his family, and their cat soso

nairuz and hussein's spreadsheet | gazavetters' spreadsheet | the butterfly effect spreadsheet

fundraisers linked on my blog

esims

pick a name. any name. read their story. realize that what you feel now, they feel everyday, a thousandfold. donate whatever you can. at the very least, reblog if you can't.

there is no excuse not to.

[floralexchange]

#why is my wife’s picture on here

warm up doodle of my wife

[floralexchange]

All Hope Relies On Us

Cross-posted on Ao3!

>Read there for more details and early uploads!

Chapter 1| Apartment 302

Your fingers tightened on the steering wheel as if his grasp still lingered, despite the many miles between you— his presence prickled at the countless marks lining your skin. The marks weren’t just bruises, but reminders of why you did it in the first place, who you did it for.

Glancing into the rearview mirror, your son rolled his toy car along the cushion of the seat, making soft vrooms with his mouth. You did it for him, watching his imagination run wild, innocence lining his young features, it was all you could hope for.

Though even his warm smile couldn’t chase away the shadows in your mind— the fear slithered up your chest, coiling tightly around your neck until you struggled to breathe, the memories suffocating you until it was all you could think about.

His hold on you was constricting, and it wasn’t something you wanted your son to live through, so you pressed the gas pedal harder— if you couldn’t get away from him in your mind, then you’d do it on the road. ________

Pulling into the assigned parking space and seeing the apartment complex lifted a weight off your shoulders, clicking the seatbelt out of the fastener and stepping out of the car. You circled around to the side that your son sat on, pulling the door handle softly and holding it open. Sometime during the trip he’d fallen asleep, his tiny hand closed around the toy car, his hold loose as his body limped from exhaustion. Just as you were about to reach in, a harsh breeze entangled itself through your hair, causing goosebumps to cover any inch of exposed skin. A shudder ran up your spine as you leaned in and unbuckled him, pulling the cartoon-themed blanket he brought over his body before lifting him out. You placed him in the crook of your shoulder and slipped your arm under his bottom, using your foot to push the door close and walk towards the trunk.

Your footsteps pressed against the broken concrete, almost too loud as it echoed in the stillness, the reverberance adding an eerie feel to the complex. A nagging feeling pulled at you and ushered you to look around, as if warning of a threat that wasn’t there. Though, you listened anyway, an empty sidewalk was visible due to the dim light, but anywhere else the light couldn’t reach was shrouded in shadows.

This did little to stop your growing paranoia, popping your trunk and snatching the clothes-filled trashbag before dropping it onto the ground. Your gaze flickered across the parking lot, pushing the trunk back down and picking up the bag, your grip tightening with every glance over your shoulder.

It was a handful trying to balance your son and prevent the bag from dragging on the ground, slowly making your way from the lot to the stairs of the complex. Looking up at how many stairs you had to climb, you could already feel the sore muscles, “Three flights,” You muttered.

…Two flights…

…One flight…

Patience was running thin, and so was your energy trying to power through the last few steps. The entire way up consisted of you taking a break every flight and readjusting Taylor so your arm wouldn’t go numb. Despite your exhaustion, you pushed through and climbed the rest of the stairs, seeing the door to your apartment lit by the dingy overhead light.

302, the numbers engraved into the metal plate, rusted from the elements and gradual erosion.

You approached the door, the moths that surrounded the light fleeing as you crouched down. Examining the rug that laid in front of the door before sliding your hand under, the scruffy material scratching your skin as you grabbed the spare key underneath. You pulled it out and shook your hand softly, the collected dust scattering into the air as you stood up to unlock the door.

After a few attempts, a soft click sound indicated it’d unlocked, pushing it open as a soft gust of wind escaped from the small gap. You reached back and pulled the trashbag in, dropping it on the wooden floor with a quiet thud before pushing the door close. Feeling around the wall for a switch and flicking it on, it illuminated the room in a familiar muddy yellow as you glanced around.

Continuing to hold your son while you explored, you ran your fingers along the wall, nicking the peeled paint that lifted in the corner. Walking through the hall led to the compact kitchen, the scent of grease and grime forcing itself into your nostrils, “Gross.”

You retraced back out and walked a couple of steps to the only bedroom, nudging the door open before flicking the light switch up. The lightbulb took a moment to respond as it stuttered on, it wouldn’t last long, apparent from the frantic buzzing. Moving to the small bathroom hidden in the corner, you peeked in— a sink, mirror, shower-tub combination, and a toilet hidden behind a half wall. Not much, but functional.

The apartment wasn’t in the best condition, and someone might’ve called you crazy for deciding to stay there, but it was yours. A place you could call home, where you could feel safe, no matter what the condition was.

A soft exhale parted your lips, a weight seemingly pulled off your shoulders and a pressure released from your chest. The air ran wild through your lungs for the first time in years, and the ability to breathe so freely felt extremely overwhelming, your hand cradling the back of Taylor’s head as you leaned back on the wall. Your legs couldn’t even hold you up anymore before you collapsed onto the floor, the sudden urge to cry crashing like a strong wave as your eyes brimmed with tears.

“Mama..?” Taylor lifted his head up, squinting softly up at you.

You quickly blinked away your tears, “Yes, love?”

His brows knitted together as he peered up at you, the slight pout of his bottom lip betraying his stern act, “What’s wrong? You look sad.”

His question hung in the air as you hesitated, “…Nothing, I’m just tired.”

“Promise?” He mumbled.

You nodded, “Promise.”

His eyes searched for any signs of dishonesty before plopping his head on your shoulder once he couldn’t find any. You maneuvered him sideways so he laid properly in your lap, gently rocking him to sleep as you fixed the blanket over the entirety of his body. He quickly drifted back off to sleep, his chest rising and falling as the rhythm of his breaths steadied and his eyes fluttered closed. Your hand traveled up to his cheek, a smile tugging at the corners of your lips as your thumb grazed his soft skin, before leaning down and pressing a gentle kiss to his forehead.

The sound of the light buzzing pulled you out of the sentimental moment, a jarring sound emitting from the bulb before a loud popping sound rang and the light blew out.

“At least I don’t have to turn it off…” __________

Somehow, you managed to fall asleep perched against the wall, woken up by the sun peeking through the window blinds and flashing over your eyes. The sun painted the room in a warm natural light, an appreciated far cry from the murky yellow the lightbulb displayed.

Despite feeling more rested than usual, your neck quickly explained to you why to never sleep like that again— the muscles were stretched so unnaturally that you questioned whether or not you’d broken it. You inhaled sharply as your hand traveled up to your neck and gently massaged the sore spot, feeling the pressure loosening before yawning.

You blinked harshly to ground yourself, but something felt off—

Taylor.

You immediately sprung up off the ground, throwing the small blanket off your lap as your heartbeat skyrocketed through the roof. Taylor wasn’t on your lap anymore, wasn’t anywhere in the room, and before you knew it you’d ran out of the room ready to tear the apartment apart to find him.

“Vroom…vrooom..skkrt…”

Taylor’s little noises when playing with his toy car calmed you, not your heart rate but your mind at least, watching him as he pushed the car across the floor. The wheels spun tirelessly as it rolled all the way to the wall, ricocheting with a small thud before he got up to retrieve it.

“Oh- hi mama!” His smile reflected off of you like a sunbeam through a mirror, running up to you and throwing his arms around your legs, “I was playing with my car, wanna see?!”

The force made you stumble before catching your balance, running your fingertips through his hair as you powered on your soft voice, “Of course I wanna see!”

He ran back to where he’d left the car and picked it up, holding it up to you, “Here! It's red and… and it has really big wheels, and it goes super fast!”

He placed the car back on the ground, pulling it back while making tiny revving sounds before pushing it to showcase its speed, the sound of the metal casing against the wooden floor echoing out.

“Wow, that’s really fast!” You dragged, giving him a small applaud.

Before he could give a reply, a soft knock on the door rang out, both of you snapping to look at it. You froze, through the window you could see a silhouette, a man’s silhouette. Your heartbeat spiked again, but not in panic, in distress.

Without a second thought, you grabbed Taylor’s arm and pulled him up off the floor, running back to the bedroom with him in your arms.

You took the corner and hauled ass to the bathroom, your shoes scuffing the floor before you placed Taylor in between the toilet and half wall, his body coiling into the tight space.

“Mama, who… who is that..?” His voice shook, his bottom lip quivering as he peered up at you with wide, tear-filled eyes.

“I-… I don’t know,” You whispered, “But I need you to be really quiet for mama, okay? Can you do that?”

He nodded quickly, his shaky hands flying to cover his mouth. He tried to be strong for you, but the tears that spilled over went against that.

You rubbed his cheek, the tip of your thumb wet as you wiped the tear, “It’s okay love, it’s-… it's okay I promise.”

He had to be quiet, but you knew he was capable, your chest pounding as you stood— Taylor watching your every move. He pressed himself further into the corner, making you turn back to the door as you crept to the edge of the bathroom.

Silence filled every nook and cranny of the apartment, your heartbeat drumming in your ears the only sound you could hear, and the faint click of the front door as it was pushed open.

You didn’t lock the door.

Someone was in here.

You looked for anything that you could use to defend yourself, a broom in the corner most likely left by another tenant a while ago, it’ll have to do.

You quickly grabbed it before slipping behind the door, luckily for you it opened in a way that blocked anyone in the apartment from seeing you.

You pressed your back against the wall, trying to keep your breath steady and quiet so you wouldn’t be heard, fingernails digging into the grainy texture of the wooden stick.

Heavy footsteps echoed into the hall, you pinpointed that they were in the living room.

“A toy car?” They pondered, their voice hushed.

Definitely a man.

His words carried a heavy accent, Irish or Scottish maybe?

Your grip tightened as the footsteps made their way down the hall, approaching the door, every little step he took quickened your breathing to the point you had to hold it so you wouldn’t be heard.

His silhouette was visible through the gap of the door, disappearing and reappearing in the room, finally entering as he peeked past the door.

Adrenaline rushed through your veins, and the next second you were swinging the broom straight towards the back of his head.

He spun around just in time to catch the broom mid-swing, slamming against the wall and causing the structure to vibrate.

“Wha’ the- calm down lass!” He barked, eyes darting as he assessed what the hell was going on.

“Who the fuck are you and why are you in here?!” You yelled, refusing to let go of your hold on the broom.

He strained against your pushing, “I didnae know anyone lived ‘ere!”

Despite his distressed appeal, it was in one ear and out the other with you, a sudden burst of strength made you snatch the broom out of his grip and fueled you enough to swing again.

This time it connected, hard, the wooden stick smashing against his bicep with a nasty thud and even getting some of the bristles into the action.

“Shite!” He hissed, recoiling and cradling his arm, “I live next door, ya ken?! I swear I didnae know ye lived ‘ere!”

That sentence might’ve saved his arm, preventing you from swinging again but you still held the stick tightly in defense, “…How do I know you’re not lying?”

“I’ve-… I’ve lived on this floor for years, and I’ve been the only one.” He stumbled, trying to catch his breath, “I heard some noise and came to check it oot, I didnae know ye moved in.”

He put his hands up in surrender, keeping his back on the wall, “Now, could ya please put the broom down…?”

“No,” You snapped, voice like sharp glass as you cut right through his desperate plea.

He shrunk away, glancing between you and the daunting broomstick, “Not even… holdin’ it a wee bit lower?”

“No,” You repeated, “I’d actually prefer if you got out of my apartment.”

You glared, he squinted, and both of you stared down each other like a gunslinger standoff.

After a moment of consideration, he sighed, “Eh, jus’ promise not to hit me on the way oot?”

“We’ll see,” You hummed.

He pushed off the wall and you watched his every move like a hawk, stalking over him while you were ready to pounce if he tried anything.

It was a bit ironic considering your height differentials, after the effects of your adrenaline wore off you started taking in his appearance, specifically the weird mohawk that lined the top of his head.

What am I thinking about?, you shook your head as you followed him the entire way to the door, ensuring that enough space was kept between the two of you.

He stepped out of your door before pausing, turning around to face you, “Ya should lock yer door next ti-”

A forceful thud rang out, courtesy of you slamming the door in his face. You didn’t waste a second, locking both the top and bottom locks, before reaching for the security chain and inserting it into the slot for extra reassurance. After a second you dropped the broom, the wooden stick falling with a clank as you breathed shakily.

Hands desperately roaming the material of the metal locks, the fabric of your clothes, anything to try and ground your dazed mind— almost feeling dizzy from the shitshow that just transpired. Though one thought cut through the spiraling mess, Taylor. Your feet started carrying you back to the bedroom, pace quick as you went back to the bathroom to retrieve him.

He stayed exactly where you left him, his knees crunched into his chest, hands pressed over his ears and eyes squeezed shut. It broke you to see him so tense, crouching down and slowly reaching to move his hands away from his head.

“Taylor… love, it’s me,” You whispered, gently holding his wrists.

He opened his eyes cautiously, registering that he was safe before leaping in your arms and burying his face in the crook of your neck. His incoherent mumbles were stifled by your jacket, until eventually overtaken by weak sobs that soaked the material and dripped down like a calm stream. Ragged breathing accompanied his sobbing, lungs trying to intake enough air in between sobs, as your arms snaked around his fragile figure to anchor him to you. The warmth of his body engulfed you like a soft blanket pulled over your shoulders, a gentle reminder that both of you were gonna be okay.

There weren't any words you could use to console him, opting to cradle his head and rock him back and forth, almost as if you were putting him to sleep— the familiar motion seeming to calm him down. It was a tactic you used on a regular basis, and without a doubt it always worked like magic.

After a minute or two only his small sniffles could be heard, “You okay?” You muttered.

“I’m okay…,” He hummed, “Did the bad man hurt you…?”

Your breath hitched, words caught in a net as you hesitated. You cleared your throat, forcing them out before they could become further lodged, “N-…No. The bad man isn’t here. We’re safe.”

You felt him nod, his soft hair brushing against your neck, “No more bad man…”

You nodded along with him, “That’s right.” You willed yourself to believe such, it’s the least you could do for Taylor.

A vulnerable moment lingered between you, a tiny rumble purring from his stomach breaking the silence. The sound pulled at the corners of your mouth, despite the weight still bearing at your chest.

“You hungry?”

“Mhm,” He nodded, his head tucked into his chin.

You brushed a stray piece of hair out of his face, “What do you want to eat?”

He pondered, fidgeting with the hem of your shirt, “…Pancakes.”

Your smile grew, the pressure easing just a little, “Pancakes it is then.” __________

You held Taylor’s hand as you followed the hostess, weaving through the crowd of people waiting for their orders and waiters carrying large trays of food. The shouts of the cooks in the back mixed with the chatter of customers conversing while dining, blending with the sweet scent of syrup and smoky smell of meats floating through the diner.

You hadn’t been to a place like this in years, and the combined senses were starting to overwhelm you as you transversed through the crowd.

“Here’s your booth, and your waiter will be with you in a minute.” Her voice snapped you out of your trance, giving her a strained smile as she walked away.

You let Taylor sit near the window, watching him climb into the booth before sliding in after him. He shuffled over and grasped the edge of the windowsill, peeking out of the glass as he watched the various cars fly by on the road. While he was busy counting how many red cars he could spot, the waiter came to the table and set down two menus.

“Hello, my name is Joseph and I’ll be your waiter today,” He introduced himself, a friendly smile plastered on his face, “Can I get you anything to drink while you look over the menu?”

You flipped over the menu and checked the list of drinks, “Uhm… I don’t want anything,” You muttered.

He looked up from his notepad, flashing his brows, “Anything for him?”

You pulled Taylor back from the window and gestured to his menu, “What do you want to drink?”

He sat down and read over it before glancing up at the waiter, shrinking back in the booth, “…Apple juice.”

The waiter nodded and wrote down the orders, “I’ll be back with your drinks shortly.”

He disappeared into the crowd of hungry customers, his friendly voice drowned out by the mass of clinking silverware and mindless chatter. Leaving the two of you to look over the menus, you slowly traced your finger along the outside of the menu, the laminated cover stained from the wandering hands of diners after several years. You peeled it open to reveal the different items you could order, decorated in upbeat and colorful fonts that danced around the pages.

Though, even all the cheerful colors and illustrations couldn’t mask the harsh reality you faced— the prices. Skimming each one felt like a sinking weight being placed on you, 17.99, 15.59, 19.29, even the simple kids meals steeped above $10.

“Mama, can I have these?” |Pancake Combo 12.79, the label read.

Taylor held the menu up for you to see, pointing to the picture of stacked pancakes with drizzled syrup, topped with whipped cream and a small amount of fruits. On the side included scrambled eggs seasoned with salt and pepper, and two strips of smoky grilled bacon. He peered up at you excitedly, his hanging legs swinging back and forth under the table.

You glanced down at him, swallowing hard, “Yes, just wait until the waiter comes back, okay?”

“Yay!” He giddied, bouncing innocently in his seat.

After a while of pondering and playing How many red cars can you count? with Taylor, the waiter came back with his apple juice and slid it to him, the glass cup dragging against the table.

“Are we ready to order?” He questioned.

You looked down at Taylor, gesturing for him to tell the waiter, but he looked up at you warily before tugging on your sleeve and shaking his head softly.

You sighed and turned to the waiter, “He’ll have the pancake combo.”

“Pancake… combo,” He scribbled on his notepad, “And for you?”

Your grip on the menu tightened as you shook your head, “Oh I’m-… I'm good.”

The waiter’s brow raised, his pen clicking softly as he stopped writing, “Are you sure?”

“…I’m fine,” You pressed.

He glanced at you, and for a second, a moment of understanding seemed to flash across his features, scribbling again on his notepad before smiling softly, “Your order will be out soon,” his tone steady as he looked at you, the glint in his eye letting on more than you knew.

After another round of waiting, and of course playing Taylor’s car game again, the waiter weaved skillfully through the crowd while carrying a large tray on one hand. Dodging loose children with ease and without dropping a single thing. He approached the table and took two plates off the tray, placing one down in front of you and the other in front of Taylor.

You blinked, staring at the food, then quickly pushed the plate away from you, “Wait- I didn’t order two meals-”

He leaned down and gently placed his hand on the plate to stop you from pushing it, “Don’t worry, it’s on the house.”

Your brows furrowed as you looked up at him, “What? Why…?”

A warm smile tugged at his lips, “Everyone needs a helping hand sometimes, y’know?”

Before you could protest any further he walked away, disappearing into the crowd just as fast as he appeared. The knot in your stomach slowly unraveled bit by bit as you looked down at the plate before completely unraveling. A warmth spread across your face, and almost involuntarily, you couldn’t help yourself from smiling like a child, repeating his words in your head.

Maybe everyone does need a helping hand sometimes.

Read the rest on Ao3!

[floralexchange]

subscribing to a fic isn’t enough I need the author to blast a bat signal into the night sky whenever they update

[floralexchange]

me when

sometimes you need dialogue tags and don't want to use the same four

[floralexchange]

hyperfixation please stay with me long enough to complete the project. hyperfixation do not fade. hyperfixation finish what you started for the love of god

[floralexchange]

How I learned to write smarter, not harder

(aka, how to write when you're hella ADHD lol)

A reader commented on my current long fic asking how I write so well. I replied with an essay of my honestly pretty non-standard writing advice (that they probably didn't actually want lol) Now I'm gonna share it with you guys and hopefully there's a few of you out there who will benefit from my past mistakes and find some useful advice in here. XD Since I started doing this stuff, which are all pretty easy changes to absorb into your process if you want to try them, I now almost never get writer's block.

The text of the original reply is indented, and I've added some additional commentary to expand upon and clarify some of the concepts.

As for writing well, I usually attribute it to the fact that I spent roughly four years in my late teens/early 20s writing text roleplay with a friend for hours every single day. Aside from the constant practice that provided, having a live audience immediately reacting to everything I wrote made me think a lot about how to make as many sentences as possible have maximum impact so that I could get that kind of fun reaction. (Which is another reason why comments like yours are so valuable to fanfic writers! <3) The other factors that have improved my writing are thus: 1. Writing nonlinearly. I used to write a whole story in order, from the first sentence onward. If there was a part I was excited to write, I slogged through everything to get there, thinking that it would be my reward once I finished everything that led up to that. It never worked. XD It was miserable. By the time I got to the part I wanted to write, I had beaten the scene to death in my head imagining all the ways I could write it, and it a) no longer interested me and b) could not live up to my expectations because I couldn't remember all my ideas I'd had for writing it. The scene came out mediocre and so did everything leading up to it. Since then, I learned through working on VN writing (I co-own a game studio and we have some visual novels that I write for) that I don't have to write linearly. If I'm inspired to write a scene, I just write it immediately. It usually comes out pretty good even in a first draft! But then I also have it for if I get more ideas for that scene later, and I can just edit them in. The scenes come out MUCH stronger because of this. And you know what else I discovered? Those scenes I slogged through before weren't scenes I had no inspiration for, I just didn't have any inspiration for them in that moment! I can't tell you how many times there was a scene I had no interest in writing, and then a week later I'd get struck by the perfect inspiration for it! Those are scenes I would have done a very mediocre job on, and now they can be some of the most powerful scenes because I gave them time to marinate. Inspiration isn't always linear, so writing doesn't have to be either!

Some people are the type that joyfully write linearly. I have a friend like this--she picks up the characters and just continues playing out the next scene. Her story progresses through the entire day-by-day lives of the characters; it never timeskips more than a few hours. She started writing and posting just eight months ago, she's about an eighth of the way through her planned fic timeline, and the content she has so far posted to AO3 for it is already 450,000 words long. But most of us are normal humans. We're not, for the most part, wired to create linearly. We consume linearly, we experience linearly, so we assume we must also create linearly. But actually, a lot of us really suffer from trying to force ourselves to create this way, and we might not even realize it. If you're the kind of person who thinks you need to carrot-on-a-stick yourself into writing by saving the fun part for when you finally write everything that happens before it: Stop. You're probably not a linear writer. You're making yourself suffer for no reason and your writing is probably suffering for it. At least give nonlinear writing a try before you assume you can't write if you're not baiting or forcing yourself into it!! Remember: Writing is fun. You do this because it's fun, because it's your hobby. If you're miserable 80% of the time you're doing it, you're probably doing it wrong!

2. Rereading my own work. I used to hate reading my own work. I wouldn't even edit it usually. I would write it and slap it online and try not to look at it again. XD Writing nonlinearly forced me to start rereading because I needed to make sure scenes connected together naturally and it also made it easier to get into the headspace of the story to keep writing and fill in the blanks and get new inspiration. Doing this built the editing process into my writing process--I would read a scene to get back in the headspace, dislike what I had written, and just clean it up on the fly. I still never ever sit down to 'edit' my work. I just reread it to prep for writing and it ends up editing itself. Many many scenes in this fic I have read probably a dozen times or more! (And now, I can actually reread my own work for enjoyment!) Another thing I found from doing this that it became easy to see patterns and themes in my work and strengthen them. Foreshadowing became easy. Setting up for jokes or plot points became easy. I didn't have to plan out my story in advance or write an outline, because the scenes themselves because a sort of living outline on their own. (Yes, despite all the foreshadowing and recurring thematic elements and secret hidden meanings sprinkled throughout this story, it actually never had an outline or a plan for any of that. It's all a natural byproduct of writing nonlinearly and rereading.)

Unpopular writing opinion time: You don't need to make a detailed outline.

Some people thrive on having an outline and planning out every detail before they sit down to write. But I know for a lot of us, we don't know how to write an outline or how to use it once we've written it. The idea of making one is daunting, and the advice that it's the only way to write or beat writer's block is demoralizing. So let me explain how I approach "outlining" which isn't really outlining at all.

I write in a Notion table, where every scene is a separate table entry and the scene is written in the page inside that entry. I do this because it makes writing nonlinearly VASTLY more intuitive and straightforward than writing in a single document. (If you're familiar with Notion, this probably makes perfect sense to you. If you're not, imagine something a little like a more contained Google Sheets, but every row has a title cell that opens into a unique Google Doc when you click on it. And it's not as slow and clunky as the Google suite lol) (Edit from the future: I answered an ask with more explanation on how I use Notion for non-linear writing here.) When I sit down to begin a new fic idea, I make a quick entry in the table for every scene I already know I'll want or need, with the entries titled with a couple words or a sentence that describes what will be in that scene so I'll remember it later. Basically, it's the most absolute bare-bones skeleton of what I vaguely know will probably happen in the story.

Then I start writing, wherever I want in the list. As I write, ideas for new scenes and new connections and themes will emerge over time, and I'll just slot them in between the original entries wherever they naturally fit, rearranging as necessary, so that I won't forget about them later when I'm ready to write them. As an example, my current long fic started with a list of roughly 35 scenes that I knew I wanted or needed, for a fic that will probably be around 100k words (which I didn't know at the time haha). As of this writing, it has expanded to 129 scenes. And since I write them directly in the page entries for the table, the fic is actually its own outline, without any additional effort on my part. As I said in the comment reply--a living outline!

This also made it easier to let go of the notion that I had to write something exactly right the first time. (People always say you should do this, but how many of us do? It's harder than it sounds! I didn't want to commit to editing later! I didn't want to reread my work! XD) I know I'm going to edit it naturally anyway, so I can feel okay giving myself permission to just write it approximately right and I can fix it later. And what I found from that was that sometimes what I believed was kind of meh when I wrote it was actually totally fine when I read it later! Sometimes the internal critic is actually wrong. 3. Marinating in the headspace of the story. For the first two months I worked on [fic], I did not consume any media other than [fandom the fic is in]. I didn't watch, read, or play anything else. Not even mobile games. (And there wasn't really much fan content for [fandom] to consume either. Still isn't, really. XD) This basically forced me to treat writing my story as my only source of entertainment, and kept me from getting distracted or inspired to write other ideas and abandon this one.

As an aside, I don't think this is a necessary step for writing, but if you really want to be productive in a short burst, I do highly recommend going on a media consumption hiatus. Not forever, obviously! Consuming media is a valuable tool for new inspiration, and reading other's work (both good and bad, as long as you think critically to identify the differences!) is an invaluable resource for improving your writing.

When I write, I usually lay down, close my eyes, and play the scene I'm interested in writing in my head. I even take a ten-minute nap now and then during this process. (I find being in a state of partial drowsiness, but not outright sleepiness, makes writing easier and better. Sleep helps the brain process and make connections!) Then I roll over to the laptop next to me and type up whatever I felt like worked for the scene. This may mean I write half a sentence at a time between intervals of closed-eye-time XD

People always say if you're stuck, you need to outline.

What they actually mean by that (whether they realize it or not) is that if you're stuck, you need to brainstorm. You need to marinate. You don't need to plan what you're doing, you just need to give yourself time to think about it!

What's another framing for brainstorming for your fic? Fantasizing about it! Planning is work, but fantasizing isn't.

You're already fantasizing about it, right? That's why you're writing it. Just direct that effort toward the scenes you're trying to write next! Close your eyes, lay back, and fantasize what the characters do and how they react.

And then quickly note down your inspirations so you don't forget, haha.

And if a scene is so boring to you that even fantasizing about it sucks--it's probably a bad scene.

If it's boring to write, it's going to be boring to read. Ask yourself why you wanted that scene. Is it even necessary? Can you cut it? Can you replace it with a different scene that serves the same purpose but approaches the problem from a different angle? If you can't remove the troublesome scene, what can you change about it that would make it interesting or exciting for you to write?

And I can't write sitting up to save my damn life. It's like my brain just stops working if I have to sit in a chair and stare at a computer screen. I need to be able to lie down, even if I don't use it! Talking walks and swinging in a hammock are also fantastic places to get scene ideas worked out, because the rhythmic motion also helps our brain process. It's just a little harder to work on a laptop in those scenarios. XD

In conclusion: Writing nonlinearly is an amazing tool for kicking writer's block to the curb. There's almost always some scene you'll want to write. If there isn't, you need to re-read or marinate.

Or you need to use the bathroom, eat something, or sleep. XD Seriously, if you're that stuck, assess your current physical condition. You might just be unable to focus because you're uncomfortable and you haven't realized it yet.

Anyway! I hope that was helpful, or at least interesting! XD Sorry again for the text wall. (I think this is the longest comment reply I've ever written!)

And same to you guys on tumblr--I hope this was helpful or at least interesting. XD Reblogs appreciated if so! (Maybe it'll help someone else!)