#(I do put a sticky note on the title page of every book of the approx date - or at least the year - it takes place tho)

[bisexualblckcanary]

The final expansion begins.

[lz-didyounotice]

Baking weekends : The surprise

Those gifs do not belong to me.

Heyyyyy! How are you lots ? As promised, here comes another episode of the baking week ends ! This follows up the event of "An hymne to love", as well as the last espisode, "Kiss the cook".

Anyway... Hope you enjoy !

Froggit-

Warning : there's a lot of fluff, mention of making out in the tardis. English is not my first language.

--------------------------

The grocery store seemed to be way too full for a Saturday morning. Paying for the few articles you had in your basket, you got out, frantically searching for your car. There was so little time until the doctor and Clara came back from another of their adventures.

Driving as fast as the law allowed you, you pulled up to your small cottage, sprinting toward your house, paper bags in hand. Your coat was quickly put on a hanger as your shoes went flying in the entry. 

Washing your hands conscientiously, you tried to get your plan straight one more time, making sure nothing was missing. 

You had wanted to surprise the Doctor for a long while now. Back when Amy and Rorry were still traveling with you, a brilliant idea had come to you in the form of a red recipe book. The cover was old and titled with circles and other intricate designs you soon realized, was Gallifreyan. Having seen the notes the doctor tended to leave in the console room for repairs the Tardis needed, it was only ever so obvious.

For the sake of this recipe, you had to go to small markets while on another planet, wanting to find every single ingredient of what the doctor had stated to be his favorite dessert back home. Finally opening the book, you couldn’t help yourself, and shed a tear as you saw the numerous yellow sticky notes on every page, annotations left by Donna, your previous self older sister.

"How can I be sure he ain't as rotten as the last one?" 

Donna was upset to be keeped from such an important part of your life. If you were honest, you were sad to not be able to share it, but it was either that or losing her once more.

On that day, you had asked for her help, but she wanted to know more about that brilliant 

stranger you said changed you in better ways.

"Do you reckon I would be baking for him if he weren't important?"

"Cor blimey, you two had been goin’ out for bleedin’ three years, and I still never met the bloke!"

“I told you he traveled an awful lot.” you let out passing by the radio and changing the station.

“Just spill it if he's scared of meeting mom.” She let out with a small laugh. You could only do the same, bumping her with your hip as you did so.

You missed her dearly, her and her sassy comebacks. Since your new “Regeneration” you haven't been able to see her. What would she even say ? She didn’t know this version of you, you didn’t even look the same, and putting her life at risk would be irresponsible. You had just hopped that may be one day you would meet her once more. 

Putting up some energetic music, you wore your apron and got to work, sleeves put up to the elbow. The adventure only truly started now, something you waited so long to put up.

--------------------------

The doctor and Clara had been off all day, the brunette insisting on going a little longer, still waiting for your signal. The timelord was starting to be suspicious of Claras behavior, wondering what got his companion so energized for such a long adventure, he even was starting to wonder if she wasn’t a clone trying to keep him from earth longer than normal. 

But like the over-excited traveler he was, he couldn’t put down the offer, for all he knew, he was expected back at your cottage by the end of afternoon. Today was a busy day for you, and even if he wanted to have taken you with them, you insisted for them to spend some time together. It saddened him of course, none the less he understood today wasn’t a good day to go off with her.

Right now, the doctor was admiring a beautiful fez he had found within the small shop he and Clara came across, visiting a brand new planet. Soon enough he felt his shoulder being tapped on by the said girl, a tired smile visibly drawing itself on her lips. Asking the doctor to take her home, Clara had just closed her phone, saving it in her back pocket.  

After buying the fez, he seemed proud as he pushed the levers on the console. Rocking his new hat, Clara only could wonder if he would ever come across one without having to put it on. Even if she didn’t dream of seeing him less happy, she wanted the surprise that awaited him back home would light him up even brighter. 

With the Brunette back at her apartment, the doctor had no patience in waiting some more and launched the Tardis. Soon, his foot touched the vast landing of grass, still illuminated as the sun slowly hid behind the clouds.

Without any hesitation, his hand found the ringing bell of the small cottage, his heart pounding harder and harder as the seconds got by. 

Passing your head by the now unlocked window, the doctor seemed to ignite, happy to finally be back. “Darling, the door is open! Come on in!” Your hair was a mess, your glasses hanging from around your neck, beautifully portrayed by the light of the setting sun highlighting your figure. Smiling at you, the doctor entered the house, coming practically 10 seconds later face to face with you. “Well, welcome home Sweetheart”.

--------------------------

“I told you to not cheat! close those beautiful eyes before I smack you.”

The doctor was too curious to wait for the surprise you had put up for him. And right now, all he wanted was to take a tiny peak. But knowing how serious you could be about those things, he didn’t jocked around long before closing his eyes.

Soon you entered the room, a beautiful cake in your hands. Its sunny color, outshining the yellow of your apron. Slowing placing the cake before the Doctor. You gently brushed his shoulder. “Doctor, you can open them… ”

Finally letting go of his face, the man thought he was dreaming. Before him stood something that was supposed to be long gone, never to be seen again. And as he admired the wonderful pâtisserie, he couldn’t help but notice it wasn't just any Gallifreyan cake; it was a homemade one. 

Both his hearts skipped a beat as he realized the significance of the gesture. Turning to his wife with a mixture of surprise and gratitude, he couldn't help but smile.

"Did you...?" he started, his voice filled with warmth and affection.

You couldn’t help but beamed with pride when you saw the love in his eyes. "Yes, Doctor. I thought since you couldn't go back to Gallifrey yet, I'd bring a little piece of it to you."

The Doctor's eyes shimmered with unshed tears as he looked at the cake, overwhelmed by the thoughtfulness of your gesture. At this moment, all he could think of was how much he loved you, and how much you meant.

Taking a deep breath to steady his emotions, the Doctor rose from his chair, wrapping both arms around you, burying his head in the crook of your neck, trying to hide his tears as they got out of control. Pulling you into a tight yet comforting hug, all he could muster was a soft “Thank you” thick with all the love he could let out. "This... means more to me than you could ever know."

Your hand was now passing on his back, soothing him as much as you could. Your other tangled itself with his soft hair as you stood there for another minute. You never wanted this embrace to end. But as you pulled slightly away, you could only see how much the doctor truly meant every word.

With a gentle smile, you reached down, your hand slowly cradling his cheek as you leaned in softly, closing the distance between them. Your breath mingled, warm yet sweet as your lips brushed together in a soft yet passionate kiss. But as you parted, the doctor only tried to reach for your lips, making you snort softly at the surprised look on his face.

“I do believe we still have to taste the cake, now don’t we?”

“I- … yes”

“We will continue… this after…-”

--------------------------

And to say you had outdone yourself was an understatement. You would have expected it to taste funny with the numerous strange ingredients you had to add. It was heavenly, and by the doctor's face, you could only tell he was enjoying every second of it.

“Is it any good ?” Serving yourself another portion.

"Blimey, love! This... this is fantastic! Haven't had a nibble like this in eons... It's not just good, it's utterly brilliant! Delicious doesn't even begin to describe it!" He answered, still trying to shove more cake in his mouth.

Your cheeks flared up, genuinely happy, and proud you had done such good work. In the beginning, you feared it wouldn’t have the same taste as the one that existed back home, and you felt relieved that the doctor could recognize a fond memory in it.

--------------------------

It was safe to say, the cake did not survive long enough. You and the doctor, now cuddling in the softness of the Tardis covers.  

After the cake had been devoured, you had to have a turn. The thankful kisses you gave one another, turned into a heated session of making out against the tardis console, his fingerprints still lingering on your inner thighs. And just like that it was you and him against the world once more. 

His fingers passed through your short ginger hair as a comfortable silence installed itself. You looked up at him and could tell he had some questions about the whole surprise.

“You have a lot of questions don’t you ?”

“I always do…”

“Ask away then, I know you’re curious.”

Shifting slightly closer, the doctor leaned onto his elbow, making his face right above you. “How long did this take you ?”

Your hand reaching out for his jaw, you pulled a small but sad grin. “I started trying back when Amy was still traveling with us. Unfortunately, I died shortly after so… been planning longer than our wedding. ” 

The doctor laughed slightly with you, remembering the chaotic moment. “And the recipe? Where did you find it? The Tardis database is still written in Gallifreyan as far as I’m aware of- ”

“No such trouble when you have learned to read it.”

“What..?”

“Why so surprised? Did you think I would traverse the universe for eons and not try to embrace your culture? What sort of wife would I be ?”

And just when he thought he couldn’t love you more, he did. His hearts swelled with pride as he looked into your eyes. Caressing your cheek, he kissed your forehead, brushing away some strands of hair still in the way.

“You truly are remarkable (Y/N).....”

“It goes both ways my Bowtie maniac.”

And as the sun rose again on the Tardis, the two lovers intertwined once more, laying one against another as close as you could, afraid time might slip by and take you both apart.

You couldn’t have dreamed of a better outcome.

--------------------------

Bonus : 

“I knew Clara was up to something!” Complained the time lord only now realizing why his companion was so indecisive about where to land.

“Only figured now she had to keep you busy while I was baking?”

“That’s an awful trickery-”

“As far as I’m aware, if you hadn't been off, you wouldn’t have this wonderful fez of yours, now would you ?” Turning around him you swiftly took the red hat off his head, putting it on your own.

“Oi, mine-” He quickly tried to retrieve it, but knowing you it could be easy or involve a lot of running.

Dodging his hand, you took the opportunity to run off in the Tardis corridors singing “Nope, mine now!” as you ran across the control room.

“(Y/N)! ” The doctor was slightly panicked but it was just a matter of time before all of it evolved into laughter. 

[duckprintspress]

Meet Aether Beyond the Binary Contributor Catherine E. Green

This is it: the final contributor spotlight for our crowdfunding anthology Aether Beyond the Binary, featuring 17 aetherpunk stories starring non-binary characters! Now, by going through the campaign updates, you can read biographies of all seventeen authors featured in this anthology and read excerpts from their works! We hope you’ll do so, and love what you read! We’ll be putting up a single post linking all the spotlights on Tuesday (January 23rd) so be on the lookout!

The crowdfunding campaign for Duck Prints Press’s next anthology Aether Beyond the Binaryends in 4 days and we are still $2,000 from our funding goal. We’d love your helping ensuring this project succeeds: so signal boost our posts or become a backer TODAY!

About Catherine: Catherine E. Green (pronouns: xe/xem/xyr or they/them/their) is an agender person, one who’s had an on-again, off-again love affair with writing. Xe began writing when xe was a wee thing, when xyr other major pastimes were playing xyr mother’s NES and roughhousing with the boys next door. It’s only in the past few years that they have begun writing consistently and publishing their writing, fanfiction and original writing alike, leading to their first published short story titled “Of Loops and Weaves.” 

Outside of writing, xe is a collector of books and sleep debt and an avid admirer of the cosmos. Playing video games, reading a variety of fiction genres (primarily fantasy, queer romance, and manga and graphic novels of all kinds), and working on wrangling their own personal data archiving projects occupy most of their free time. Xe is also proud to announce xyr graduation from a crocheting a single scarf to crocheting several scarves and other projects.

Links: Bluesky

This is Catherine’s first time contributing as a writer to a Duck Prints Press anthology, but xe were an editor on our anthology Aim For The Heart: Queer Fanworks Inspired by Alexandre Dumas’s “The Three Musketeers”, and xe are also an editor for Aether Beyond the Binary. Xyr short story Of Loops and Weaves is linked above.

An Interview with Catherine E. Green

How did you pick the name you create under?

Catherine is my meatspace name. The E. Green is an homage to my grandmother, who is herself a writer and poet and someone I look to for writing advice and inspiration. She was my first beta when I was first starting to write, and I cannot thank her enough for her loving support.

Are you a pantser, a planner, or a planster? What’s your process look like?

I’m somewhere in between a pantser and a planster. I usually go into writing something with some overarching idea (like a theme or a shape of a scene) and begin the actual act of writing with setting the scene. However, if the words aren’t coming, before I resolve to try again another day, I try writing something somewhere in the middle of the narrative – just to try to trick my brain into cooperating with me. This will sometimes lead to some internal consistencies in my writing (which one reason I love editing so much – love, love, love it), but it gets words on the page, which is often my biggest hurdle.

What do the phrases “writer’s block” or “art block” mean to you?

Writer’s block, to me, is when the filters my anxiety has built up in my mind sufficient block my creative output. It’s when I question every word I put on the page to the point where nothing I write feels worth keeping, much less moving on from. I don’t know that it’s ever something I’ll be able to work through, but I’m trying our being kinder with myself and addressing my mental health issues to see if both combined help reduce how long my writer’s block lasts for. Here’s hoping!

What are your favorite resources and tools for your craft? 

iPad with a magic keyboard, Google Docs, and either Notepad or some sticky notes for things I want to bear in mind while I’m writing. I’ve tried Scrivener and similar software, but I’ve never vibed with any of them.

What is your “dream project” – the thing you’d see as the culmination of your work as a creator?

I wrote a short story during my undergraduate studies that still have a fondness for to this day. It’s contemporary fantasy-type thing set in a lonely, not-quite-haunted cul-de-sac, where the lights and people seem to fade in and out of existence. It’s about identity, companionship among people who come from very different backgrounds, and the importance of language in how it shapes identity and relationships. I want to expand the work into a novel at some point, if I can, but we’ll see.

Tell us about your pet(s).

I have a 6-year-old tuxedo cat named Yennefer (yes, the reference). My brother and I adopted her a couple years ago from a small rural animal shelter. At the time, the shelter had given her the name Jennifer, so Yennefer was hardy a jump at all. And, goodness, does she have the personality to match. She’s my energetic boo-boo head, who likes to sleep on my bookshelves and knock over my coffee, and I love her to bits.

What’s the best advice you’ve ever received?

Try to write a little bit every day, even if it’s only a hundred words. The period of time when I was writing everyday was when I felt the best about my writing and when I felt like I was most capable shutting down the filters in my brain that make it difficult to write.

If you could give one piece of advice to a new creator who came to you for help, what would that advice be?

1) Read, read, read. Read a little bit of everything: fiction, non-fiction, fantasy, mystery, science fiction, history, etc. Read about writing. Read works by people whose style you vibe with and those by people whose style you don’t. Every bit of reading helps build a scaffold onto which you can hang your own ideas and words, and having a more stable scaffolding, and more stable foundation can only help your writing improve.

2) Learn how to talk about your writing, especially once you get to a point where you’re engaging the services of alphas, betas, and editors. The writer and the editor work best together when there can be open dialogue, and open dialogue is only possible when all parties involved can talk about the work in a productive way.

3) Figure out the kind of environment you work best in, whether that includes music or white noise or nothing, what kind of device you prefer typing on or if you prefer hand-writing, whether you work best in long stretches every so often or in short, frequent stretches, and so on. Try to craft your perfect writing space.

4) Writing is a skill one can work on improving over the course of an entire life. There is no end-point at which you are suddenly a good writer. Every word you write is a small step toward better your writing in one way or another, so try not to become too frustrated with yourself if you don’t feel like you’re improving. You are—I promise.

Catherine’s Contribution to Aether Beyond the Binary

Title: To Hold the World Close

Excerpt:

Very much unlike the typical saying “Sending along warm thoughts” and its various approximations, which often convey a rather intangible, often perfunctory, sentiment, Adrienne surrounds the swirling mass of fear, embarrassment, and grief with a warmth of xyr own. It’s the warmth of a community coming together to bring someone up from their knees; it’s the wondrous comfort of a light breeze and a spot of shade on an otherwise murderous hot summer day; it’s the pleasant touch of a loved one. I can’t be with you, my dear, not in person, but please take some measure of comfort from me, if you can, and seek out those who love you.

[aerial-letter]

the most frustrating thing about lesbian feminism is how every time I try to read a book by a lesbian feminist, she has so many citations to so many other books, papers, and journal articles that are so tantalizing and compelling that I have to put down the book every other sentence to look up the papers referenced in the endnotes on archive.org and then THOSE papers also contain a thousand citations to even MORE fascinating pieces of lesbian feminist literature and then I inevitably stumble upon some vast treasure trove of archived lesbian feminist periodicals which themselves are referencing like ancient tomes of female wisdom that I can’t believe exist and names of historically significant women contributing to the vast otherworld knowledge of lesbian history and THEN I have to cry about how much lesbian knowledge has been lost or destroyed but how thankful I am to have access to what we do have and then I have to write an entry about it in my journal and THEN I have to go back and finish the first book I started and I immediately find ANOTHER endnote referencing some paper with a title which is verbatim a thought I had the day before and wrote down in my journal wondering if I’m the only one to think it and of course not so of course I simply must drop everything to find this article and of course the book it was published in is some obscure out of print volume that takes me hours to track down and by this time I’ve accidentally started two more additional books related to the topic of the first book and they are piling up next to me and I am running out of bookmarks and sticky notes to mark the pages and then ANOTHER footnote catches my eye and

[mccnstruck]

no book can put my love for you into words

characters - kazuha x gn!reader

warnings - none!

a/n - you could tell what game i’m playing a lot based off of the name in the made up story ,,,,, i really want kazuha to be real i want annotated books which shows how badly someone is in love with me :((( anyways, enjoy!

-kazuha whos love language is literal books

- for any milestone, whether its your anniversary or your birthday, he gifts you an annotated book. It fills with sticky notes and pen smudges and everything that made kazuha the dork he is. in every title page, was always some color code in the front, with a special note included.

“to my love, who could sit with me as the world was collapsing and i’d be happy to be in their arms.” you smiled, as you instantly knew this book was going to be dystopian based.

- his books filled with different colors, highlighted notes, and pen leaking onto the pages before. you could see his thoughts engulf you into the story, and you would find some poorly drawn emoji, causing you to giggle.

- the times you find a sticky note, it contained of his analysis on some aspect on the book. whether it on how rushed the main character’s and love interest’s relationship was, or an observation of a character’s action, it never failed to make you think more deeply.

- when you find pink sticky tabs, you feels kazuha’s love take you into a warm embrace, as the highlighted words held such meaning to it that you would never find other wise.

“‘ Mari screamed at him, the moonlight letting her glow in the spotlight. “I’ve loved you for so long! I don’t know why you always doubt yourself, saying you’re not enough for my love? Why are you always making decisions for me?! Why can’t i love the person I want? It’s always sacrifice to find ME a better person, but i wanted YOU!’

Hero snapped his head back, watching Mari’s hair flow in the threads of the wind. And in the moment, he knew he made a mistake. He was right about not being the best person for Mari. But, he was what Mari wanted. And who was he to deny her request, if he was trying to make her happy in the first place?”

you look at kazuha’s scribbling. the entirety of the paragraph was highlighted, as a pink sticky tab was attached on the side. you couldn’t help but giggle when you saw hearts scattered on the page and a “chefs kiss” written on the corner.

you shiver, as you felt a kiss to your shoulder. “enjoying the read, i see?”

he looks over you, and smiles. you feel a kiss on your forehead, and he walks away before you could get distracted once more.

- at the end of the book, one of two thing are written. either there is a haiku written by him, or a note saying a variety of words of encouragement.

you glance over the sticky note.

"i love you dove, make sure to wipe your tears with a tissue <3"

you wipe your teared-up face. you didn't think that last chapter was gonna emotionally destroy you.

"dove, what happened?"

you look up at kazuha, as he walks up to you in distress. when he finds the book at the last page, he softly laughs. "i see."

he wipes his thumbs underneath your eyes, and presses his lips on your cheek. "do you wanna tell me what happened in the last chapter?"

you nod and lay down on his lap as he listens to you ramble about the book, wiping your tears in the process.

- library dates are a must in your relationship. as regular visitors of your local library, you both are acquainted with most of the librarians, and they are acquainted with the snickering and the softs gazes held behind the fiction aisle.

your finger glazes across the books, as the number in your head starts to fade from your memory.

"326.75, or was it 326.57? i don't remember....crap, i don't think i remember."

when you turn to go back to the computer, a hand grabs your wrist and pulls you to another aisle.

"what the hell- kazuha?"

he grins and intertwins your fingers into his, thumbs glazing over your hand.

you eye him suspiciously. "what....what are you planning?"

he distorts his face, mocking distress. "what? can't i look at the love of my life with no reason?"

"not in a library, no."

he leans towards your face, his lips brushing over yours. "what's the exception to a library?"

you tighten your hold on kazuha's hands. "a library isn't a place for your devious acts- mmm!"

his lips captured yours before you could fully finish your sentence, and you couldn't help but succumb into the sensation. his hands travelled up your arms, and finally landed a place around your neck, tilting it to give him a better hold. your knees felt weak, and your face felt hot, the number in your head was completly forgotten. you'd almost forgot you were in a library too with the way he holds you, had you not heard footsteps come closer. you push him away as you hide your burning face, pretending to find a book.

you hear a voice call to you both. "you're finding everything ok?"

kazuha turns to the librarian and smiles. "yep! we're fine, thank you."

the librarian walks away, and you turn to each other and softly laugh, the sensation of each other still remaining on your lips.

kazuha,,, what a guy,,,,

reposting or plagiarizing of my works is not allowed under any circumstances.

[littleaclove]

give us the aizawa x avid!reader RN i am not kidding 🔫😫/j

Character: Aizawa

Prompt: Him dating avid!reader

OOOH DO I HAVE THE HCS FOR YOU

so when you an aizawa get together he’s like k i n d a familiar with your love of reading (whether it be fanfics, hand held books, etc.) but he doesn’t really invest in seeing the full extent

but he still like gifts you books every now and then

yk like picking from genres he thinks you’d like

BUT ONCE YOU TWO MOVE IN TOGETHER

AND HE SEES HOW MUCH TIME YOU FUCKING INVEST IN THIS-

omg he’s thinking 1. what in the actual f u c k how much have they read in the span of t o d a y (yes i’m talking from experience because i’m either reading a hand held or more commonly read ‘Yesterday Upon The Stair’ by PitViporOfDoom) and 2. are they ok because last time i checked having this much emotional attachment to fictional people isnt h e a l t h y (how are we feeling out there tonight- yeahhh i am not feeling good-)

so if you have more hand held books than you know what to do with like myself then this man will legit make you go through them and still about ¾ of your collection in boxes because he r e f u s e s to get more than one bookshelf to clutter

but he also secretly thinks it’s absolutely adorable how much you read-

ESPECIALLY IF YOURE A LIBRARIAN OR SOMETHING-

like he’ll go to your work on his lunch breaks when he’s ‘sleeping’ so that he can see you throughout the day

He also does not let ✨presentation michael✨ anywhere near your workplace because of how, even without his quirk, naturally loud he is

also ✨mic wazowski✨ w i l l gossip with you while you’re working which both of you have gotten in trouble for a multitude of times

OH AND AIZAWA WILL JUST COME TO THE DESK TO ASK WHERE CERTAIN NOVELS HE KNOWS YOU LIKE (when there’s a different worker there or just around the place) AND HE’LL READ THEM SO THAT YOU TWO CAN TALK ABOUT THEM TOGETHER

this man will leave you lines from books he’s read that makes him think of you on little sticky notes with the book and author on it (also sometimes who said it if he feels like being f a n c y)

on that note he’ll also give you books that he’s read and written little notes and stuff on the margins and throughout the pages of the book

OH AND IN A BLANK SPOT ON THE PAPER TITLE PAGE OF THE BOOK HE’LL WRITE A LITTLE SENTIMENT TO YOU AND ITS SO CUTE

midnight and mic will always make fun of him for doing so

they also think it’s a d o r a b l e if you do the sticky note thing back and put it somewhere for him to find-

he loves it too dw

A/n: OMG NO CUZ I LOVE THIS- also thank you for my very first ask- LIKE I NEVER THOUGHT THE DAY WOULD COME THAT SOMEONE WOULD SEND ME ONE- yes i’m being dramatic but iDc i’m excited (also sorry this was more library/hand held books but that’s what i’ve been having brainrot over so i could redo it if you guys want)

[santigarcia]

Blue Book 📘

Human Touch Part Five

Part One | Part Two | Part Three | Part Four

word count: 1.6k

rating: T for sexual references, one mention of daddy kink, drunk Nathan

summary: You tell Nathan you love him and his reaction isn’t what you expected. 

a/n: thank you all so much for reading this series! let me know what yall think! thank you to @punkpascal and @sergeantkane​ as always!!

It’s rare for you to wake up in the mornings and Nathan be beside you. He’s almost always up early and working, picking up from where he left off the night before. He works hard, and you’re not entirely sure what he’s working on. Just lots of code and then he’ll disappear into his lab for hours at a time.

So, when you wake up next to him, you can’t help but smile. You curl into him, his body warm in the chilled room. He stirs from your movement and you whisper an apology. His eyes peel open and there’s a soft grin on his face.

“G’morning,” he says, rubbing his eyes.

“Good morning,” you smile and lean up to kiss his cheek. He smiles into the kiss, but his eyes have closed again. He’s still very sleepy.

He’s so cute like this, so relaxed. It makes your heart hurt how much you love him.

And it slips out.

“I love you, Nathan,” you whisper. His once sleep heavy eyes open. You say it again with him looking at you, a little louder this time. But he heard you the first. He sits up and reaches for his glasses. He mumbles something and disappears into his computer room and closes the door behind him.

And it stings.

Every question now comes into your mind. Does he not love you back? Does he love you but just didn’t say it? Did you say it too fast? Was it the wrong time? Is he not interested in love? What if he breaks up with you?

You stay in bed for longer than you should letting these thoughts repeat over and over in your head.

What if he’s not capable of love?

You sit up and shake your head, as if trying to shake the thoughts out of your mind. You decide something to eat will help for a moment at least. But when you make your way to the kitchen and take a bite of something, your stomach lurches.

You go sit out in the living room with a glass of water. You curl up on the couch and you feel cold. It’s not cold in the room, but cold from memories. What if they mean nothing now?

You need something to distract yourself. There’s a book on the coffee table. It’s always there. The cover has fallen off from being read so many times. The actual title of the book is lost on you because it’s been blocked out by a black marker. The book is full of notes, you can tell it’s Nathan’s handwriting. Blue ink in tight capital letters are etched across the pages. You start reading but soon you just start to read Nathan’s notes.

It’s somehow a diary of his mind mixed with quotes he likes from whatever book this is.

Near the book in the middle, you see a note he’s written at the bottom. It says, “I love her, but I can’t tell her.” When did he write this? Is it about you? You’ve seen him write in this book before. Did he ever think you’d pick it up? It’s always on this table in plain sight.

You get the feeling you weren’t supposed to see this, and you put it down.

A shower, that’s a good idea. Clear your head. You’re doing your best to avoid Nathan. You’re too embarrassed and scared of what he might say.

You decide to shower in ‘your’ room. The room that has all your stuff in it, but you never sleep in. You shower, and then decide for a nap.

But you can’t sleep.

You reach for the remote and turn the TV on. Which is something you’ve never really done. The TV channels are all camera feeds throughout the house. And you gasp to find this discovery. You land on the channel of Nathan in his lab. He’s leaning against the counter and he’s drinking heavily. There are several empty bottles scattered around him.

You can’t help but feel guilty.

He downs the contents of one of the bottles, and he drops it on the table. You watch in horror as the glass shatters. He slams his hand down on the table, and you quickly see red. You won’t watch this anymore.

You weave your way through this maze of a house and bang on his lab door. Surprisingly, it opens, and you run inside. Nathan, in a drunken stupor, is holding onto his hand, not sure of what to do it seems.

“Come on,” you grab his arm and drag him away from the shards. You take him to a bathroom. You close the toilet lid and make him sit down. You reach for a first aid kit under the sink and start to clean off his hand.

“Ow! Damn it!” he yells when you run his hand under water from the sink.

“Nathan,” you scold him, “Let me do this.”

You know he’s still drunk because he starts to ramble. He’s spouting off poetry and slurring the lines.

  Now folds the lily all her sweetness up,

And slips into the bosom of the lake.

So, fold thyself, my dearest, thou, and slip

Into my bosom and be lost in me.

You hold his gaze for a moment, and he sighs heavily. You know what’s on his lips. You can tell by the look on his face what he wants to say, but he can’t find the words.

“Nathan.”

He breaks. His voice falters and he nods, “I do, I love you.”

Your throat feels tight and tears well up in your eyes. You can’t help but let out a small giggle, of course him telling you he loves you couldn’t be normal. He’s drunk off his ass sitting in the bathroom while you pull a glass shard out of his hand.

Luckily, it was only the one piece. And when his hand is wrapped and cleaned, you make him go to bed.

He’s out like a light and lightly snoring the second he hits the pillow. You kiss the top of his head and leave him to sleep. You return to the living room, feeling giddy with your new information. You grab the blue inked book again and find the page where he’d written that he loves you. You smooth your hand over the ink. Something about touching the words makes them sink in deeper, he’s written them on your heart.

You must have fallen asleep because you jolt awake when you hear his voice. He’s drinking one of his green health shakes and has a towel around his shoulders.

“Hi,” you greet him and sit up with a yawn. The book is still in your hands.

“Hey,” he chuckles softly and sits down opposite you. He takes a drink before setting down the glass on the coffee table. “I’m sorry about earlier. That you had to clean up my mess.”

“That’s what you do isn’t it? Help out the one you love?”

His eyes hold yours for a moment, his lip twitches. He reaches up to scratch his beard, and he rubs the top of his head.

“Did you mean it?” you ask him, suddenly worried now it was only a drunk confession and not one he meant to slip out. “That you love me back?”

“Of course, I meant it,” he leans forward and takes the book from your hands. He sees what page you’re on and he taps the words with his finger. “See?”

“When did you write this?”

“Don’t remember.”  A lie.

“When did you write it? Nathan!” You laugh, you know his tells.

“Look, shit, I wrote it like two days after I met you. But I thought it was just a high from the fucking. But it wasn’t. You came into my mind and never left. You know, I’ve started a sticky note wall for you now.”

Your heart hammers in your chest, and you feel the tears back in your eyes.

“Can I read them?”

“Maybe,” he chuckles, ears tinged pink again. “I mean maybe, cuz my handwriting it shit.”

You share a laugh for a moment before it falls into a comfortable silence. You stand and curl into his lap and he sighs with content wrapping his arms around you.

“How’s your hand?”

“Stings a little, but it’s fine. It’s my head that’s fuckin’ killing me. I got so shitfaced. I didn’t know how to tell you.”

“I knew, or well I hoped. But I wanted to know.”

“Crazy as it sounds, I’ve never done this. Not like this.”

“The day drinking clued me in,” you smile. And he groans a little, touching his head.

“I used to drink all night to turn off my mind before you came here.”

“So, I’m your alcohol?” you tease and snuggle into him deeper.

“Bustin’ my balls tonight damn,” he kisses the top of your head. “You’re my source of calm.”

“What is this book anyway?” you ask flipping it over, still trying to find out what it is.

“Oh, it’s 1984.”

“And you’re Big Brother, right? Or maybe….Big Daddy?”

“Oh, fuck I like that,” he purrs. You can feel him writhe under you. He’s getting turned on.

“Wait, hold on,” you laugh, “can I eat first?”

“If I can eat your pussy under the table.”

“Works for me,” you smile and kiss his lips. “I love you. I love you.”

“I love you,” he sighs, still tasting the words on his tongue. He decides it’s a good taste.

Before you get up to eat (and be eaten) you pick up the blue pen next to the book on the table. Nathan watches you write “I love you” next to his confession. You lightly blow on the ink, so it dries before you close the book. A new chapter of your lives has begun with three simple words.

xx

tagging: @pascal-isaac, @wasicskosgirl, @velvetmel0n, @huliabitch, @shadow-assassin-blix, @writefightandflightclub, @aellynera, @softboywriting, @veuliee2, @spider-starry, @mylifeliterally, @millllenniawrites, @ntlmundy, @foxilayde, @writingletterstothefire, @mandoplease, @anetteaneta, @feelmyroarrrr, @artsymaddie, @shakespeareanwannabe, @poedameronsbeard, @deanfanatic67​, @magicsuperheroes​, @phoenixhalliwell​, @that-one-weird-one​, @mariesackler, @yourbucky084​, @woakiees​

[ettawritesnstudies]

How I outline!

Helllloooooo it’s been ages since I promised to do this and I’m SO sorry it’s so late but I finally got around to actually writing this post today so here it is :P @abalonetea​ and @inkwell-attitude, I think you both wanted to see this! (sorry to everyone else about the long post incoming!) DISCLAIMER: This is just my process, I’m not claiming it’s the best or that everyone should do this or that it works for every project. I don’t do this for short or simple stories, only for novel-length WIPs with complicated facets, but the process *can* be distilled for something less complex. 

Step 1: Brain Dumping

At this point, I probably have some semblance of a premise and characters for this idea, and possibly also an endgame idea of where I want to take the story but not middle or clue of how to get from point A to point B. This is where you collect ALL the thoughts. Usually, I do this between phone notes and a document on my laptop for brainstorming, but you can use voice memos or whatever else works. I’ve drawn ideas on my hand in pen during a lifeguarding shift before and just taken pictures of my inked-over arm before I have to jump into the pool again. It happens. In any case, you have ideas.

Step 2: Put it in some semblance of order by using a map

[Image ID] a blurry picture of a whiteboard covered in ideas in various covered pens looking something like a conspiracy theory board. This is the outline I was working on last night for the first book in the Laoche chronicles but it’s so vague at this point that I don’t think spoilers really matter. [end image ID]

The next objective is to put the random ideas in a linear order. I collect all the thoughts into one spot and dump them on the board. I color code, so first I write down all the set plot-points in the approximate order in the black pen, start to finish, and leave space above and below for stuff has to happen in the middle. 

Then the characters come in. I generally know backstories so those get dumped around the starting point in green. I figure out what characters are driving the plot and draw arrows between said plot points writing what the character does in the green pen. I include motivations, feelings, alliances, anything that might possibly be important to the plot too.

Then come logistics and filling in - that’s in red. You could also use conspiracy theory string. Where are they in the world? What needs to happen next? Where do I have plot holes? What makes the characters tick? What makes sense to happen next? What needs to happen to get to the end? What worldbuilding needs to get figured out to enable this plot point? Write it ALL down on a separate piece of paper and start brainstorming again. When you’ve got a good connection, add it. You’ll start to notice the board is starting to fill up. It won’t be linear anymore. That’s fine. 

Step 3: Flesh it out

[image ID] a poorly lit photo of a board covered in sticky notes of different, some overlapping each other. This is only a corner of the board because it’s the outline for Storge and I only took a picture of the first few chapters [end ID]

This is where it starts getting real. I take everything I have on the whiteboard (which at this point is a disaster) and transfer every plot point, character interaction, motivation, worldbuilding thing, pacing notes, anything about unreliable characters, author notes about who knows what at certain points (both the characters and the reader), plot twists, and anything else from the notes that didn’t make it to the whiteboard and reconstruct the story on a board.

The reason I use sticky notes is because you can move them around, layer them, and space them to create a cohesive narrative. If I need to play with timing, I can do that easily. If I need to connect plot points to characterizations or anything else, I can do that with layering and spacing next to each other. I’m still color coding at this point. I can start slapping on stuff like “which day does this happen on? What kind of transitions do I need?”, chapter divisions, and thematic elements. You’ll notice there are more holes. Fill those in sooner rather than later.

Step 4: Outline Time

I obviously can’t take my carefully made board with me to school so now it’s time to put it into a document. At this point I should preface this with the fact that I really like the 3 act structure, so I start my outline with that before anything else, like so, using headings to make a document outline - that way I can jump around the outline using the outline quickly. Probably a bit extra but it saves a ton of time

[image ID] a Microsoft word document outline with a hierarchical structure that shows acts, plot points, chapters, and chapter titles. [end ID]

Once that’s been filled out, I start putting the information from the board into the outline structure, and I make sure to cover EVERYTHING something like this: (with color-coding)

Chapter #/Title

Day of the narrative: this helps me keep time and iron out the pacing

The objective of the chapter: what does the reader need to learn, what is the one big thing that happens plot-wise

Main Plot Happenings - this goes in red text and details what actually happens in the chapter. For Storge, this is the plotline that follows Luca and the Laine family (when they’re together)

If there are subplots, these go here too in other colors. Orange for villainous cutaways. Purple for anything with the avian city/war subplot

Character arcs: these are green. I bullet point a list and name every major character in this chapter. anything important to their arcs goes here, as well as how I’m writing them. What are the emotions involved? This is normally the longest part because I have a lot of characters

Worldbuilding: What does the reader need to learn about the world from this chapter? This helps me space out the exposition. Details come up on a “need to know” basis, so there’s new worldbuilding in every chapter but no page-long dumps anywhere.

Themes: WHY is this chapter important? How is it contributing to what I want to say with this story?

Any other author notes about unreliable narrators, plot twists, foreshadowing, and what the reader should know at this point in the story. The goal is that you don’t anticipate the twist, but rereading it there’s a “HOW DID I NOT SEE THAT BEFORE” reaction, so this is more for my sake as a storytelling-craft thing.

Any excerpts or dialogue or description that I pre-wrote in the brain-dump phase and liked and think would fit well in this chapter.

Repeat with every chapter until you’re done.

This takes a long time, and I’m always revisiting and reworking that final outline once I’ve finished it but it’s such a huge help to set me on the right path without detouring 565479851321 times because I realized there was a plot hole too late. It’s overly complicated and incredibly intense and in-depth so It’s not for everyone but I like my 30-page long outlines, so here I am :P

If you’re still reading this, then wow good job, and thank you! I hope this was somewhat informative and not too tedious to scroll through! 

[labyrinthsofyou]

i carry your heart (i carry it in my heart)

pairing: wong yukhei & female reader

genre: fluff & mild suggestive mentions

words: 2, 800

summary: yukhei replaces the most important part of his body with you.

author’s note: tenses change to indicate present and past. my first story with wong yukhei. happy reading!

+

“look at this, babe!”

your eyes tear away the book in your hands and move to your confident boyfriend who loves to flex in front of the mirror after his workout. wong yukhei who prides himself on exercise, on maintaining the healthy and fit body that helps him through the hours of practices and weeks of tours, loves to show you all his hard work. you make eye contact with him through the mirror. his eyebrow quirks. an arm rises. and his signature smile paints his face as he showcases his biceps.

“don’t you just love them?”

you playfully roll your eyes.

yukhei shifts his position then and shows you both arms all flexed out.

“of course,” you reply with grin.

you take the bookmark on the nightstand beside you and slip it between the pages. bare feet on the carpet floor, you get off the bed to make your way to him. the light sheen on his body is still apparent from the noon sunlight filtering into the shared bedroom. you stand next to him. eyes meeting through your reflections, your hands reach up to give his muscles a squeeze. they're hard underneath your touch. you have to chuckle just a little. “so strong just for me, right? so you can protect me?” 

“you got that right!” yukhei tells you with much enthusiasm.

you humor him. “how about your six friends?” you love to, just for the excited look on his face right now. “how did they do today?” 

his face glows. he laughs with a tint of pink on his cheeks every time you say that. but regardless, yukhei grabs the hem of his shirt and lifts it confidently to reveal the define lines on his torso. 

you run your fingers along his body, still warm and slightly sticky from the workout, admiring the tighten muscles. “so sexy. my kind of man.” you make your voice swoon with a sweet sigh.

“hm, I always knew you were only with me for my body,” yukhei runs a hand through his hair, black and unstyled from the norms of hair spray. “and charming good looks,” he finishes with his tongue snaking out to lick the corner of his mouth. the smile broadens on his face. your eyes never break from one another. you see the teasing in him. 

“oh, definitely. i love your arms.” he laughs. “i love your abs.” you love playing along with him. “i love your shoulders,” you say as you raise your hands to rest on them.

yukhei drops the hem of his shirt and stands straighter. he squares up his shoulders. you give them a squeeze too. how they become your makeshift pillow countless times when you fall asleep on him during your movie night dates. how he never pushes you off either. but instead he leans down to you, resting his cheek against the top of your head and falls asleep himself. 

“and those legs,” you tell him with a smile. yukhei puts out a leg, long and toned. he bends slightly to validate the length of them.

he is tall and he makes you feel small even if you aren’t short. your head is able to rest on his shoulder when you take midnight walks. he can press his lips to your forehead easily. but when you stand next to him, when he is being cuddly and covers your body with his and legs are tangled, he makes you feel small.

he makes you feel protected.

you lean down and slide your hand onto his thigh. “don’t forget about those thighs, too!” yukhei rolls up the basketball shorts he’s wearing to give you a better view.

that’s your seat, you like to joke. yukhei never argues that though. 

even if there are seats available, he always wants you to sit on his lap. a usual mix of 'come sit with me,’ which really meant come sit on me, and just him gently tugging you towards him. 

when you had quietly asked him about it once, yukhei had admitted with a shy smile, “i just want you close to me… that’s all.” you had kissed his cheek, feeling the heat of embarrassment from his confession. 

and every time, given how touchy he always is, his hands never stop. drawing circles on the small of your back. squeezing and rubbing your thigh. soothing you and reminding him you are there with him.

that thought brings you back. 

“and most definitely your hands, babe. i love your hands. 

yukhei holds his hands in front, admiring the part of his body that holds you, warms you, calms you and makes you crazy with the smallest touch. magic hands you had referred to them once because of everything he can do with them. he had loved the title and immediately proved to you why he deserved it.

you reach for his hand. larger than yours he will never let you forget. warm like always. you intertwine your fingers together to bring the back of his hand to your lips. you press a kiss to it. you find his gaze once more. 

“you know you’re just so handsome and i love every part of you.” yukhei plays bashful. but you're completely truthful. 

“and you’re beautiful. that’s why me and you together,” yukhei clicks his tongue, releases your hand and gives a chef’s kiss. “we can’t be matched,” he says proudly with a beam. yukhei wraps his arm around your shoulder and bends down to press a sloppy and very wet kiss to your cheek.

your giggle filters through the room before you speak. “but do you know what i love most about you?” 

yukhei ponders the question. his arms? no. his shoulders? no. his abs? no 

he turns his head dramatically to the side. “my jawline!” and lifts his hand to run the back of his index finger around it. your laughter and touch follow his, running along the edge of it as well. you can spend hours, and have, laying with him just pressing your lips to it as his hands roam your body. but you shake your head.

yukhei thinks for a moment before he puckers his lips like he had done once in an interview.

“sexy lips!” he declares confidently. 

plump and soft, they are simply always kissable. his lips work wonders on your body. they bring you to another dimension. and every time his lips find yours, whether it’s chaste or passionate, each kiss cannot be compared. yet each one sends sparks soaring from your fingertips to your toes. each kiss makes your stomach fill with butterflies. that never fails. you bring your thumb to his lips and lightly swipe across it. then you sigh cause it's not.

is this a trick question? his eyebrows furrow. he contemplates for a minute until his face lights up. 

“my face! the main point!” yukhei claps his hands. it has everything he thinks. eyes that will make you faint. a smile that can melt you. the expression he offers you tells you he’s positive of his answer. 

yes, his face is something else. a work of art that should be on magazine covers and studied because every time you look at him, you are amazed by every centimeter of it. you scrunch up your nose though since no, it’s not. 

yukhei looks at you skeptically before raising both eyebrows and clears his throat loudly for dramatic effects because he definitely knows now. he smirks. his hand moves down. your eyes follow. for a second, he palms himself. while you do love and enjoy that part of him tremendously and in every way possible, you shake your head with a loud laugh.

confusion and disbelief cover his face because it’s a no for everything. “you’re-”

his words calling you a liar are cut when you move to stand on your toes. you grip his shirt. his hands, warm and comforting, instinctively settle on your hips to pull you closer. your lips rest beside his ear.

you can’t see it. 

your hand settles on his chest.

but you can feel it.

“your heart.”

and the answer leaves your mouth just loud enough for yukhei to hear.

because what you love most about him is underneath the skin and bones.

when he makes you laugh and smile because everything about his laugh and smile is contagious. when he says nothing and wraps his arms around you because he wants you to know he’s there for you. when he stands behind you in large crowds because he knows it makes you uneasy. when he buries his face into the crook of your neck to inhale the scent of lavender on you so he can remember it when he’s away. when he goes on tour at the other side of the world and sneaks off for a minute just to wish you sweet dreams. when he comes back from those tours at the other side of the world and hugs you tight so he can pepper your face with kisses. when your back presses to his chest and you feel his lips against the nape of your neck before you drift off to sleep. when he brings your cold hands to his mouth to warm with his breath because sometimes you forget your gloves. when he brings you your favorite jasmine tea when you’re feeling under the weather. when he adds to the bucket list of all the cities and countries you need to visit because he thinks you deserve to see the world. and when he looks at you, whether you are in a sea of people or alone as he covers your body with his, yukhei looks at you as if you hang the stars in the night sky.

yes, he is handsome. but his heart makes him beautiful.

his heart, that’s what you love most about him. 

your feet firm on the floor again, you glance up at him to search for a response in his eyes because yukhei says nothing then. to be quite honest, a part of you is proud of yourself. it is not often you can make him speechless. quick with his words and comebacks he always is. 

but right now, yukhei isn’t because of all the things he thinks of, that answer never crosses his mind. his hands slide behind you, fingers splaying on the small of your back. you feel the quickening thumps of his heart underneath your palm. a soft and sweet smile you offer him as the heat on your cheeks build under his stare.

“what?” 

yet yukhei provides you no answer to your question. 

because it is everything on the outside of him that draws people in at first. it's his looks, his height, the usual that he knows too well. 

but not with you. 

not when he had first walked into the café and saw you working in between classes on a very sunny tuesday afternoon. not when he came back every week possible after whenever he needed his caffeine fix. not when he came in twice still wearing his performance outfit with his hair styled and he had felt someone take a picture of him. you had not treated him any differently. but the smiles you had given him made his heart fluttered. the small talk he had experienced only made him want a little more. 

just one moment was all yukhei had needed. 

and on a very rainy thursday morning and him being clumsy and not paying attention because he just wanted your attention, yukhei had slipped. the sign he missed. on the floor he landed. the coffee in his grasp had splattered all over. embarrassed he had been. attention from you he had finally received. 

beside him you had appeared asking if he was alright and ready to clean. instead yukhei had apologized profusely as he ignored the pain that was settling in him and stood up. but you had reassured him it was okay with sincerity because it hadn’t been the first mess and wouldn’t be the last. regardless though, yukhei had helped you clean it up because insistent he was since it was his fault. once he had been finished though, with the closer than normal proximity to you, he had pushed his nerves to the side. this had been the one moment he needed. his hand had extended and yukhei had introduced himself. 

the nervousness had radiated off of him. his eyes had been so large and hopeful, waiting for your reaction. your gaze had shifted between his face and his hand as you had tucked the falling piece of hair behind you ear. and then you had playfully questioned if he had slipped and dropped the coffee just so he could talk to you.

his face had heated up. yukhei had let out the breath he had been holding. a deep chuckle had soon followed. you hadn’t been able to bite back a smile.

then his hand you had taken. 

yukhei had sworn it stopped raining at that moment. 

and now, the longer yukhei stares at you looking at him with your sweet and teasing smile, he has no regrets. 

when he finds you waiting up for him in the late nights to early mornings because sometimes that is the only time you get to spend together. when you put your hand against his and he sees the size difference that makes him laugh and you giggle. when he lays his head on your lap so you can thread your fingers through his hair. when you reassure him in the quiet nights that he’s doing well because sometimes he is too hard on himself. when you jump into his arms backstage after his shows and tell him how proud you are of him. when you whisper through the phone and video chats that you sleep better when he’s beside you. when you shower him with your kisses all over his body on the rare days off that makes him want to stay in bed all day. when you never fight his wish of staying in bed all day on those said rare days off because you want him as much as he wants you. and when you tell him the three little words, whether you are face to face or miles apart, yukhei feels the meaning in every part of it. 

he will slip and drop that coffee all over again for you to take his hand and change his world.

yukhei bends down, his arms moving to wrap around you. you will never be tired of being caged in his embrace. the tip of his nose brushes gently against yours once, then twice before his head tilts the smallest degree. his mouth finds yours and you feel it again.

the love and meaning in it when your lips meet. the fluttering in your stomach begins.  

slow and sweet it is until one of his hands comes up to cradle your neck. your arms slip over his shoulders. his hold of you tightens. on your toes you go once more. the added height allows you to deepen the kiss as the tiny gap between your bodies disappears. yukhei angles his head a bit more and pushes forward a touch. you moan into his mouth, the position offering you more of what you want from him.

but almost as soon as you do though, yukhei pulls away with you almost chasing after him. just a little longer you want him lingering across your lips. he opens his eyes. his slightly ragged breaths tickle your skin. you with your faintly parted lips, closed eyes, and heated face because of him, yukhei thinks this is one of his favorite sights of you. and when you open your eyes moments later and find him watching you, a light breathless laugh escapes you.

he doesn’t know how it’s possible. but it is. 

“you don’t know, do you?” yukhei asks softly, almost dreamily.

your hands move to clasp behind his neck. the small nudge you give him has him bumping his forehead to yours. 

you will never be tired of having him so close.

a low hum you release before you question quietly. “know what?” the curiosity hangs in your response. 

his hand travels up to cup your face. eyes never faltering from yours, his mouth forms a tiny grin. 

all yukhei sees is stars. all yukhei feels is love. 

and then he leans in again. his lips stop mere centimeters from your very own. a tease, you think he is. but a perfect moment he believes because when your attempt to bite back a smile fails just like that very day, the grin on his face widens.  

yukhei knows for certain without a doubt.

“you are my heart.”

[cptsdstudyblr]

I got a new planner!

[Image descriptions are available at the bottom of the post.]

[Image description after text because it is very long.]

This year, I’ve really been struggling with the digital planner system that’s gotten me through the past 4 years of school. Honestly, I think the fact that all I ever do anymore is stare at my laptop has made that planner less practical for me to use. So, today, I was out and about trying to find a specific size of envelope (which I did not find) and I ended up at YP Books (영풍문고), where I found this planner (the Color Point Study Planner). I honestly picked it up just because it was there and it was cute, but when I opened it I was struck by how well-organized this planner was for someone who likes to plan the way I do. To plan, I need a delicate balance of structure and leniency, because if I tip too far one way or the other, I’ll never accomplish anything.

It’s got this really cute monthly page (which can be customized for any month). You do have to write the days yourself, and as you can see by my scribbles, I momentarily forgot that not every month starts on a Sunday. However, this page is super versatile! I write my assignments and exams here and color code those days, and I use the unlabeled checklist at the bottom right to make a brief to-do list for the month. Once I finish something, it gets marked off or highlighted! I think this is a really helpful way to visualize my schedule and make sure I don’t lose track of any due dates.

Each month also comes equipped with daily pages. Once again, you do have to customize these yourself, but that’s part of what I like about it. I can skip days if I need to and I can make sure that the page handles what I need how I need it. These pages are quite complicated, but I’ll give you the basics of how I use them. 

At the top, there are 3 blanks after the date. One is labelled “D-Day,” but I instead use this to label the day of the week as I find that much more useful for me, then I fill out how many hours I plan to study (I do this at the beginning of the day so that it motivates me), then I put my general goal or plan for the day to the right. Below that, in the “Check Point” space, I put the two biggest goals I have for the day task-wise. These are usually my highest-priority tasks.

Obviously, the bulk of the space is used for a checklist, which I use to outline all the tasks I need to do that day, both school and otherwise. To the right, in the schedule space, I plan my day to make sure I can get everything done that I need to get done. There’s also a space at the bottom that I use to write events and extremely important tasks (such as exams and due dates).

Overall, the point of this post is that it’s really important to find an organizational system that works for you, whether it be digital or paper. My personal suggestion for figuring out your best system is just trial and error. Unfortunately, trial and error can be quite expensive, so I’ll include below some tips to find a good system for you without breaking the bank:

Try digital first! Most digital platforms are free (or at least have free trials), so this is a great place to start to save money. It’s also a great way to figure out what elements of different systems work for you - even if digital isn’t your thing, you might realize that you prefer a to-do list over a calendar, or that you work really well with a super structured study schedule. That info can help you find a paper planner that will work well for you.

Go to the store and look at physical planners. Once you have an idea of what you’re looking for in a planner, go to a physical store (or multiple) and spend some time looking through a bunch of planners. Once again, even if you don’t like any of them, this might help give you an idea of what you do and don’t like.

Print out (or draw) planner pages. If you want to test out a style of physical planner without buying it, find an online PDF or create your own and print a few to test out. You can also draw it (just make sure to take a photo in the store so you can do so accurately) in a regular notebook for testing purposes.

Do research. There’s lots of different methods of planning schedules, keeping track of due dates, and journaling besides the typical Google calendar and to-do list or the standard paper planner. A great example is bullet journaling, which allows you to create your own planner and change it up as you want.

Eventually you’ll figure out what planning style works best for you, and you’ll find the perfect paper planner to purchase if that’s what you decide is your best option.

[Image description after the read more:]

[Image description:

Image 1/4: There’s a pink notebook. On the cover are a man and a woman holding smiley face signs over their faces. Below them, text reads “Anything is good if I can do it with you. Whether it’s laughing together, studying together, or playing together, everything is twice as wonderful when you are doing it with me.” In the top left, a blue sticky note covers the user’s name and on it is written “@cptsdstudyblr.”

Image 2/4: This is a two-page notebook spread. The pages are white with a purple outline. The page is titled “How to Use Study Planner.” The two pages detail how each page of the planner is intended to be used, but most of the text is in Korean (transcription note: according to Google, the Korean alphabet would not work with English screen-readers, so I haven’t included this text). There are 7 steps labelled in English for using the planner.

About my goal

Time table

Monthly study plan

Daily study plan

Exam plan & result

Internet lecture check

Mock test record & graph

Transcription note: I’m happy to provide the Korean contents of the page for anyone who is interested, but I don’t want to break everyone’s screen readers.

Image 3/4: This is a two-page monthly calendar spread. The pages are primarily white, with a yellow bar across the top. The number 10 is circled in the top right to indicate that the page is for the 10th month. The days of the week start from Sunday and go to Saturday. The month is labelled from date 1 (a Thursday) to date 31 (a Saturday). Below are listed dates with special notes:

October 4 - Micro HW. This date is highlighted purple, and the text is highlighted yellow to indicate that the assignment is complete.

October 7 - Networks HW. This date is highlighted purple, and the text is highlighted yellow to indicate that the assignment is complete.

October 8 - Critical Thinking Paper. This date is highlighted purple, and the text is highlighted yellow to indicate that the assignment is complete.

October 10 - Korean HW. This date is highlighted purple, and the text is highlighted yellow to indicate that the assignment is complete.

October 11 - Micro HW. This date is highlighted purple, and the text is highlighted yellow to indicate that the assignment is complete.

October 15 - Micro HW. This date is highlighted purple.

October 18 - Micro HW. This date is highlighted purple.

October 22 - Comp Pol Exam. There is a bubble around the words and the date is highlighted pink.

On the far right is a cute, colorful drawing of a woman studying with her dog and the quote “It’s more fun when you study together than alone!” Below that is a checklist with the items “Vote!,” “Student ID,” and “Midterms.”

Image 4/4:

This is a two-page spread consisting of two daily planner pages. The pages are primarily white with a yellow outline. The leftmost page is as follows:

There are two columns on this page. The left column’s top row has three sections - “Date - 12,” “D-Day - Lun,” “Study Hours - 5.” (Transcription note: The “D-Day” blank is used for the day of the week instead of the proper use, and the days of the week are labelled in French rather than English.) The second row of that column is labelled “Check Point” and has two bullet points “catch up on micro” and “be ready to vote.” Below that is a small slot to put a song of the day, which is “SKZ (Transcription note: SKZ stands for Stray Kids) - Slump (Japanese ver.). Below is the checklist for the day. It includes both the priority and the item as follows:

HI - buy envelope

HI - micro lab video

HI - Korean class

MED - micro lecture

LO - micro HW (lecture)

MED - grocery shopping

HI - Korean HW

Below this checklist is a doodle of a woman studying.

The right column of this page starts on its top row with the slot “Goal,” which is filled with the phrase “catch up.” Below that, the user has indicated that they woke up at 11:30 and went to sleep at 1:30. Below that, they have colored 4 water drops out of 5 and given the day a score of 4 stars out of 5. Below that is a timetable for the day, which is filled with “Shop” from 13:00 - 14:30, “Study” from 15:30 - 17:00, 20:00 - 20:30, and 22:00 - 23:30, and “Korean” from 18:00 - 20:00. The right page is as follows:

There are two columns on this page. The left column’s top row has three sections - “Date - 13,” “D-Day - Mar,” “Study Hours - blank.” (Transcription note: The “D-Day” blank is used for the day of the week instead of the proper use, and the days of the week are labelled in French rather than English.) The second row of that column is labelled “Check Point” and has two bullet points “vote” and “micro HW.” Below that is a small slot to put a song of the day, which has been left blank. Below is the checklist for the day. It includes both the priority and the item as follows:

HI - drop off ballot

HI - comp. pol lecture

MED - micro HW (lab)

MED - micro HW (lecture)

HI - Korean HW

LO - religion series plan

Above this checklist is a doodle of a man sleeping.

The right column of this page starts on its top row with the slot “Goal,” which is filled with the phrase “micro HW.” Below that, the user has left the wake time, sleep time, water consumption, and daily score fields blank. Below those is a timetable for the day, which is filled with “Vote” from 9:00 - 11:00, “Study” from 12:00 - 14:00 and 14:00 - 18:00. The bottom of the page has been censored with two blue sticky notes that read “Plans for the day! Censored for safety reasons.”]

[nanabrainrot]

Okayokay,, ive been thinkindg about the things Arthur would write about on his journal and like imagine all the cute shit hed say about his s/o?? And imagine the f r e a k y very nsfw shit hed also say about them there im aksnndd

THE ONLY THING I THINK ABOUT these are now: headcanons

SFW!Journal Headcanons

• He writes about you as soon as he gets home from meeting you, he even tries really hard to draw a picture of you to keep you in his memory, albeit it crude and “does you no justice,” according to himself. He writes about your hair length, the way your hair curled a bit from the rain, your cupid’s bow, the umbrella you were holding, you were borderline ethereal to him. A lot of it had to do with how nice you were to him upon meeting him as a stranger; Gotham was full of unkind people that never failed to harass him daily. You, however, were not only kind but attractive.

• You were naturally a chatterbox, talking to strangers about the weather to individuals who looked generally harmless, opting to say hello to old women and passing youth, and that included Arthur when you met in the elevator in your new building: his building. You noted the rain as you wrapped up a compact umbrella, unlocking your mailbox adjacent to his, which was full of letters from who or wherever while his looked lonely as an empty home. He decides you are the only good person in Gotham. The crush is almost immediate.

• The next few times you meet, you intitiate conversation as usual, unlocking your little mailbox, fidgeting with your gloves forever and clumsily dropping things from your pockets. He grows confident to start intiating conversation with you after some time, saying hello and complimenting your new raincoat. He pinpoints every topic in his journal. He eventually makes a timeline about when you two talked and about what, important things you mentioned about yourself, and what you were wearing, usually next to a strange sketch of you wearing that outfit. Sometimes, he’d write what he imagined you to be wearing underneath it. On many pages, there was your first name with “Fleck” following after it and cut out engagement rings that cost four times his rent (amythyst rings since you mentioned how much you enjoyed the color).

• He has a list of things you mentioned you liked, compiling things into categories like foods, restaurants, hang-out spots, shopping areas, and more. If you, in a faraway fantasy, ever wanted to let him take you on a date, he’d fantasize about reserving a little booth in your favorite sushi restaurant and treating you to something you’d genuinely enjoy. Arthur wants to make you happy. You don’t notice, too busy conversating with the service and clerks, that Arthur sometimes happens to also get coffee at 6am in the café shoppe some ways away from your shared building and even if you did, your kindness would tell you a man with a yellow coat had almost exactly the same schedule and regular spots as you, not farfetched at all.

• When you struggle with some groceries, he helps you and enters your apartment, which you tried very hard to spiffy up despite the cheap, worn building, putting out nice, obviously new matching furniture and the newest TV you won in a sweepstakes recently (“Luvs taking chanzes & oportunatees!!!” He wrote in his “what I like abowt them” category next to a plethora of hearts). He drank in your neatness and the obvious scent of your subtle body mist in the apartment. You invite him to stay for a cup of coffee and a snack as a thank you.

He writes that he thinks he loves you in his journal that night.

• After the two of you make it official, after some time beating around the bush, trying to decipher who would ask the other to make it official first, every single page has a mention of you. Some of the pages are even full of just content of you, some of dreams about you, some stories about a vacation he’d want to go on with you one day, and just thoughts and observations about you. You are his first shot at love and his first shot at genuine happiness; he’s a bit obsessed with you if anything in an odd and endearing way. Out of respect, you don’t inquire about his journal and refuse to sift through it. You think his creative outlet is adorable and gift him with pens and stickers to decorate his Joke Book with and the next day, it’s covered in the silly animal stickers you got him.

NSFW!Journal Headcanons

• The day he meets you fantasizes about you. There are pornographic cutouts from magazines with various sex positions, a number of them accumulated on a page called “what id do with her,” sticky with glue stick remnants and a number of couples making love. He even goes so far as to masturbate to the thought of you the night he met you, driving him further into his desires.

• As you two grew closer as acquaintances, he begins to write stories about you, about him walking into his apartment to find you wanton, pleading for his love and affections, for his eternal devotion. There are pictures of numerous expensive lingerie numbers glued next to it, under various titles such as “our 1st time,” “our weding nite,” and so on. You are a walking trial of lust to him. By this point, he strokes himself to the thought of you nightly, sometimes more than once, just to push the ache away, only for the feeling to come crawling back.

• When the two of you get together as a couple, you don’t inch toward the journal out of respect for him. You recall a diary you had when you were young that your father sifted through, the thought of someone reading your inner workings drove you mad, but, if the journal was open, you’d sometimes read a snippet. When you read one of his fantasies about you, you blushed bright red and did your best not to bring it up. It was endearing he thought of you that way but you weren’t in the right headspace to share your body with him; you were traditional in a sense.

• However, when you two grow intimate, you sneak one of his dirty scenarios in, the one where he imagined you waking him up to the sight of you with a mouthful of his cock, before a particularly lengthy shift, start his morning off right. Still a beginner, as soon he saw it, he came all over your face. He was vaguely embarrassed and smiled shyly as you grinned back cheekily, dressed up for work and chimed a sweet, “Have a good day at work, dear.” When you leave a minute later, after wiping the cum from your face and putting your shoes on, he’s still sitting there, wondering if you’re a figment of his imagination months later, after all, everything you do is almost a dream to him.

[the-end-of-art]

Sewn into his jacket an incoherent note

How to Make Love, Write Poetry, & Believe in God by Nin Andrews

A few weeks ago, I was part of a Hamilton-Kirkland College alumnae poetry reading, and after the reading a woman asked a simple question: “How do you write a poem?” I didn’t have an answer so I suggested a few books by poets like John Hollander, Mary Oliver, and Billy Collins. The woman said she had read books like that, but they didn’t help. She wanted something else, like a genuine operating manual—a step by step explanation.

I, too, love instruction manuals, especially those manuals on how to perform magic: write a poem or know God or make love, if only love were something that could be made. Manuals offer such promise. Yes, you, too, can enter the bee-loud glade and the Promised Land and have an orgasm.

I love the idea that my mind could be programmed like a computer to spit out poems on demand—poems with just the right number of lines, syllables, metaphors, meanings, similes, images . . . And with no clichés, no matter how much I love those Tom, Dick and Harry’s with their lovely wives, as fresh as daisies. I can set them in any novel or town in America, and they will have sex twice a week, always before ten at night, never at the eleventh hour, and it will not take long,time being of the essence.

I love sex manuals, too: those books that suggest our bodies are like cars. If only we could learn to drive them properly, bliss would be a simple matter of inserting a key, mastering the steering wheel, signaling our next moves, knowing the difference between the brakes and the gas pedal, and of course, following the speed limit.

A depressive person by nature, I am also a fan of how-to books on God, faith, happiness, the soul, books that suggest a divine presence is always here. I just need to find it, or wake up to it, or turn off my doubting brain. That even now, my soul is like a bird in a cage. If I could sit still long enough and listen closely, it might rest on my open palm and sing me a song.

God, poetry, sex, they offer brief moments of bliss, glimpses of the ineffable, and occasional insights into that which does not translate easily into daily experience, or loses its magic when explained.

In college, I took classes in religion, philosophy and poetry, and I studied sex in my spare time—my first roommate and I staying up late, pondering the pages of The Joy of Sex. As a freshman, I auditioned my way into an advanced poetry writing class by composing the single decent poem I wrote in my college years. The poem, an ode to cottage cheese, came to me in a flash as a vision nestled on a crisp bed of iceberg lettuce. Does cottage cheese nestle? I don’t know, but the professor kept admiring that poem. He said all my other poems paled by comparison.

This was in the era of the sexual revolution,long before political correctness and the Me-Too movement. My roommate, obsessed with getting laid, said we women should have been given a compass to navigate the sexual landscape. She liked to complain that she’d had only one orgasm in her entire life, and she wanted another. “What if I am a one-orgasm wonder?” she worried. The subject of orgasms kept us awake, night after night.

In religion class, my professor told the famous story about Blaise Pascal who had a vision of God that was so profound, his life seemed dull and meaningless forever afterwards. He never had another vision. But he had sewn into his jacket an incoherent note to remind him of the singular luminous experience.

The next day in religion class, a student stood up and announced that the professor was wrong—about Pascal, God, everything. The student knew this because he was God’s friend. He even knew His first name, and what God was thinking. The professor smiled sadly, put his arm around the student, and led him out of the classroom, down the steps and into the counselor’s office. When the professor returned, he warned us that if we ever thought we knew God, we should check ourselves into a mental institution. Lots of insane people know God intimately.

But, I wondered, what would God (or the transcendent—or whatever word you might choose for it: the muse, love, the orgasm, the soul, the higher self) think of us? For example, what would a muse think of a writer trying, begging, praying to enter the creative flow? All writers know it—that moment when inspiration happens. The incredible high. And the opposite, when words cling to the wall of the mind like sticky notes but never make it onto your tongue or the page.

What would an orgasm think of all the people seeking it so fervently yet considering it dirty, embarrassing, unmentionable? And then lying about it. “Did you have one?” a man might ask. “Yes,” his lover nods. But every orgasm knows it cannot be had. Or possessed. Or sewn into the lining of a coat. No one “has” an orgasm. At least not for long.

What did God think of Martin Luther, calling out to him in terror when a lightning bolt struck near his horse, “Help! I’ll become a monk!” And later, when he sought relief from his chronic constipation and gave birth to the Protestant Reformation on the lavatory—a lavatory you can visit today in Wittenberg, Germany.

I don’t want to evaluate Luther’s source of inspiration. But I do want to ponder the question: How do you write a poem? Is there a way to begin?

I think John Ashbery gave away one secret in his poem, “The Instruction Manual:” that it begins with daydreaming. Imagination. And the revelation that the mind contains its own magical city, its own Guadalajara, complete with a public square and bands and parading couples that you can visit this enchanted town for a limited time before you must turn your gaze back to the humdrum world.  

But a student of Ashbery’s might cringe at the suggestion that poetry is merely an act of the imagination. In order to master the dance, one must know the steps. And Ashbery was a master. So many of his poems follow a kind of Hegelian progression, traveling from the concrete to the abstract to the absolute. Or what Fichte described as a dialectical movement from thesis to antithesis to synthesis. Fichte also wrote that consciousness itself has no basis in reality. I wonder if Ashbery would have agreed.

In college I wrote an inane paper, comparing Ashbery’s poetry to a form of philosophical gardening in which the poet arranges the concrete, meaning the plants or words, in such an appealing order that they create the abstract, or the beauty, desired. Thus, the reader experiences the absolute, or a sense of wonder at the creation as the whole thing sways in the wind of her mind.

Is there a basis in reality for wonder? Or poetry? I asked. Or are we only admiring illusions, the beautiful illusions the poet has created?  How I loved questions like that. I wanted to follow in the footsteps of Fichte and Hegel and Ashbery and write mystical and incomprehensible books. I complained to my mother that no matter how hard I tried, I could not compose an actual poem or philosophical treatise—I was trying to write treatises, too. “That’s good,” she said. “Poets and philosophers are too much in their heads, and not enough in the world.”

I didn’t argue with her and tell her that not all poets are like Emily Dickinson. Or say that Socrates was put to death for being too much in the world, for angering the public with his Socratic method of challenging social mores, and earning himself the title, “the gadfly of Athens.”  

Instead, I thought, That’s it! If I want to be a poet, I just need to separate my head from the world. Or at least turn off the noise of the world. And seek solitude, as Wordsworth suggested, in order to recollect in tranquility. I imagined myself going on a retreat or living in a cave, studying the shadows on the wall. Letting them speak to me or seduce me or dance with me.

The shadows, I discovered, are not nice guests. Sometimes they kept me awake all night, talking loudly, making rude comments, using all the words I never said aloud. “Hush,” I told them. “No one wants to hear that.” Sometimes they took on the voices of the dead and complained I hadn’t told their stories yet or right. Sometimes they sulked and bossed me about like a maid, asking for a cup of tea, a biscuit, a little brandy, a nap. One nap was never enough. When I obeyed and closed my eyes, they recited the poems I wanted to write down. “You can’t open your eyes until we’re done,” they said, as if poetry were a game of memory, or hide and seek in the mind. Other times they wandered away and down the dirt road of my past, or lay down in the orchard and counted the peaches overhead. Whatever they did or said, I watched and listened.

That’s how I began writing my first real poems. I knew not to disobey the shadows. I knew not toturn my back on them and look towards the light as Plato suggested—Plato who wanted to banish the poets and poetry from his Republic.I knew to not answer the door if the man from Porlock came knocking.

To this day I am grateful for the darkness. For the shadows it creates in my mind. It is thanks to them I have written another book, The Last Orgasm, a book whose title might make people cringe. But isn’t that what shadows do? And much of poetry, too? Dwell on topics we are afraid to look at in the light?

(https://blog.bestamericanpoetry.com/the_best_american_poetry/2020/09/how-to-make-love-write-poetry-believe-in-god-by-nin-andrews.html)

Five prose poems by Nin Andrews (formatting better at http://newflashfiction.com/5-prose-poems-by-nin-andrews/)

Duplicity

after Henri Michaux “Simplicity”

When I was just a young thing, my life was as simple as a sunrise. And as predictable. Day after day I went about doing exactly as I pleased. If I saw a lovely man or women, or beauty in any of its shapes and forms and flavors, well, I simply had to have it. So I did. Just like that. Boom! I didn’t even need a room.

Slowly, I matured. I learned a bit of etiquette.  Manners, I discovered can have promising side effects. I even began carrying a bottle of champagne wherever I went, and a bed. Not that the beds lasted long. I wasn’t the kind to go easy on the alcohol or the furnishings, nor was I interested in sleep. It never ceased to amaze me how quickly men drift off. Women, many of them, kept me going night after night. You know how inspiring  women are.

But then, alas, I grew tired of them as well. I began to envy those folks who curl up into balls each night, their bodies as heavy as tombstones. I tried curling up with them, slowing my breath, entering into their dreams. What dreams! To think I had been missing out all along! That’s when I became a Zen master, at one with the night. Now I teach classes on peace, love, abstinence. At last I have found bliss, I tell my followers. The young, they don’t believe it. But really, I ask you. Would I lie?

The Broken Promise

after Heberto Padilla, “The Promise”

There was a time when I promised to write you a thousand love poems. When I said every day is a poem, and every poem is in love with you. But then the poems rebelled. They became a junta of angry women, impossible to calm or translate, each more vivid, sultry, seductive than the next. Some stayed inside and sulked for weeks, demanding chocolates, separate rooms, maid service. Others wanted to be carted around like queens. Still others took lovers and kept the neighbors up, moaning at all hours of the day and night. One skinny girl (remember her? the one with flame-colored hair?) moved away. She went back to that shack down the road where we first met. At night she lay down in the orchard behind the house and let the dark crawl over her arms and legs. In the end even her dreams turned to ash and blew away in a sudden gust of wind.

Little Big Man

after Russell Edson “Sleep”

There was once an orgasm that could not stop shrinking. Little big man, his friend called him, watching as he grew smaller and smaller with each passing night, first before making love, then before even the mention of making love, then before even the mention of the mention of making love. Oh, what a pathetic little thing he was.

One night he tried reading, Think and Grow Big, but it only caused him to shrink further inside himself. Oh, to grow large and tall as I once was, he sighed. What he needed, he knew, was a trainer with a whip and chains. Someone to teach him to jump through hoops and swing from a trapeze and swallow fire until he blazed ever higher into the night. Yes, he shuddered. Yes! as he imagined it. A tiny wisp of smoke escaped his lips.

Questions to Determine if You Are Washed Up

after Charles Baudelaire, “Get Drunk!”

Do you feel washed up lost, all alone? Do you fear that time is passing you by like a train for which you have no ticket, no seat? That you have lived too long in the solitude of your room and empty mind,  that now you are but a slave of sorrow? Or is it regret? Do you no longer taste the wine of life on your lips, tongue, throat? Is there not even even a chance of intoxication? Bliss? No poetry or song above or below the hips? No love in the wind, the waves, in every  or any fleeting and floating thing? No castles in your air? No pearls in your oysters? Are you wearing a pair of drawstring pants?

Remembering Her

after Herberto Padilla

This is the house where she first met you. This is the room where she first said your name as if it were a song.  This is the table where she undressed you, stripping away your petals, leaves, your filmy white roots and sorrows. And there on the floor is the stone you picked up each morning, the stone you clung to night after night. Sometimes she kicked it aside. Sometimes she placed in on the sill and blew it out the window as her presence filled you like a glow, and you thought for an instant, I, too, can fly.

[solitrewq]

Listening across the Aisle

I have never been a very social person. Friendly, sure. Helpful, absolutely. Caring, yes. But not social. Intensely social-based behaviors confuse me, so for the most part I avoid them. Wearing makeup, cultivating a persona based on images... even "simple" contracts like "nose goes".

That’s why you don’t see social media posts from me about current events. It’s not that I don’t care that a conversation happens around the world. It’s not that I don’t have thoughts of my own. It’s because those aren’t the skills I have to make change. Instead, my super power is listening and understanding. I analyze by habit. I constantly question everything, including and especially my own listening and understanding skills.

I have always been a seeker of conversations. Freshman year at Duke I disturbed many a student’s quiet morning by joining their solitary breakfast and talking to them. Almost every single airplane flight I took during my college years was accompanied by a seat neighbor who suddenly felt encouraged to give me a detailed life story. And when Mormon Elders knocked on my door here in Washington I invited them in, accompanied them to church, and enjoyed Tabernacle choir performances in order to better see the world as they did. And I have not suffered for these conversations. Despite popular opinion, I didn’t lose myself and what I believe in by putting myself in a position to also understand the nature and impact of Mormon doctrine and faith.

Because conversations are important. Understanding is important. For all parties involved to listen and be listened to. And I get worried when I look at the public face of society’s discourse - comment sections everywhere, editorials on news sites, news anchors, social media posts - because I don’t see any conversations anywhere. In fact, what I see is anti-conversation. And I see it in equal measure everywhere from everyone. Equal measure, consider that VERY closely. In fact, if it’s any hope for reconciliation, it’s the fact that everyone everywhere seems to be behaving and reacting to everything in a completely synced pattern, the same mental formation no matter the stance.

When did “just don’t have a conversation, there is nothing you can say to these people” become a widely acceptable mature adult reaction to problems? Why is it a common thing for me to see heated, confrontational messages zipping back and forth until ten unrelated mean spirited messages later one party suddenly realizes, “oops, misread everything you said, we were on the same side/page all along!”. How is it that I can nearly guarantee that when I see someone mocking someone else - being a sheep, not questioning sources, not critically thinking about their own actions, they will turn around and in the same breath demonstrate the exact behaviors they were mocking? It’s the oddest feeling to watch and I can’t explain it except for a collective decision to turn off listening... even ones own words. Also, why has it ever been okay to openly make fun of other humans anyways? What exactly is the purpose of getting angry and saying mean things? How does this help?

One of the saddest things to me is when I see a thread where people repeat the same exact thing over and over. When I’m in a meeting and someone suggests the same thing I just suggested or I’m in a conversation and the other person has not changed their words or thoughts in the slightest after something I said... I too feel the need to repeat myself over and over because I don’t feel heard or listened to. And yet, I see people on repeat now with the same verbatims over and over, to the point where they just copy paste their same exact words everywhere. Repetition is not a symptom of lower functioning brain cells or using talking points and being unable to think, repetition is a symptom of yelling something as loud as you can at the world and having nobody care enough to hear you and listen to what you said. Repetition is a devastating sign of a lonely, isolated, conversation-less world.

So I have a proposal. Let’s take a look at our surroundings and calculate the probability that we’re not listening well enough. Did we grow up in a culture? Are we homo sapiens? Is there a person in the world somewhere that you don’t understand? My personal calculation here gives me this result: there’s a 99.9999999% chance that I am not maximizing my listening potential and have room to grow. So I will work on it. I will continue to write sticky notes with ideas as to how to be more approachable and seek others’ ideas. I will check out books from the library titled things like “You’re Not Listening” and read them closely. And I will question my own sources and assumptions whenever I can, because what harm will it do to me? And I ask that everyone else who got a similar result from their calculations to do the same. We cannot take responsibility for the world, but we can take personal responsibility for ourselves and we can ALL do a better job of that. There is no moral high ground here.

If you’re still on the fence, I made a longer, more targeted list of circumstances that indicate a need to listen better:

During a conversation, even while making an active effort to use all the brain cells available to you, you still cannot conceive of a single thing that would change your mind

Your knowledge and facts are not first-hand. Or they might be but you honestly have no idea when/where you obtained that knowledge from

Off the bat, you casually assume certain people you talk to are most likely in favor of genocide and murder

You cannot properly evaluate anything that is written here without first knowing who I voted for - at which point you can make a full evaluation

You have strong/physical reactions to simple things like words with actual real-life English meanings, even given no context. Look we can even try a few: conspiracy, liberal, flu

You are reading this list and thinking of ways that it applies to someone else other than you

We are in a time. Connecting with people is not a priority. Things are becoming more and more difficult, even as they should be becoming easier. There are so many things we don’t control, so many things we can’t keep track of, so many imperfect humans in one small area... maybe let’s withdraw from all of that and look within. Look for those who have tried to be heard by us and listen to them.

I am still an extremely imperfect listener and conversationalist, I can only do my best. I don’t wear earphones in public. I strive to leave room in my world, my surroundings, for others to join. And I’m always open to conversation. If you would like to practice, would like to be listened to, would like to say hi... I’ll be here.

[shimmershaewrites]

Fourth Quarter, Chapter 1 (a Walking Dead story, Caryl AU).

Sorry.  I am so sorry, lol.

  Title:   Fourth Quarter

Rating:  M. 

Warnings:  adult language. 

Characters/Pairings:  Carol Peletier, Daryl Dixon, Sophia Peletier, original character, Jenny Jones, June Dorie, Pete Anderson, mention Morgan Jones and John Dorie, Luke, Carl Grimes, mentions of Judith Grimes, Tyreese Williams, Duane Jones, mention of Eastman, T-Dog, Axel. 

Prompt(s) used:  “Do you trust me?”    

Author’s Note:  inspired by a little drabble in my Across the Universe(s) drabble series—“Quit stalling.”  Apologies for the sucktacular title and the fact that I’m jumping off the deep end and starting another story.  Clearly, I’m losing it.  But whatever.  I made words.  So it’s a lose-win situation, lol.  Also, in case you didn’t notice, I brought over a couple of friends from Fear and I’m keeping my options open about bringing over more.  We shall see.  Anyway.  Fingers crossed this somehow breaks up the log jam that is currently the state of Waltzing.  I miss writing that story so freaking much. 

          Dr. Pete Anderson didn’t like kids. 

  Carol had it figured out within two seconds of meeting the man, his so-called secret.  His absolute, lip-curling distaste for the parade of little humans that were the King County clinic’s bread and butter was that apparent.  Hard to miss really and ironic considering.    

  Those frequently possessed of snotty noses and tiny hands that were somehow, some impossible way always sticky were both the bane of his existence and the source of much of his livelihood. 

  She couldn’t help but wonder how someone that couldn’t even be bothered to open up his heart to the frightened tears that inevitably came from being thrust into a place so cold and sterile and generally unwelcoming as their place of employment possessed one at all.  Most likely, she supposed, his chest was hollow and a big cavernous nothing occupied the space where the faulty organ should be.  Yes, most likely.  Too bad he worked every Monday.  As did she. 

  “Did somebody get me the goddamn labs I asked for?!” 

  The question yelled so near to her ear was all the warning Carol had before a mug of coffee was unceremoniously slammed down in front of her, causing her to flinch.  She watched with dismay as the bitter black brew sloshed over the ceramic edge, instantly soaking into the printed labs in question, and took in a deep breath in an effort to fortify herself for what she knew was coming.  Thankfully, her coworker stepped in to prevent her from falling onto her figurative sword.  

  “The printer’s jammed again, Sir.” 

  Jenny Jones was one of the most even-tempered individuals Carol had ever met.  Whether she was helping keep a toddler calm while they had a lost Flintstone vitamin fished out of their nose or explaining to a patient that body spray was not meant to be used internally via the rectum, she always wore the same placid expression.  She wore it now, even in the face of Dr. Anderson’s poorly reigned in rage at humanity at large.    

  “Thought the damn thing was fixed.” 

  “It was.  It isn’t now.  Noah’s working on it.” 

  “Who’s…know what?  Forget it.  I don’t care.  Just get me those labs.  Sometime today.”  With that, he stalked off to greet his next patient, continuing to grumble beneath his breath. 

  Finally, Carol felt like she could exhale, and she did, feeling a lot like a deflated balloon.  Or at least, the way she imagined a deflated balloon might feel.  “You’re too good to me.” 

  Jenny’s chair squeaked as she pushed it back from the desk.  Eyes brightened and lips twitching with humor, she replied, “You bring me cookies.  I would be crazy not to be.” 

  “Duane like the strawberry lemonade cookies?”   

  “Like them?” Jenny scoffed.  “That boy loved them.  At least the two his daddy let him have.  Morgan made me promise to get the recipe from you.  Told me to resort to blackmail if I had to.”  Shaking her head, she mused fondly, “That man.  He loves ya’ll’s cookies.” 

  “I’d worry about him if he didn’t.  Everybody loves Carol and Sophia’s cookies.”

                                                                                                                                                                                 Carol looked pointedly at her watch before returning their newcomer’s easy grin.  “Just get here when you can.”  June Dorie was a relative latecomer to the clinic staff, still an enigma in so many ways.  But she was capable, compassionate, and currently very much in love, and like Jenny before her?  Carol had relied on her instincts, welcoming her to cross that imaginary line separating coworker from friend.    

  Other than the precious pink blush belonging to only the happiest of newlyweds tinging her cheeks, June was unruffled by Carol’s teasing.  “Thank you.  I will.”  She did, however, wrinkle her nose at the sodden lump on the counter before her.  “What did I miss?” 

  Her answer came from the irate boss man himself.  “Where are my fucking labs?!”

  June winced.  “Happy Monday, huh?” 

  Carol grit her teeth to keep from letting a few choice words slip free.  Every Monday was a happy Monday when your least favorite doc was a Monday constant.  As if she needed more reason to hate them.  Not only that, the waiting room was starting to fill up, really fill up, right on cue.  Taking a page out of Jenny’s book, she took a deep, calming, let’s be zen breath, and pasted on what she hoped was a serene expression.  Unsurprisingly, she failed. 

  Sparing a second to stuff the ruined labs into the nearby shred box, Jenny dabbed at the mess left behind with a handful of Kleenex and shook her head.  “I see your wheels turning.  You’re on desk duty with Liza ‘til you quit plotting the good doctor’s demise.” 

  June smirked.  “Guess she’ll be out there forever then.” 

  “She might just be,” Jenny conceded.  “June?” 

  “Get the asshole his labs?” 

  “You said it.”   

        “And again!  We want to make Stevie and your parents proud!” 

  In unison, the entire sweaty, spent marching band groaned, and they groaned rather dramatically. 

  Perspiration prickling along his own scalp, the band director couldn’t even find it in himself to be mad.  Quite the contrary.  Depressing the button on the side of his megaphone, he blew out a long, drawn out groan of his own and deadpanned, “I felt that.  Take five everybody.” 

  “Five?!  But Mr. Fogler!” 

  “Alright, alright.  Fifteen and find some shade.” 

  Everybody scattered after that.  Almost everybody.  They needed no more prompting. 

  Sophia, however?  She stayed right where she was, sinking to the grass like a boneless slug bug and letting her eyes drift closed for a brief second.  She stifled a shriek when she felt something cold slither across the back of her exposed neck.  “What the…stop it, Carl.”  In spite of her grumbling, she gratefully took the bottle of water he held out in offering, tipping it back and taking a long swallow.  Shooting a wondering glance at the boy she’d long considered her best friend. 

  Carl dropped down beside her, mindful of the clarinet she’d cast almost carelessly aside.  He’d left his own snare drum where he stood in his haste to seek her out, and he stared at her now, his blue eyes hidden behind the dark lenses of his shades. 

  Sophia’s fingertips fluttered self-consciously over her freckled cheeks and the long auburn ponytail coiled carelessly atop her head.  “What?” 

  Carl’s lips remained zipped.  They merely curled in a barely even there smirk and he shrugged. 

  Sophia narrowed her eyes at him, wholly unconvinced of his truthfulness.  They’d known each other since they were both in pullups and the wait to get their respective drivers’ licenses was almost over.  Of course, he was lying.  Even if he was doing it without words.  “Carl Richard Grimes!” 

  “Did you just full name me?” 

  “I just full named you and I’ll do it again.”     

  “Ooooo.  I’m so scared.” 

  “Don’t be such a…”  Sophia floundered for a word adequate enough to express her frustration.  A good clean word because that’s the way her mama had raised her, but really.  None of them were very satisfying. 

  Carl laughed.  “You can’t do it, can you?”  

  “Know it all jerk.” 

  “But you’re my favorite Disney princess, Soph,” Carl said, snagging the forgotten water bottle from her hands and taking a swig of his own.  “Jude’s too.” 

  An unwelcome smile twitched at the edges of Sophia’s affected pout.  “Shut up.” 

  “Alright,” Carl agreed easily enough. 

  The silence didn’t last long, though.  He was back to his insufferable teasing before they’d had time enough to finish the water bottle between them, and that didn’t take long at all.  “Carl.  I mean it.  Stop.” 

  “Stop what?”  Snickering as he dodged her annoyed little fists, he feigned innocence, “I didn’t even say anything.” 

  “Yeah, well.  You didn’t have to.  Just spit it out.” 

  “You want to spit it out?  You really want me to?” 

   “Please,” Sophia huffed, leaning forward to wrap her arms protectively around her updrawn legs.  She steadfastly ignored Carl’s gaze as she waited for him to put his particular brand of Sophia-torture into words and it definitely wasn’t the sun heating her cheeks when she spit out her last little piece of pleading encouragement.  “Do.” 

  “This one time.  At band camp…” 

  “I swear to God, Carl,” Sophia muttered miserably.     

  “You know Mr. Fogler said shade right?  Not Cade.” 

      On the other end of the football field, the indirect source of Sophia Peletier’s current humiliation was sweating his balls off doing drills for a team he wasn’t sure he even wanted to be a part of.  And it showed. 

  Coach Williams’s deep voice carried, across the clashing bodies and sticky late summer heat.  “Mr. Phillips.  Do you or do you not want to be here?” 

  Hands braced on his hips, jersey clinging wetly to his heaving chest, Cade figured there was no pussyfooting around the truth.  That shit never did anybody no good.  “Presently?  No, Sir.  At least Satan’s ass crack would have shade.”

  Appreciative snickers swelled, rising and traveling from teammate to potential teammate like a wave, and Coach Williams showed a brief, scary flash of teeth before sobering up and making full use of his huge, intimidating linebacker build.  “That so?” 

  Cade knew better than to waltz right into that trap.  He’d become quite adept over the years of sidestepping trouble when it come looking, and until he proved otherwise, Coach Williams weren’t any different than any other coach or teacher.  So he clamped his mouth shut and dropped to give the man twenty unasked.  Or at least he tried to.  The man stopped him with a boot on his back before he got ten good pushups in, barking at the whole lot of them to take a long overdue break.  The grass felt prickly beneath his sweaty pits when his limp noodle arms gave out on him, but Cade didn’t care.  A bottle of orange Gatorade appeared out of thin air, and he’d guzzled nearly the whole thing before he bothered looking up to see where it actually came from. 

  A short, stocky black kid stared down at him, something like admiration on his face. 

  Heaving himself over onto his back with a groan, Cade muttered his gratitude and shielded his eyes from that look and the sun. Both of them were pretty damn blinding in their own way.  He recited a silent prayer that the boy, who he vaguely recognized as a freshman, would just fuck off and leave him alone.  Like most of his prayers, it went unanswered. 

  “I’m Duane.  You’re Cade.” 

  Forcibly swallowing the overwhelming urge to mock the kid right to his oblivious face, Cade merely grunted an affirmation and lifted his arm to get a better peek at him.  He felt an unexpected twinge of guilt when he took in the boy’s slumped posture.  “Running back right?” 

  “Like you.” 

  Hardly, but Cade kindly chose not to point it out.  Instead, he made small talk best as he knew how.  “Didn’t I hear you say your dad has his own martial arts place down on Main?” 

  “He’s partners with Mr. Eastman, but yeah.  You been there?” 

  “Nope, but I’ve thought about it.  Think you can talk him into cutting me a sweet deal?  Might be nice to learn different ways to kick some ass.”  Handy, considering he knew next to nobody in this one-horse town and in his experience?  It never took long for welcomes to be worn out.  He left that part unsaid, too. 

  “I…I don’t know.  But I think so.  I’ll have to see.” 

  “You get on that.” 

  “I will.” 

  “Hey, Water Boy.  Why don’t you shut your trap and do your damn job?” 

  Duane sighed and made to push himself to his feet, but Cade jerked him back down.  “Nah.  I got this.” 

  “You don’t have to.” 

  “Do you trust me?  We got us a deal, right?” 

  “Right.” 

  “K then.  Watch this.”  Cade winked, standing up and stretching to his full height.  “Hey, lazy asshole.  Why don’t you get your own fucking water?” 

      “Man, you been back in town, what?  Almost a month and I’m the only person knows it.  I’m not accusing you of hiding, but…” 

  Wiping his greasy hands on the red rag that never strayed far from his back pocket, Daryl virtually dared T-Dog to continue his train of thought.  T smartly refused to take the bait, dropping the subject and ambling on over to join him in admiring his handy work.

  “You trying to put those Gas Monkey dudes outta business.”    

  “Stahp.”   

  “You think I’m kidding?  I ain’t.  I knew you was good.  I just didn’t know you was this good.  And it ain’t even your day job.”  

  “Hear that, Boss?” Axel oh-so-helpfully piped up.  “It ain’t ya day job.” 

  “Don’t reckon nobody yanked your chain, Mr. Monopoly.  You got them brakes fixed yet?” 

  Axel hemmed and hawed, but in the end, he admitted he had a lot of work still left to do. 

  When Daryl turned his attention back to T-Dog, his old friend was trying—and failing—to keep a straight face. 

  “Mr. Monopoly?” 

  “Yeah, well.  He shaves that shit off?  He’ll look more like the Planter’s Peanut.” 

  T-Dog guffawed, earning himself more than a couple dirty looks from the source of his endless amusement.  “Missed you ‘round these parts.  Can’t tell you how good it does me to see you back.  Even if I’ve never seen you leave these four walls.  How do you eat, Man?” 

  “Like an uncivilized pig,” Daryl deadpanned. 

  T’s grin stretched wide, but he was otherwise unperturbed.  “You said it.  Not me.”  Putting a few paces between them, he started absently inspecting some nearby tools.  “Little birdy down at the high school been talking.” 

  “Don’t ya mean tweeting?  That’s the big thing now,” Axel said, doing what he does best again.  Inserting himself into a conversation that didn’t involve him in the least.  “Tweeter.” 

  This time, T-Dog and Daryl both ignored him and Daryl was surprised to realize he wanted to hear more.  “Yeah?  What you been hearing?” 

  “Kid’s talented.  Going places if he decides to put in more effort.  If he keeps his nose clean and gives his school work the attention it deserves when classes start…” 

  “Tell me something I don’t know,” Daryl muttered.  “I’m trying.  Even if he ain’t.” 

  “Hey, Man.  I get it.  You two?  Ya’ll still getting to know each other.  I can’t imagine what it feels like for either one of you.” 

  Axel couldn’t resist butting in one more time, and Daryl decided fuck it.  He nodded.  Just let him. 

  “Woman showed up on his doorstep and basically said congratulations, it’s a boy.  Your problem now.  Now he’s just as much a daddy as he is an uncle.  Ain’t fair if you ask me.  Got all the responsibility without getting to have any of the fun.” 

  Well, shit.  He hadn’t exactly thought about it in those particular terms, but the twitchy little bastard weren’t exactly wrong.  “Back to work.  Ain’t telling you no more.”  To T-Dog, he simply sighed and raked a tired hand over his unshaven face.  “I’m trying.  I am.” 

  “Kid’s gonna have to meet you halfway.” 

  “Try three quarters.” 

  “Axel!”   

[vernonfielding]

Such is the life of trailblazers

Story No. 4 of my Season 7 Countdown Project. I would still love prompts for future missing scene fics!

Summary: “This heroine is my heroin.”

Rosa’s never seen anyone who looks like her on the cover of a book before. So of course she’s going to buy that book and read it. Takes place during Return to Skyfire. (Read on AO3.)

Rosa heads straight to her rented garage in Flatbush after work so she can put in a couple of hours on the Audi Ur-S6, which is a dumb-looking car but then, collecting’s never been her thing anyway. She FaceTimes with Tom Hardy for a bit to show him her progress on the ignition system and once she’s shaken him – dear God, Hardy is a talker – she cleans up and heads home.

She doesn’t think about The Crimson Portal until she’s finished heating up her dinner and is looking around for something to do while she eats. She reaches for her phone automatically, but then she notices the heavy hardcover sitting on the counter next to it. She picks up the book instead.

Rosa had grabbed it on a whim as they were leaving the convention. Jake was right, the character on the front cover looked exactly like her and so – look, she’d been curious.

Now, she flips open the cover to read the plot description on the inside jacket. The main character’s name is Xiomara Axis and she’s a natural-born truth-seeker who was abandoned at birth and raised by a blind beggar named Ishara in the slums of Devols’r. It’s even worse than Rosa imagined. She folds the book open anyway and tucks into her leftover chicken and rice.

+++

Rosa’s parents were insistent that their girls be bilingual, and so they only ever spoke Spanish to their daughters when they were young. Rosa appreciates that now – her Spanish isn’t flawless, but it’s pretty damn close – but the first few years of grade school were rough. She’d already learned to read in Spanish at home but her English was almost nonexistent and she hated being so far behind everyone else. She hated silent reading time when she had to pick her way through the worn, sticky pages of the readers everyone else had burned through, and she hated the shelves full of real books at the back of the classrooms, mocking her with titles she could barely decipher.

But when she did finally crack the English – Rosa doesn’t say or think this lightly, but it was friggin’ magical. Rosa tore through books, read her way through practically the entire school library (which, admittedly, was just a one-room portable) and then got her own card to the neighborhood branch of the public library.

She read all of the worst young adult romances of the ‘80s and ‘90s, and every dumbass Babysitters Club book (though she’s since swiped her mind clean of all of them), and everything by Anne Rice and VC Andrews and Judy Blume and Lois Lowry. She was especially drawn to fantasy novels, anything based in entirely original worlds that she could get lost in. Her favorite was The Song of the Lioness series, which she read at least three times through, because here, at last, a girl was the hero.

But by middle school Rosa had decided that even Alanna of Trebond – the red-haired and fair-skinned protagonist who tried so hard for so long to hide who she really was – didn’t belong to her, a Latina born to immigrant parents who, at age 14, already knew exactly who she was but had no idea what to do with that person. Rosa was angry at 14, already hard-headed and independent. She was fed up with white girls and white boys and white men, for fuck’s sake, telling her story.

So she stopped reading. Rosa decided that she needed to live in the real world and not her fantasy novels if she was going to figure out her place.

Over the years, she’d pick up a dumb summer beach read now and again. She plowed through nonfiction books when she came across a new subject she needed to learn all about. She even briefly majored in “ethnic” literature in college before realizing it was totally insulting that anything non-white just got lumped together.

But otherwise – well, fantasy was best left to children, she’d decided a long time ago.

+++

Rosa’s dinner goes cold as she blazes through the first three chapters of The Crimson Portal. At the end of the third chapter – The C’y’thian Denizens – she lays the book flat on the kitchen table so she can pack the chicken and rice back into a tupperware bowl. She grabs a diet soda and a bag of Pirate’s Booty stashed in the back of her pantry instead, and she takes the book and the popcorn and the drink to her living room and curls up on her sofa, socked feet pulled up under her legs and a blanket in her lap.

She can’t remember the last time she just indulged in a book. Not since she was a child, for sure. She reads for hours, well after her bedtime, pausing only to take out her contacts and change into pajamas, and later to crawl into bed, where she keeps reading under the orange glow of her bedside lamp.

Xiomara is mean and hilarious. She’s a fierce protector and a ruthless revenge-seeker and she’s smart in a way that’s useful in her adventure-seeking life. She speaks three languages – the one of her birth, the one of her youth, and the one that was an unexpected side effect of the time she was poisoned by the Liars of Dollomar – and is proud of the heritage that unspools before her as she seeks the Ancient Forbidden Rings.

Xiomara knows herself. And if the rest of her world doesn’t understand her, that’s their problem. Rosa is in love.

She finally closes the book, sliding a slim razor between the pages to mark her place, when her eyes are aching and her concentration is so shot that she knows she’ll probably have to reread the last chapter or two in the morning. She sets the book on her nightstand and turns off the lamp, and when she closes her eyes, she sees herself: tall, proud, wild hair flying all about, black eyes bright and eager even as the world burns all around her.

She smiles as she slips off to sleep.

End Notes:

Title is from Bikini Babe Workout (Bash Brothers).

The Skyfire episodes aren’t my favorites, but I love the idea of Rosa realizing that her doppelganger is the hero of a fantasy novel. And I love even more that she reads the book and totally digs it.

I haven’t actually read The Song of the Lioness (what I have here is from Wikipedia) so if I got something horribly wrong – I’m sorry? Please feel free to let me know and I’ll make revisions.

[imagineteamfreewill]

Soul-to-Soul

Title: Soul-to-Soul

Pairing: Reader x Sam

Word Count: 2,595

Warnings: Pain and torture but nothing more than in canon

Summary: Y/N and Dean continue to try and track down Sam and Cas.

A/N: This is part 13 of The Switch! Please leave feedback, and enjoy!

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_______________

Every attempt at locating Cas had failed. Both you and Dean were at the end of your rope, and the words on the page in front of you were growing blurry from both exhaustion and from unshed tears. You’d been trying different spells for over five hours now. The first—the one they’d always been able to use without a problem—hadn’t worked, leaving the two of you at a loss. You were running out of options, and every attempt after the first spell had become more and more desperate.

“Y/N, you should sleep,” Dean said. “Let me do the work for a while.”

You looked up at him and shook your head. “We’ve been up for the same amount of time, Dean, and you’re the one who’s been doing the actual work. If anyone should rest, it’s you.” Tears spilled down your cheeks and you wiped them away with the back of your hand, ashamed. Dean was holding himself together, you should be able to, too.

Dean sighed and ducked his head, running a hand through his hair. “We’ll try one more spell, and then we both get some rest.”

Staring at him from across the table, you debated whether or not he was telling the truth. You knew he had a bad habit of burning the candle at both ends, especially when Sam or Cas were involved, and you weren’t sure if you could trust him not to lie to you in a situation like this. Finally, you relented and gave him a tired nod.

“One more spell. Do you have one in mind?” you asked.

He stood, picking up the book he’d been looking through. You followed him into the War Room, where the spell supplies were still set up, and Dean handed you the book as he began to prepare the ingredients. Lately, you’d been getting better at reading spells, and this one looked easy enough that you would be comfortable doing it while Dean did the mixing.

“A summoning spell?” You looked up at Dean as you got to the end. The Men of Letters had written a thorough description of the spell at the bottom of the page. “Don’t we already have summoning spells?”

“I figure if we can summon Cas, maybe he’ll bring Sam back with him. He’s his vessel, and this one specifies something about the vessel. The words are smudged, but it’s what we’ve got, right?”

After a moment, you nodded and sighed heavily. “Okay. Let’s give it a try.”

Dean finished preparing the initial ingredients and put them into the bowl, nodding at you to begin. You started the incantation, glancing up from the page every so often to make sure that you were reading slow enough for him to keep up. Both you and Dean finished the spell at the same time and the ingredients in the bowl flashed a blinding white. You flinched, clutching the open book against your chest. Dean took a step back as well, only lowering his hand arm from his face when the glow faded away.

The bunker was silent and the War Room was still empty except for the two of you. When you finally relaxed, you looked at Dean for an answer. Before he could say anything, however, an outraged shout echoed from the depths of the bunker. Wide-eyed, you dumped the spellbook on the table and raced after Dean, who was already running towards the source with his gun drawn.

Cas was standing in the hallway outside of the bedroom his vessel had been stashed in, his eyes wild and filled with anger. His shoulders heaved up and down as he breathed, his nostrils flaring slightly as he stalked towards you and Dean.

“How could you?” he shouted, and Dean quickly put away his gun.

“Where’s Sam?” you asked. “Why are you in this vessel? The spell—”

“The spell you used,” Cas growled as he stepped closer to you, “is meant to return the angel to its original vessel, its vasa in domum suam—its home.”

“Your home… Sam isn’t your normal vessel,” you said. Your heart sunk in your chest and swallowed thickly. Your hands were beginning to tremble as you tried to put together the pieces of what this meant for Sam. “He’s all alone.”

Dean cursed under his breath and you turned away from them, trying not to break down as you thought of what Sam was probably going through. Not only was his only link to you, his only lifeline, and his only friend ripped away from him, but it was done by you and his brother. Sam was all alone and in serious danger, and it truly was all your fault, no matter what Dean had told you.

“Y/N,” Dean said, reaching for you. His voice was frantic, but your mind was spinning with everything that had happened. You felt a hand on your arm, trying to help you stay upright as the hallway spun around you. Two fingers pressed against your forehead just as you felt as if you might throw up, and immediately, the dimness of your vision retreated and your chest didn’t feel as tight. Sleep pulled you in and you slumped against the man holding you, letting him support your body weight as you slipped into blissful unconsciousness.

_______________

Sam was in shock, both from the torture inflicted on him by Amanda and from Cas being torn away from him. It had been like a knife of pain through his head, and he’d heard Cas’ anguished roar for a split-second before all was silent. Sam had let out a scream of his own, making both Rowena and Amanda look over at him from where they’d been analyzing some of Rowena’s notes.

“Sam?” Rowena prodded. “Would you like to tell me that was?”

Still trying to muscle through the pain and process what had happened, Sam slumped forward as much as the cuffs and the chains would let him. His heart was pounding in his chest as he squeezed his eyes shut, waiting for the pain in his head to diminish. The cuts on his arms were still throbbing and he tried to focus on that instead, but the sharp pain was still radiating throughout his skull from behind his right temple. If he’d had anything left to throw up, he probably would.

“That wasn’t me, Rowena,” Amanda quietly told her. “I swore that I wouldn’t use witchcraft for these trials.”

Rowena nodded sharply and stood, setting her notebook down before stepping over to Sam and grabbing his face in one hand, tilting it up and forcing him to crane his neck so she could see his face.

“Tell me what happened, Samuel, or Y/N will be feeling more pain than she has been,” Rowena ordered, her voice dripping with malice. She hadn’t done anything but threaten him for the past few hours, and Sam was tired, despite the fact that he knew Y/N was fine. Though, he couldn’t be sure now that Cas wasn’t there to negate Rowena’s threats.

“Screw you,” Sam spat.

Spittle landed on her cheek and as exhausted as Sam was, he felt a small sense of satisfaction at the sight. Grimacing in disgust, Rowena dropped his head and wiped it away. She turned around and sat in her chari once more, then gestured to Amanda as Sam straightened up in his chair.

“Again, Amanda,” she instructed. The lesser witch nodded and picked up her tools again, getting back to work.

Sam met Rowena’s eyes, knowing she could see the pain on his face as Amanda sliced along the bones and tendons in his hand. The device they’d attached to his handcuffs while he was last unconscious kept his fingers straight, and he grit his teeth as the knife cut deeper than it had been.

“You don’t seem too worried about me hurting Y/N,” Rowena commented as Amanda wiped her knife off on her apron. 

“You don’t seem too worried about your magic running out someday,” Sam retorted. “Maybe you should worry about your own problems, Rowena.”

She narrowed her eyes at him, then looked up at Amanda and nodded. The knife stabbed into the back of his shoulder and Sam jerked forward, letting out a yell as she twisted it. He squeezed his eyes shut, grinding his teeth together as the pain intensified. 

“That’s enough,” Rowena ordered after a moment. “Leave us.”

Amanda obeyed, pulling out the knife and tossing it onto the metal cart as she left. Once the door was securely shut once more, Rowena turned and focused her gaze on Sam. He could feel the blood quickly soaking into his shirt from the wound in his shoulder as he tried to catch his breath and push his way through the intense pain.

“What did you mean by my magic running out?” she asked. Her voice was even, but the venomous glimmer in her eyes told Sam all he needed to know..  “Do you know something I don’t?”

Sam didn’t reply and Rowena scoffed. She turned around and went back to her seat, closing the notebook and setting it aside.

“Really, Samuel. If we can’t talk, then what kind of relationship do we have?”

Sam’s heart was still pounding in his chest as he glared at her, shifting in his seat and trying to ignore the way his hands throbbed and felt warm and sticky from the blood covering them. “Go to hell.”

“You will tell me what you meant,” she responded coolly. She glanced back at him before pulling a cell phone out of her pocket, then stepping into the corner of the room as she dialed and lifted it to her ear. Sam strained to hear the conversation, but he only caught brief snippets of what she was saying before she ended the call. 

“I’ll be back,” Rowena said, turning to face him as she slipped the phone back into her pocket. She smiled briefly. “And when I do, Samuel, you’ll be ready to answer my questions, one way or the other.”

Sam swallowed thickly once the door was locked. He closed his eyes, trying not to think about the way his whole body felt weak or how if he didn’t get out of here soon, he’d probably die from blood loss over anything else.

Cas? Can you hear me?

There was no response, and Sam tried to ignore the hopeless tear that rolled down his bloody, scarring cheek.

_______________

“We tried everything, man,” Dean explained, and you struggled to open your eyes as he continued, “Security cameras, tracking spells… Nothing worked.”

He sounded defeated, and your though you’d only just regained consciousness, your eyes pricked with tears.

“The building is heavily warded, both inside and out,” Cas replied, sounding frustrated. “I don’t know where we were, and I can’t find him now. If you’d only done a more literal translation of the spell instead of just believing that everything the Men of Letters transcribed was correct…”

“I’m sorry,” you managed to croak out, and both men looked at you from the bedroom doorway. “I’m sorry we pulled you back, Cas.”

Dean was the first one to step inside, holding out a water bottle for you as you sat up with your back against the headboard. You took it gratefully and sipped it in silence, waiting for them to speak up again.

Finally, Cas stepped into the room and sat on the end of your bed. His eyes were sad and you swallowed thickly, your heart sinking into your stomach. 

“Y/N—”

“This is all my fault, isn’t it?” you interrupted, your voice quiet.

“No,” Dean quickly answered. “This isn’t your fault, Y/N. Rowena’s had it out for us for a long time. Just because she’s using you and Sam to get what she wants doesn’t mean that this is your fault. She would’ve done something else even if you weren’t here.”

You nodded and kept your eyes on the blankets they’d covered you with, then took another long drink from the bottle.

“There is another option,” Cas said after a long moment.

You looked up, giving him a sad look. “We’ve already tried everything, Cas. What else is there?”

“Your soul.”

Dean shook his head. “No,” he said, his voice stern. “That’s not on the table. It almost wrecked Y/N the last time we tried it, and if Sam finds out—”

“Sam won’t find out unless we do this,” you told him. Reaching over, you set your water bottle on the bedside table and pushed the blankets off your lap, standing up to face him. “It’s my soul, Dean. You didn’t argue last time, so please, please don’t argue this time. I want Sam back as much as you.”

Maybe more, you thought, but you didn’t speak the words as you stared Dean down.

He didn’t seem swayed and you let out an annoyed huff. “If this is a sure-fire way to find him, we shouldn’t give it up. What if this is our only shot? You really want to spend the rest of your life regretting this?”

Reluctantly, Dean nodded and let his shoulders slump. You could see the relief in his green eyes at the thought of being able to track down his little brother, and you put your hand on his shoulder in empathy as you pushed past him to grab the leather belt you knew was tucked in the back of Sam’s dresser drawer. Both men waited in silence as you settled yourself on the side of the bed, exhaling heavily and closing your eyes. You gripped the belt tightly with both hands. This would be painful, that much you knew, but you weren’t quite sure if it would be any better than the first time.

“Are you ready?” Cas asked, now standing in front of you.

You lifted your head, giving them both a weak smile as you folded the leather belt in half and let out another shaky exhale. “Soul-to-soul GPS, right? It never fails?”

“Right,” Dean responded. He squeezed your shoulder once before pulling his hand away so you could bite down on the belt, your hands dropping back down to your sides to grip the side of the mattress.

You squeezed your eyes shut as you felt the first burn of Cas’ touch on your soul. It felt like you’d swallowed fire and more than anything you wanted to push him away from you, but you forced yourself to bite down on the belt instead. You could feel your whole body tense as the pain increased. In the back of your mind, you realized that this pain was more intense than you’d remembered, or at least it seemed that way. 

Finally, Cas pulled his hand away and you slumped forward, letting the belt drop for your mouth as you gasped for air for a long few moments. Once your lungs weren’t burning, you moved to push yourself up from the bed.

“Easy, tiger,” Dean said. He put a hand on your shoulder and forced you to sit before you were even off the mattress. Reflexively, you grabbed onto the side of his flannel, pulling on it to try and keep yourself steady.

“I’ve got you,” he soothed, and you felt him rub a hand over your back as Cas pulled the belt off your lap.

“Sam,” you gasped out, dizziness and nausea hindering you from putting a coherent thought together.

“I found him,” Cas comforted you. “Dean, get her to the car. I’ll grab your things.”

You let your eyes fall closed as soon as you’d wrapped your arms around Dean’s neck. He picked you up with ease, one arm underneath your legs, and carried you down the hallway towards the garage. The steady sound of his footsteps against the tile lulled you into a light sleep, and when you blinked your eyes open next, Dean was setting you in the backseat of the Impala.

We’re going to find him, you reassured yourself as you felt yourself start to fall asleep again, the car rumbling to life beneath you. He’s going to be okay.

_______________

When you regained awareness, the first thing you registered was the feeling of someone stroking your hair. It was a struggle to force your eyes open, but for the sight of Sam’s face above yours, you would’ve struggled for a thousand years.

“You’re okay,” you rasped.

Sam looked down, meeting your eyes with a sigh of relief. He was beat up, that was for sure, but he was still your Sam, and he was alive. That was more than you could ask for.

“Hey,” he said, a small smile on his face. “How you feeling?”

“Hey!” Dean cried from the driver’s seat. “She awake?”

“She’s awake,” Sam answered. His smile grew as you slowly reached your hand up to touch his cheek. “She’s doing fine.”

“I was so worried,” you whispered. Tears started to form in your eyes and you blinked, making them roll down the sides of your face as your lower lip wobbled. “We couldn’t find you.”

“I know, I know,” Sam quickly soothed. “But it’s okay. I’m okay, Y/N. We’re going home now.”

You nodded slightly, closing your eyes and rubbing them. Your whole body was sore and stiff, but you sat up anyway, letting Sam help you until you were upright in the leather seats.

“How long was I out?” you asked, meeting Dean’s eyes in the rearview mirror.

“Almost two days,” he answered. You stared back at him in shock, then looked over at Sam, who gave you a tired smile.

“Two days? And I just”—you gestured to the backseat—“laid here?”

Sam nodded slightly and laced his fingers with yours. “They left you in here when they came in to get me, and you’ve been out since then. We’ve been driving for a few hours now.”

“Well, what about Rowena? Is she— Did you kill her?”

Sam pressed his lips together and you could see the anger and frustration in his eyes, even in the dim light of the car. “No. She got out before Dean and Cas could get past the wardings. She must’ve had some kind of magical alarm system set up.”

You sighed, rubbing your face with your hand. “She got away.”

“We’ll find her,” Sam reassured you. “And I promise that I won’t do anything like that again.”

“You promise?” you asked, looking over at him.

“I promise. Now come on, you look exhausted. I’ll wake you up when we get to the motel.” Sam tugged on your hand until you slid across the seat, allowing him to wrap one arm around your shoulders.

“Motel?”

“We could all use a break,” Dean answered from the front. “It’ll be warded and as safe as we can make it, but I can’t drive all night and no one else is in the condition to. Even Cas is exhausted.”

You glanced over at your angel friend, who was sitting silently in the passenger seat, watching out the window. Finally, you nodded and closed your eyes, cuddling up to Sam.

The Impala’s rumble could lull you to sleep in a heartbeat, but you fought against it this time, trying to memorize the sounds in the car and the feeling of being up against Sam. Though he’d promised that he wouldn’t sacrifice himself again, you still held your doubts. After all, Winchesters don’t become less self-sacrificial just because they found their soulmate. That’s not how any world worked, but especially not yours.

_______________

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