#Struggled to finish this for a bit because of the new phone process Explore tagged Tumblr posts

[cconfusedkat]

Okay so to clarify i Didn't redesign my bishops (Other Than Leshy,) and i just wanted to redraw them with this new brush that ive been using DHWJDJD

I thought about how important body language is #Tbh ,, for example the other three are Fine with being within the cult but kallamar is the only one who just doesnt wanna be there Lolol

Better quality focuses below the cut c: and also naked refs just cuz i find it fun to draw their bodies first 🎉

Also extra i didnt mention. Shamura is barely serious on crusades with allure KNAODKADJA

[starmapz]

Your writing is amazing. I'm in love with the college! sukuna series you're working on! Can I ask how you got into writing/how your writing process goes? I really wanna get into writing but I struggle with outlining plots and just like to write and make up the story as it comes to my mind 😭🫶🏽

hiiiii love!! this is so sweet thank you sm <33 i'm so glad to hear you're loving college!kuna because i'm loving writing for it 🥹

you are absolutely more than welcome to ask! so i've been writing for about 12 years now but haven't published anything until recently but i've always enjoyed it. i don't think i ever finished any of my pieces until recently either bc i struggled with outlines and completing things.

i think what helped me the most personally to get past that blockade is that i got into writing for jjk specifically around the same time as a close friend got into writing for another fandom so we beta one another's work and bounce ideas past each other as well, bless her

as for my process itself, i think i actually have a fairly messy process tbh? most of my inspiration comes from music but the majority of fleshing out those ideas comes from the fact that i daydream more than the average person probably should LOL. my mind is just constantly writing the next scene.

i also physically can't write scenes in advance bc if i do i won't write the scenes i'm less inspired for that come before what i've already gotten down, so i write in the order that you all are reading it. i do have notes/planning docs with basic outlines of what i'd like in each chapter but it's genuinely just the word vomit i've sent to my beta reader. it's messy and totally not concrete and i don't stick by it if i feel what i've got planned isn't/won't work.

another thing that i find works well for me is that i actually really enjoy the editing process so if i'm not fully happy with a scene but i'm having a bit of a block, i'll move along if it's at least complete enough to call it 'done', then go back during editing once i've had some time to think it over. i know a lot of people don't like editing, so this may not work for everyone, but taking a step back and thinking things over can always be a good strategy.

my best pieces of advice would be these: - just start writing and see what happens, bc honestly even my work from like 8 months ago or so when i first started this blog i sometimes read again and i can see my improvement and it makes me proud of where i've come from. - if you have an idea, even if it's the middle of the night, open your phone and jot down a note. it's saved so many of my ideas from disappearing into nothing. - read lots! i think the fact that i read a lot of fics alongside writing them has helped me improve as well, bc i try to learn new words/styles from other writers. i find my older writing used to be a lot more rigid, like i wasn't willing to use capitals or multiple exclamation marks to signify yelling, but at the end of the day i realized i like when others do that, so why shouldn't i? i enjoy more casual prose as it feels more realistic at times, so i've adapted that into my writing as well. by knowing what you like to read, you can figure out more how you like to write. - lastly, don't overthink things! remember, if you enjoy what you wrote, others will too. write for yourself and do what you love :)

tysm for all the love, i hope this helps even a little bit <33 sorry for the word vomit LOL and i hope you have a great day/night bb!

[tobesolonely]

braided

a/n: hello everyone, this is my first ever piece of work im posting on here!! i’m a lil nervous to post it, but the idea came to me while i was taking a shower and i really wanted to write it so here it is <333 the concept is kinda personal to me as a Black woman but i really wanted to share my feelings and also make it a lil fluffy (kinda?? hopefully?) anyway please enjoy and leave feedback i would really appreciate it!

word count: ~1k

warnings: none! a lil fluffy <33

my ko-fi! thank you :)

“Still up for the farmer’s market tomorrow, darling? We should get there early before the crowds form.” Harry suggests, walking back into his bathroom to finish up his extensive, nightly skincare routine.

You look up from your phone, about to voice your confirmation when you suddenly remember what you have planned for tomorrow. You made an appointment with your hair braider nearly two weeks ago but she was so booked with summer starting that tomorrow was the soonest appointment you could get. “I can’t,” you sigh, locking your phone and setting it down next to you on Harry’s bed. “I’m getting my hair done tomorrow at eleven.”

Harry pokes his head out of his bathroom, face gleaming from the serum he just rubbed all over it. “S’no problem darling, farmer’s market doesn’t close ‘til one. We’ll make it.”

At this statement, you can’t help but to throw your head back and laugh. Harry’s certainty that your hair would be done within two hours, given your hairstylist was actually ready for you by 11, was laughable. Yours and Harry’s relationship was still fairly new and since he had never been in a relationship with a Black woman, he was still learning all about your hair-- what hair products work best, why you can’t just use his shampoo when you run out of the bottle you keep in his shower, why you don’t just wake up, run your fingers through your hair, and waltz out the door, why you don’t wash your hair every day, and so much more. However, he did not know how long it took for protective styles to be installed in your hair, and he certainly wouldn’t guess it’s an all-day affair.

“Heyyyyy,” he drawls, walking over to his bed and flopping next to you. “Yeh laughin’ at me? What’s so funny?” Harry has a genuine look of confusion on his face, poking you in your side.

You pull your body up from your lounging position and turn to face him, crossing your legs. “It’s just,” you start. “I think we’d do best to go to the farmer’s market next weekend. It’s just that my hair will take more than a couple hours, s’all.”

At this information, Harry's eyes widen. He looks at your hair, still obviously very confused. “More than a couple of hours? How? What are yeh gettin’ done to it?” The fact that your hair could take so long to do is just beyond him. He doesn’t understand at all and you giggle at his genuine curiosity.

“I’m getting box braids done. They’re a protective style, so that means you won’t have to wait 45 minutes for me to do my hair every time we go somewhere now!” He laughs at this, causing you to poke his dimple.

“I’ve seen those before! They look like they hurt. Do they hurt?” Harry is still extremely curious seeing as you haven’t explained anything to him. “Where are yeh goin’ to get them done? Can I come?”

You laugh again, amazed at how invested in your hair Harry is. “It kinda hurts a little if she installs them too tight but if she doesn’t, it’s fine,” you pause for a little bit, wondering if you should allow Harry to come with you. You didn’t want to just invite him to sit there tomorrow and take up space, especially because it might be a busy day. Also, your boyfriend, as you were slowly learning from the five months you’ve been together, could get extremely restless when he got bored. “I’m afraid you’ll be bored if you tag along.”

Harry shakes his head, getting up from the bed to turn off the overhead light. “None o’ that, lovie. You know I’m never bored when I’m with yeh. Would love to go and see what the process is like if ya don’t mind me being there.”

Your heart swells at the fact that Harry wants to put in the effort to understand more about your hair. As a Black woman, your hair was one part of you that you’ve struggled to love your entire life and are still learning to love. The way you care for your hair and all the work that goes into it is not something you talk about with everyone, not even all of your girlfriends. “I’ll text my stylist tomorrow morning and make sure it won’t be a problem to have an extra body there.”

Harry climbs back into bed and pulls back the covers, snuggling up to you. “Can’t wait.”

⋆⋆⋆

“Harry please c’mon, you know I don’t like being late for things!” You call up the steps of his flat, looking at the time on your phone that read 10:47 a.m.

“‘M comin’, lovie,” he yells down at you. “Lookin’ for my book. Yeh seen it?”

You think for a moment before remembering you saw it on the floor of the bathroom last, assuming he left it there after his bath last night. “Bathroom. I’m gonna wait in your car, okay?” Harry tells you again that he’s coming and you grab his keys from the counter, make sure you have your braiding hair, and go outside. He comes out shortly after, sunglasses on and hood up.

“Sorry, love. I’ll get us there, don’t worry,” he grabs your hand and places a kiss to it. “How do I get there?”

You direct Harry to your hair shop and get there quicker than you anticipated, not realizing that Harry’s place was a little closer to it than yours. He parks the car and scrambles out, quickly walking around to your side to open the door for you. “C’mon babe, didn’t mean to make you late. It’s a few past 11.” His urgency is so cute that you don’t tell him that your hairstylist most likely isn’t even ready for you yet.

Upon walking in, your hairstylist greets you and Harry excitedly. “Hey, girl! Have a seat, I’m almost done with her.” You and Harry look at the client she has in her chair, seeing she’s also getting box braids and isn’t even halfway done.

“See,” you lean over and whisper. “I told you it would be best to go to the farmer’s market next weekend.”

[vaxreed]

27 Hankvin <33

Thank you so much for being patient!!! I hope this is what you were thinking of! 

Hankvin + Meeting at a Support Group AU 

Tw: mentions of past alcoholism and topics surrounding it and the recovery. There’s a lot of inaccuracies but I did quite of bit of research to make it appropriate for fanfic and for the sake of their romance. Shout out to Church and Monica from the HankVin discord with helping me find sources and information.

Feel free to send me more prompts if you’re okay with it taking 30 years

|| Ao3 LINK ||

+++ 

“Hi, my name’s Gavin, and I’ve been clean for 5 years.”

Murmured greetings washed over the small circle. Hank was here for the first time after hitting rock bottom. Connor had pleaded him to get clean after he found him on the floor, pale and a bullet hole a few inches away from his head in the wall.

Connor was patient with this process and took up all his work while he was in rehab. Getting sober was probably the most difficult thing he’s gone through, aside from Cole’s death, which he is still recovering him. He doesn’t know if he’ll ever feel free from the deep emptiness he has in his chest. That boy was everything to him, and he was ripped away from him. There was no escape except at the bottom of a bottle of Jack Daniels.

Now, he was in this twelve-step program. He didn’t think they worked, but he had promised Connor he would try. It made him feel like he was weak for needing help like this. It was sad to see so many young people here who were taken by the bottle so young.

The man who was currently speaking seemed about 20 years his junior. He heard him say he was clean for 3 years; it seems like this program kept a tight community that had members from all lengths of sobriety. It also told him that he would be struggle with the itch to drink his sorrows for his entire life.

“I’m gonna cut the bullshit. It’s never easy, but it gets easier. I can go through the liquor aisle and not stop.” After the man finished speaking the group leader asked if anyone else would like to share.

“We seem to have a new member. You don’t have to tell us anything you don’t want to, but if we can put a name to the face.” the group leader smiled at him and Hank felt the eyes on him.

He felt intense steely gaze of the man who just spoke on him; he felt his fingers fidget.

“Yeah, um, my name’s Hank. I’ve been clean for 3 weeks now.” and people murmured greetings and congratulations. His eyes found it hard to leave the battered stranger. Gavin was it?

“I recommend the new people of our group find a sponsor. There’s an old saying ‘Stick with the winners’ we have plenty of people here who have been at this a long time in their journey you should consider.” they left with goals they wanted to complete and took a coffee break.

The stranger kept eyeing him. Hank had about enough. He strode up to him, paper coffee cup in hand.

“Somethin’ wrong with your eyes?” trying hard to suppress the hostility in his voice.

[mobile readers, beware the read more line]

The man didn’t look phased at his aggression, like he’s numb to it at this point. His eyes instead lit up with curiosity.

“I’ve seen you before.”

Hank stiffened at this. This was supposed to anonymous which was supposed to bring him comfort at not being recognized.

“Calm down, I don’t actually know you, as in we’ve never met. I’m Detective Reed.” giving him a half wave.

A detective? Detective Reed. Hmm he’s heard that name before. Never actually met the man but he’s come up before at the station.

“We’ve spoken on the phone. About the red ice case, you were handling it on the Chicago side.” Finally remembering his voice and the hinted Chicago lilt he had in the words he spoke. His voice held a faint growl that Hank found himself drawn to. He heard it while he spoke during the meeting.

“Yeah, that’s me. You’re kinda famous even on our side.” he reminds him of how grand he used to be. Hank feels a pit of shame of how far he’s fallen.

“Been keepin’ up on your current cases too. Pretty impressive. Enough ass kissin’. Not my style.” If Hank didn’t know any better, he thinks this guy has a bit of hero worship. He realizes in this room they are nothing but people who want nothing more but help and to be clean.

“Yeah? What brings you here?” He almost regrets asking the way Gavin’s eyes avert his.

“Well, guess you could say it’s the same reason I’m goin’ to these meetings.”

Hank nodded in understanding knowing full what he meant. Fowler had tried everything to get through to him. Jumped through hoops to make sure he had a job. He owed everything to Connor and Fowler. Reed, it seems, was given a transfer to Detroit.

He gave the man another once over. Strong jaw, face covered in faint and not-so-faint scars. Lips tantalizing him for a bite and eyes that oozed defiance.  

Gavin smirked as he noticed Hank’s gaze and asked. “Wanna grab a coffee after this?”

Hank felt hot under Gavin’s knowing eyes. His self hadn’t been this good in while. This guy was young and attractive and was giving him some signals. Or perhaps he was reading it wrong and this is how he typically acted. Perhaps he just enjoyed the presence of another cop in this place and wanted to be his sponsor.

“What’s wrong with the coffee here?”

Gavin snorted, “It tastes like it was dipped in ass.”

Hank’s lips curled in amusement and nods as he motions Gavin to lead the way. They left in the middle of meeting; he doesn’t know how much Connor would appreciate knowing he left with the troublemaker of the group. He wondered if coffee really meant coffee. He forced the thoughts out. He was here for help not a booty call. He wouldn’t risk his recovery for anything.

It turns out it was just coffee. Gavin took him to this little hole in the wall place 3 blocks away from the AA building. They sat in a booth in the back, watching as Gavin grumbled a greeting to the waitress.

They sat across one another in silence, seemingly forgetting how to have and hold a conversation. Hank felt the need to fill the silence with something, but Gavin simply sipped his coffee and looked out the window.

“First meeting can be sorta rough, figured you could use a break outside of it.” finally breaking the silence continuing to look out the window.

Hank was taken back by the casual thoughtfulness of the idea. It had been hard being surrounded with that many people and so many of them had been sober longer than he could ever hope. It was overwhelming.

Hank didn’t say anything for a moment.

“You lookin’ to be my sponsor or somethin’?”

Gavin scoffed.

“I’m grateful as hell for my sponsor, she did everything she could to keep me from relapsing.” Gavin took a sip of his coffee and looked at Hank.

“I relapsed once. She found me in my apartment covered in my own puke. Cleaned me up, made me coffee and screamed her lungs out at me.” he laughs at the memory.

“Everyone’s been treating me like glass like any little thing would make me relapse.” Hank understood this very well. He knows Connor means well, and he appreciates his effort, but sometimes he could be overprotective and overbearing.

“But she didn’t. She gave me that tough love I needed.”

“Did you two…” his words heavy with insinuation, Gavin threw his head back and laughed, Hank felt his stomach flip.

“Nah, we’re both too gay for that shit.” once he finished laughing.

“Someone ever tell you you talk a lot?”

“If I had a dime every time someone told me to shut the fuck up…” he joked.

“I’m tellin’ ya to get to the point.”

“I’m tellin’ you I’m not gonna be a nurturing type sponsor. If you’re looking for me to hold your hand, then you should look for someone else.”

Gavin takes another sip of his coffee; Hank watches him with curiosity eager to hear what he has to say next.

“You’re a cop, right? It makes it harder. I know what that’s like. I won’t be nice, but I’ll be there for you. No bullshitting around.”

“That’s the kind of thing I need. I don’t need overbearing or hand holding.”

Gavin smirked. “Well, then got yourself a sponsor.”

The next few weren’t easy, but being Gavin made it bearable. He was right, he wasn’t nice. He was an abrasive arrogant asshole.

But he was there when he needed him. He always picked up the phone at 2 a.m when he was thinking about going to the nearest liquor store and losing himself. Gavin was good at distracting him by starting up arguments about which baseball team was better. Chicago’s or Detroit. 

Hank tells him, “You guys have two teams and still suck ass.” Hearing the feigned offended gasp from Gavin never ceases to make him smile. He looks forward to it.

Hank would always get heated from Gavin knowing which buttons to press. By the time 4 A.M rolled around Hank almost forgot that he woke up in a cold sweat 2 hours earlier with the urge to drink.

They hung out every other day and would see each other at meetings. Before he would dread the meetings only because going there reminded him of far he had fallen. He’s told Gavin this and he watched as his face scrunched up in anger.

“You dumbass. Being there means you’re alive and you’re making your life better for yourself. It’s not failure it’s a God damn success. Every meeting is a fucking achievement.”

The dread turned to excitement. It meant he’d get to see Gavin again. The younger man usually walks in later than he did and would give Hank a quick nod while making a beeline for the coffee. He watches him as he takes the first sip and make a face of disgust. He’s never surprised to see him continue to drink it anyway.

After the meeting they would get lunch and chat about what had happened since they last saw each other. Hank wasn’t a particularly chatty person, but with Gavin it was different.

He remembers talking to Connor about him as they have yet to meet. Connor watched him with wariness.

“Hank…please don’t take this the wrong way.” He starts.

“Spit it out, Connor.”

“Are your feelings for Gavin starting to deviate into something inappropriate.” Hank choked on his coffee, coughing as he felt the liquid go down the wrong pipe. The idea of him and Gavin? They’ve only known each other for 9 months. But it’s honestly the happiest he’s felt since…well. Cole. He’d never be that happy again. But this was close.

Hank was silent after he coughed trying to clear the coffee from his airways.

“What the hell, Connor?” his mouth went dry, the way Connor was looking at him made his fingers twitch.

“If I’m wrong, I apologize.” he said after a moment. Connor wasn’t wrong when it came to picking up on things. Hank hadn’t noticed feelings growing inside him.

He hadn’t noticed the way his eyes would linger on his lips as he spoke. Or how his shaky hands felts so still when Gavin playfully clasped him on the shoulder. How he looked forward to hearing the grogginess in his voice when he calls him at 2 in the morning. The butterflies in his stomach he tried to suppress every time he would see his little arrogant smirk.

“I don’t…know what I’m feelin’.” after thinking about it for a moment.

Connor blinked in surprise at Hank’s honesty. The program and Gavin must have made him a bit more in touch with his feelings.

“Maybe you should tell Gavin.” Connor suggested.

—-That brought them back at the coffee shop for one of their weekly updates. It was mostly just to talk about the game from the previous night, but for Hank he wanted to say something more.

Gavin seemed to have notice the tension in the air. He didn’t say anything. Let Hank have the first say clear the air with whatever he wanted to get off his chest.

After a few minutes of silence, it seems Gavin’s small amount of patience ran out.

“Spit it out already? Did you relapse? Cuz you know that’s okay that’s what I’m here for.” Gavin’s face is determined, and he slides his hand on the table. Hank sees his hand begin to try and reach for his but in the last second plants his palm flat on the table.

Hank resists the urge to reach out but stopped himself too. Instead shaking his head in response.

“No, it’s something else…”

Gavin’s face hinted relief and transitioned concern. His face flashed a certain hardness to it.

“Guess I know what it is. Wanna change sponsors? I get it. It’s fine. Don’t worry you gotta do the best thing for your recovery. I’m not the most nurturing guy or anything and I’m not exactly that fun to hang out with but—”

“Will you shut up for a second?” Hank feeling a hint of annoyance but also wanted to soothe Gavin of his insecurities.

Gavin shut his mouth forehead crease his face confused but willing to listen to what Hank had to say.

“Not to kiss your ass, but you’re a great sponsor. I haven’t been close to relapsin’ since meeting you. You’ve done more for me than I expected. You’re there for me and you’re not as big of an asshole as you let people know. I don’t know we’ve only known each other a few months but….” the look in Hank’s eye said everything he didn’t say and everything he felt.

Gavin stared at him, eyes blown open, mouth hanging slightly ajar. Hank waited expectantly for Gavin to process everything.

“I… have to go.”

Gavin took some bills from his pocket leaving it on the table and leaving without another word.

Hank felt his insides crumble.

—-Connor kept an extra eye on Hank after that. Hank didn’t relapse, just felt empty. Empty at home. At the station. Only 3 days had passed, and he’s heard nothing from Gavin. The alcohol called to him, but he keeps on thinking on the disappointed look on Gavin’s face. It was hard to resist, and Connor was like a hawk, trying to get anything to drink would be nearly impossible.

He shouldn’t have said anything. It was too fast. It was inappropriate. Gavin wanted to help with his recovery and Hank made it complicated with feelings. You weren’t supposed to fall for your sponsor. He ruined everything. A good friend, someone he cared for deeply, chased off by his feelings.

—-

‘Meet me at the diner. Regular time.’

The message from Gavin sent Hank in a spiral of emotions. Gavin was speaking to him again after what felt like forever. What if it was to tell him they could no longer spend time together? Part of him didn’t want to go in fear of rejection. He was fully prepared for Gavin to look at him with a mixture of pity and disgust and tell him to never contact him again.

Before he could decide he was already in his car. Hours had passed and he was on his way to their diner. He spotted Gavin’s car. The man was never early to anything and so being here before he was added to the intensity of the situation.

His stomach is in knots as he hears the familiar bell chime when he enters the diner. There are a few people there already, Gavin sticks out among the rest. His entrance catches Gavin’s attention, the man looks up from his coffee, Hank averted his gaze and found the clock on the wall more interesting than Gavin’s stupidly pretty eyes.

He made it to their regular booth and sat down. The waitress poured Hank some coffee and left them to talk.

Silence was the first noticeable thing. Hank’s mouth dried up not knowing what to say. Anything he wanted to say die upon seeing Gavin.

“I’m sorry.” was the first thing Gavin said finally putting the deafening silence to an end.

Hank doesn’t know what to do with this statement. Sorry for not texting? Sorry for leaving so suddenly last time? Sorry for not reciprocating his feelings?

“For what?” He brings himself to say, voice trying not to crack under the strain of the tension between them.

Gavin runs a hand through the locks of his hair letting out a sigh and eyes starting at his coffee and landing on Hank.

“I don’t know…shit…I’m fuckin’…I don’t do this shit often. I’m sorry for bailing the other day. For not texting. It probably kinda fucked you up. 'Specially after you told me—”

“It’s fine, we all fuck up. You’re here now. Listen, you don’t have to say anything. You don’t feel the same way I get that.”

Gavin’s eyes widen.

“The fuck are you talkin’ about?” a confused look on his face appearance in the lines on his face.

“You’re my sponsor. You’re supposed to support me. Talk to me on the phone. Meet me up to check my progress. I misinterpreted that shit as feelings. I don’t know why a guy like you could ever love, hell, even like a guy like me. Fucked up as I am.”

Gavin’s expression grew increasingly more furious with each degrading thing Hank said about himself until Gavin slaps a hand on the table. It wasn’t loud enough to make Hank jump but to stop his rambling.

“Cut that shit out. You don’t know jackshit about how I feel about you or this situation. Sponsors aren’t supposed to talk to you for hours. They sure as hell aren’t supposed to meet for coffee 3 times a week. They aren’t supposed to think about what shade of blue your eyes are.”

Hank looks at him in hint of disbelief.

“What I’m sayin’ is, I feel the same fucking way. I left cuz I didn’t want you to get dragged down by my issues. Your recovery is the most important and I didn’t know if hanging around me would fuck you up.”

Hank continued listening, each word seemingly replacing the years alcohol had taken from his lifespan.

“I had to talk to my sponsor. She told me to stop being an idiot.” he chuckled at remembering her words. Gavin’s hand moved onto Hank’s. He moved over the table and pressing his lips against the older man’s, letting his lips tell Hank how much he means to him. Hank kisses back once the shock has died down, squeezing his hand in return.

It was everything Hank had hoped for. Gavin’s soft lips and tongue tasted of coffee, cigarettes, and sweet pastries. He could feel the stubble pleasantly scratch against his face. They parted ways once they remembered they were in a public space. Hank’s cheeks pinked by the experience.

“I can’t be your sponsor anymore.” Gavin said with a small smile. The words were soft, but Hank felt sadden at the fact Gavin would no longer hold that title.

“But that just means I can take you out.” Hank replies.

“It means you can fuck me into a mattress now, yeah.” Gavin’s eyes sparked with something Hank can’t quite place.

Hank scoffs, “Who says I’m doin’ the fucking?”

“Always knew you were a pillow princess.” Hank throws his head back and laughs, squeezing Gavin’s calloused hands again, never wanting to let go.

Their forgotten untouched coffee going cold as they continue to talk freely, without the restraints of sponsorship.

[abuziewicz]

my media use

At noon on Thursday, October 29th, I woke up. I had about two hours until I had to pick my sister up from school. I took a shower, got dressed, and went downstairs. By this point, it was around 12:30pm. I ate a bowl of cereal, picked up my phone, and laid down on the couch. When I get on my phone for the first time in a day, I check my emails and text messages first. I have emails from Venmo, Word of the Day, Postmates, and Holt International. Venmo let me know I had signed in to the app. Word of the Day gave me a fun new term: “subitaneous,” which can mean “suddenly.” I occasionally deliver food with Postmates, so they let me know what benefits they offer, such as store or entertainment discounts. Holt International is a Christian company that finds kids who are missing parents or struggling financially, and connects them with volunteers who sponsor them by sending a monthly fee over, to help them cover expenses. My parents have sponsored kids for years, and when I got my own source of income, they chose a girl in India for me to sponsor as well. Holt International sends me various promotional emails. I check my email to see if there are any coupons, or information that I need, such as paychecks. Mostly my email revolves around money, when I think about it. Sometimes I feel stressed out when I check my email, because my bank will tell me how much money I have, or I will read a subject line wrong and think I’m in trouble with a company. Usually, I just feel a sense of necessity, to see what I’m being emailed about, and to delete the emails I do not need. 

After I check my emails, I check my text messages. Most mornings this sequence is flipped, as messages are much more important in my world than emails are. However, this morning, the only text in my phone is a confirmation request for my wisdom teeth removal appointment in a week. I respond “Y” to confirm. I am a little nervous about the appointment, but I am glad it will happen so soon. 

It is now 1pm. On Monday, I had taken my one-year-old 16GB LG smartphone and factory reset it in the hopes of getting more storage and faster processing time. Unfortunately, this did not work out as well as I had hoped. While I did have more space, the “system” (undeletable, inaccessible parts of the phone) took up 9GB of my available 16, and would only increase, even after a full wipe. I click on Snapchat, take a quick close-up picture of my face, and begin to type. Any story posted to Snapchat will only last 24 hours before disappearing. There is an option for the poster to have story posts saved into their Memories, a camera roll just for Snapchat. I have a private Snapchat story, in which I control the amount of people who see what I specifically post in that area. In this story, I have about 30-33 viewers. I ask such viewers, over top of the close-up selfie, “Anyone with Apple iPhones: what is your storage like? I am thinking of converting.” After it successfully adds to my story, I am on the Snapchat “Chat” screen. I have “streaks” (numbers that indicate the number of days two people have sent each other Snaps back and forth for) with eleven people. I send, one by one, a different picture to each of the eleven people. When I first downloaded Snapchat, I had over two dozen, maybe even three dozen streaks. Some people have hundreds. Often, people take one single picture, indicate in some way that the image is being sent to maintain the Streak number, and send it to everyone they keep a streak with. I have eleven people I send streaks to. It is no great hassle for me to send a different picture to each person. In fact, I prefer it, as it takes up more time. Most people take a little while to respond anyways. I dislike when people respond to my Snapchats within seconds, it is stressful to me! “Don’t you have anything else going on?” I wonder. “I understand that it’s a pandemic, but do some homework or something. I only snapped you twenty seconds ago.” Once I have sent all of my streaks for the day, I scroll over to see what other people have put on their stories. I usually only have around 50 stories to go through each day. I pay a little more attention to some, a little less attention to others. It is pretty easy to skip quickly from one story to the next if I want, but it’s only 1:20, so I have time to look at each one. There are Friday fundraisers, one of my sister’s friends had an emergency appendectomy (thankfully she was fine, and excited to watch Impractical Jokers in the hospital), some people had work pictures or puppies in beds. Most of the stories make me smile, a few don’t elicit much of a response or thought besides “oh, that’s nice.” Usually Snapchat does not bring me negativity that I am aware of. Sometimes I worry for people, in the event of, oh, a hypothetical emergency appendectomy, or when someone is sad or worried. One person makes me frustrated sometimes, as they routinely ask people for money for rent and food, then use that money to get tattoos. They tell people they used their money to get a tattoo, not food or rent. Lately they have not posted any requests, but the next time they do, I will most likely block them. Mostly, I am happy to use Snapchat to see what my friends are up to, even if I can’t see them very often.

After scrolling through Snapchat, it’s around 1:40. I open the Instagram app. I talk to a few friends through Instagram direct messaging. I am actually not sure why that is our main form of communication, but I do not mind it. My friend Russell has answered my Snapchat story through Instagram. He has an older iPhone, but as long as he doesn’t update it, it doesn’t get any slower. We discuss other aspects of the iPhone. I am thoughtful about it. Another friend and I get into a small argument- we have both been busy, and were worried that we were growing apart. I am slightly annoyed, then understanding and calm. A group chat I am in, called The Rats, is sending pictures of baby opossums. They are adorable and their mouths open at a full 45-degree angle. The possums make me smile. Returning to the Instagram home page, I can see posts made by people I follow. I like nearly every post I see as I scroll down. Mostly I follow people I know, and a few brands. It takes only a minute or two to like everything and return to the top of the page. Similar to Snapchat, I take care of business, then move on to stories. I pay very little attention to Instagram stories. Even though I don’t follow a lot of brands, some of the people I follow post dozens of stories in a row. I have to click through them rapidly. Sometimes it makes me feel anxious to move so quickly. Usually, if someone repeatedly posts too much, I “mute” them, which means I do not have to see their story anymore unless I actively choose to. Sometimes, I forget, and am left tapping tensely through the tags. As I finish going through stories, my mom walks in the door. It’s 1:50pm.

My sister goes to a technical school 15 minutes away. She has to be picked up around 2:15pm. My mom puts down some bags from errands she’s run, grabs some water, and asks if my brother and I want to join her to pick up my sister. My brother is in the middle of an XBox match, but the dog and I love car rides, and joyfully accompany her. She asks me to turn on my Halloween playlist as we drive. Around 1:55pm, I connect to the car’s aux cord, and pull up Spotify. As we drive, I fiddle with the Spotify songs- even though I made the playlist, there are some songs I prefer to hear over others. I also occasionally respond to messages about iPhone storage. Each one convinces me a little more, bit by bit. I am on my phone for about seven of the fifteen minutes that we drive to the school. As we wait in the parking lot, I text a little more. We were in the parking lot for about fifteen minutes- my sister forgot her iPad in her classroom and had to go back for it. I am on my phone for about nine of those fifteen minutes. When my sister gets back again, we head towards home. Beggar’s Night is going on at 6pm. It is around 2:30pm. My sister and I are going to dress up as Dipper and Mabel from Gravity Falls for when we ladle out candy. My sister and the dog are dropped off at home so that she can finish her costume and he can run around the backyard. My mom and I go to Walmart to pick up candy. We do not usually allow ourselves to pick up candy until very shortly before Beggar’s Night, as we will eat it. Even less than four hours was not enough time to exercise self-control, as each member of the family stole a few pieces. I am not on my phone for most of the Walmart trip. We are only there for around twenty minutes, weighing the prices and candy amounts of each package. After paying and driving home, we get in the door around 3pm.

I get on my laptop to check my CState email and Blackboard. I have no due assignments for the night, but I check to make sure I haven’t forgotten something. This takes around five minutes. I begin to finish my Dipper costume (painting a white ball cap partially blue), periodically answering more iPhone suggestions, and responding to regular messages. The hours of 3pm, 4pm, and 5pm consist of texting, painting, and briefly eating. I spend about one & a half of the three hours texting. I can’t easily text while I paint, but I perform both tasks alternatively while I wait for the paint to dry or people to respond. When it hits 6pm, we are ready for Beggar’s Night. We have masks on, a long ladle to scoop candy into bags, and cover from the garage to protect us from rain. Over the course of the two hours, we only get about a dozen kids, maybe fifteen at the most. My mom scoops generously, since she knows anything left over won’t last until 9pm under our roof. People are grateful and talkative. I am on my phone only once during Trick or Treat, and only for five minutes, to upload a Snaochat story of my sister and I as Dipper and Mabel, and of course, send a couple of texts. After Trick or Treat is finished, we are all cold, and left with about 10 of the 255 candy pieces. We settle down in front of the TV.

It is now around 8pm. We watch TV together nearly every night as a family, usually for at least an hour. In celebration of October and Halloween, we have started to rewatch Stranger Things. Other shows we may watch include New Girl, My Name is Earl, Bob’s Burgers, The Good Place, and The Legend of Korra. Sometimes we’ll throw in a movie if we have enough time. Usually we watch three or four episodes per night- one episode from one show, then moving on to one episode of a different show. I love all of these shows fairly equally, though I can confidently say The Legend of Korra is my least favorite. I still enjoy it! In comparison, though, I enjoy it less than the others. We watch shows that usually include comedy, to end our days with a collective laugh. Tonight, we watch New Girl, then Stranger Things, followed by My Name is Earl and tying up the night with Bob’s Burgers. We only have two episodes left of The Good Place, so we have been putting off watching it. I am mostly finished texting for the day. Before 10pm, I send goodnight messages and plug my phone in to charge. The end credits of Bob’s Burgers mark the end of my day.

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Come to me now and rest your head part 13: Halloween (MCU Captain America fanfic)

This is part 13 of a 15-chapter fic about Bucky’s return and recovery, as told through a year’s worth of rough holidays. Not every chapter will be emeto, but all have some form of physical illness or mental health struggle that could be categorized as sickfic or whump.

We are in powers/no powers choose-your-own-adventure.

Contains emeto and migraines.

__________________________________________________________________

Bucky’s first day of work is the day before Halloween.  It took a few days after broaching the topic of a job with Steve to broach it with Sam, and all of two minutes after broaching it with Sam for him to offer Bucky a position at the VA, but it’s taken the better stretch of two months for Bucky accept and choose a start date.

If Bucky remembered his first day of kindergarten, he thinks he’d remember something like this morning.  Steve irons Bucky’s favorite flannel shirt and packs him a lunch and so many snacks that he doesn’t think he’ll be hungry enough or have time in his 4 to 6 hour workday to consume them all.

Sam comes by at 8:30 to pick him up.  Bucky doesn’t make it out of the bathroom until 8:33 because he’s quashing anxiety under the guise of trying one-handedly to pull his hair into a ponytail.  Luckily, Steve’s there to rescue him from the hair elastic and pour Sam a cup of coffee so everyone’s pretty much satisfied.  Sam and Bucky are on the road by 8:45.

“You’ll have flex hours,” Sam explains as they pull into the VA staff lot.  “So you can come in at any time you want as long as you make 20 hours in a week.  You can do 5 days of 4 hours, or 2 days of 8 and a 4, or whatever works in your schedule.  And your start time doesn’t matter.  I can keep picking you up, or Steve can drop you off, or if you feel like walking or someday you’re driving yourself…whatever works.”

It’s already a lot of information to process.

Sam leads Bucky down a maze of hallways.  Bucky’s grateful it’s away from the hospital-y wing and toward a more office-y area.

“Here you are,” Sam says, pushing open a door decorated with a large paper pumpkin.  “The billing office.”

There’s a waiting area with two pink upholstered chairs and an end table with several outdated magazines.  Behind a long counter sits a young woman in her 20s, and beyond that, Bucky can see several drab grey cubicles.

“Hey Darcy,” Sam says.  “This is James.”  They’d agreed beforehand that Bucky wanted to try going by his given name.

“Oh, hey,” Darcy says.  “I’ll get him set up.”  She smiles at Bucky.  “Come on back.  We got 4 part-time billers, but it looks like you’re the only one home today.”

She opens a swinging door at the end of the counter and escorts Bucky and Sam back into the cubicles.  They stop outside the end cube, which has a nameplate reading “JAMES” clipped to the dingy fabric.  “This is you,” Darcy says.  “You can decorate or whatever.  If you want.”

“Hm,” Bucky says.  He sets his backpack, which is filled mostly with snacks, on the desk beside the rather outdated computer monitor.

“You ready to get started in the system, or do you wanna walk around a little bit more first?” Darcy asks.

“Um…”  Bucky doesn’t know.

“I just ask ‘cause everyone’s pretty different in how they like to attack a new job.  How about I get you logged in, and you let me know if you want to break for a tour.”  Darcy steps back to her desk to wheel her swivel chair into Bucky’s cubicle.

“You’re doing good,” Sam reassures.  “I’ll hang out for a little bit.  But you’ll be fine with her.  She’s nice.”

Bucky sits at the computer and follows Darcy’s directions to log onto the computer and access the timekeeping system, then the billing system.  He nods at Sam when he slides out of the cube, feeling at least somewhat settled and in control.

“It’s a lot of clicking, and a little typing.”  Darcy glances at his stump arm and gracefully balances her looking before it becomes staring.  “Being a biller, it’s not that hard, but the pay’s so good because your real job is to keep confidentiality.  It’s all vets looking out for vets here, so that’s not really that hard either,” Darcy says.

“You’re a vet?” Bucky asks, not meaning it to come out so candidly.

“Yeah, I know I don’t really look the part.”  Darcy adjusts her glasses.  “I enlisted out of high school and did one tour.  Got injured, got discharged, now I’m going to college and doing this on the side.  Cause it pays better than my old internship.  Billing is cool except if you want to talk to people, so that’s why I do the desk instead of hanging back here.  You probably think I’m weird, but I like answering the phone.”

“Oh,” is what Bucky drudges up for a response.

She stays by his side for another 20 minutes, showing him how to take electronic paperwork and use it to fill out more electronic paperwork, match diagnosis codes, check names and addresses, and finally submit documents for filing.  It seems tedious, but manageable.

“I think you pretty much got it,” Darcy says.  “I’ll leave you to it.  Unless you want to go for a walk?”

Bucky shakes his head.

“Ok.  The tour’s not all that.  It’s really just a trip to the breakroom.  And the only thing cool about that place is the coffee.”  She continues, “So, just press on, I guess.  Ask questions if you have them.  Or if your monitor goes trippy, I know how to hit it so it goes back to normal.”

Bucky doesn’t ask what that means.  He just nods.

“Oh, and there are jolly ranchers under the counter if you want some.”  Darcy points to her station.

Bucky nods again as she retreats, and turns his attention to the new claim form on his screen.  He blinks hard to try to mitigate the glare of the fluorescent lights against his computer screen.

He makes it through that form and the next two before his head starts aching.  It begins as the normal shake-it-off kind of headache that usually means nothing more than too much coffee or not enough coffee or it’s cloudy or it’s Tuesday, but within half an hour, it’s progressed to the start of a migraine.

Bucky pushes his keyboard back and rests his forehead on the edge of the desk.  He can’t remember what he put in his backpack.  There might be Excedrin somewhere among the sandwiches and granola bars.  Bucky doesn’t really want to raise his head to check.  Aura’s creeping in behind his eye and edging out his peripheral vision with white light.

The phone rings, and Darcy’s clipped voice answers it.  “Fuck,” Bucky mutters as the sound ratchets up the pain toward sickening nausea.  His forehead and right temple are throbbing so badly.

Darcy hangs up the phone, and something plastic crinkles.  “James?  You want some candy?” she calls.

Bucky doesn’t want to open his mouth to answer.  He’d rather just crawl under the desk and curl up and die, but that doesn’t seem appropriate for his first day on the job.  He ends up having to stick his head under the desk, though, and heave into his small trashcan.  And it’s just his luck that Darcy’s rounding the edge of his cube to offer candy just as he gags up his breakfast.

The bag of jolly ranchers hits the floor, and Darcy says, “Oh my god, ok, hold on a sec, let me call Sam.”

Bucky’s heart throbs in his sinuses and he retches again.  After a few seconds, or maybe a few years, footsteps sprint up behind him.  Sam’s on his knees at Bucky’s shoulder.  “Ok, man, you’re good, you’re good.”

Sam walks him to the bathroom as soon as Bucky’s stomach’s settled enough for him to stand up.  The vertigo’s still thrumming so strongly he can barely walk a straight line.  Bucky steps into the single stall and leaves the door open, squatting in front of the toilet to heave some more.  Sam puts a hand lightly on his back and quietly asks, “You got words for how you’re feeling?”

Bucky can’t convince his throat to come out of contraction, so he just spits into the toilet.

“It’s ok if you don’t…”

“Is…huh…’s a migraine…” Bucky breathes, stopping to hiccup.

“Alright, alright.  You tell me when you’re ready to go home,” Sam says.

“I feel so…god, ah, fuck…” Bucky dry heaves one last time and sinks back against the wall of the stall.  His face is pure white and sweat beads on his temples and upper lip.

“Yeah, I know you don’t feel good.  It’s your first day here, you’re probably all wound up…”

“Sorry,” Bucky chokes out.

“No, it’s fine,” Sam insists.  “Dude, it’s the VA.  Don’t you go thinking you’re the only guy that’s ever had a tough first day.”

It takes Bucky another few minutes to calm down and feel ready to ride in the car.  Sam retrieves Bucky’s backpack, lends him some sunglasses, and leads him out to the parking lot.

It’s by sheer willpower that Bucky manages not to be sick in Sam’s car.  The second they’re in the front door of the townhouse, he trips off to the downstairs bathroom.  When he emerges, paler and shakier and sweatier than before, Sam pushes him to the couch and serves up lukewarm water and painkillers.

When Bucky next opens his eyes, Steve is home from work, and Sam’s at the kitchen table, on his fifth back issue of Nat Geo.  Gatorade and Ritz crackers are open on the counter, and Bucky feels famished under his lingering nausea.

He meanders into the kitchen and sits beside Sam.  Steve brings the snacks over and pauses to wrap his arm over Bucky’s shoulders.  Bucky leans forward to press his face into Steve’s chest, and Steve tightens the embrace.

Sam finishes reading his magazine, snags a handful of crackers, and takes his leave.  “You don’t have to come back to work tomorrow if you’re still not feeling great,” he says to Bucky.  “Take as many days as you need.”

Bucky gets back to work on November first. When he gets to his cubicle, Sam and Darcy are screwing lightbulbs into a few desk lamps and cheap torchiers.

The first time Bucky makes it through his scheduled workday, it’s many thanks to the support of his friends.

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Nine lessons learned about writing

By Joanna Penn

{Article_Date}

"Walking is a bit like writing a book."

Last weekend I completed the Race to the Stones, 100 km from Lewknor to Avebury standing stones along the Ridgeway, one of Britain’s oldest walking trails. I did it over two days, so I walked 50 km on Saturday, then camped, and then walked the final 50 km on Sunday…and despite weeping a lot in the final kilometers, I finished it with a (tired) smile on my face. As I write this, my feet are a mess of burst blisters and my muscles ache and I’m exhausted and proud of myself and also think I’m crazy for even trying such a thing. But you guys helped me make it, because I composed this blog post while walking, typing quick notes into my phone when I stopped for breaks. So here’s nine lessons learned about writing from walking an ultra-marathon.

(1) Deadlines, specific written goals, and accountability help you achieve more

One of the problems with statements/resolutions like “I will exercise more,” or “I will write more,” is that they are not specific enough and they don’t have a deadline. Booking an event like Race to the Stones, or committing to a specific date for getting your book to an editor, means you are far more likely to actually achieve that goal. I booked this event last October when we moved to Bath and I decided to get out in nature more and walk after years of living in urban London. Having a goal made me walk further and train harder than just walking for fun.

Being accountable also helps, and I had announced the event on the podcast and this blog, as well as on social media. When I wanted to give up, I thought about what people would think if I didn’t make it. I know that walking 77 km would have been impressive anyway, but in my mind, it was important to be accountable to setting and completing goals.

So if you’re struggling to finish a book, set a deadline and tell people about it.

(2) It’s good to have a goal, but training (and the journey) is the point

When we moved out of London last October, one of the reasons was to get into nature more and do more exercise. I set the goal to do the Race so I would have something to train for and have been extending my walks in the months since. I can now happily do 30 km, and anything less than 10 km feels like a stroll, rather than a walk. You can find me regularly walking the Kennet & Avon Canal path from Bath to Bradford-on-Avon and back, my favorite walk as there’s always something going on and lots of wildlife and birds along the way.

The 100-km race was clearly a high point, but it’s been the long training walks that have made a difference to my life. I thought I would dictate more but actually my mind goes fallow. It seems that I don’t even think, especially after about 25 kms when I start to get tired. It’s walking meditation and for someone who is always "doing," this has been great for me. These big walks take up the entire day when I just disconnect and walk, and often the day after, I have a creative burst. After 32 km a few weekends ago, I ended up outlining the next five fiction books and how they would work together across three different series. This event was like the publication of a book – a high point in many ways, a low point in others! – but the process of walking for training, or the process of creation and writing along the way is the real point. That’s what we need to continue with.

(3) Stamina builds up over time as you practice

You can’t get up tomorrow and walk 100 km unless you have built up muscles and stamina over time. When we moved to Bath, five miles felt like a stretch and now it’s a stroll to a coffee shop on the aqueduct, just the warm up of a proper walk. I’ve been walking several times a week with distances that have grown as time has passed. We also did a week in the Alpujarras in southern Spain, hill-walking for that extra push.

In the same way, you can’t sit down and write for hours every day without building up to it. Writing is a surprisingly tiring activity. Your brain uses a lot of energy creating things, and your body will suffer unless you get used to it and introduce some healthy working practices. It will also feel intimidating to sit down for hours and “just write.” You have to work up to it. Like walking, start with small distances/times and work up to longer periods as you get used to it.

(4) You need a support team but no one can do the steps (or the words) for you

Writing is considered a lonely practice…and so is walking. Or at least they can be! I like solitary walking and also do day walks with my husband, but for the Race to the Stones, there was a whole event management team. Plus my husband played backup, ferrying me to the event very early and picking up the pieces at the messy end. I did the steps with my own two feet, but I couldn’t have done it without the backup support. In the same way, “self-publishing” is a misnomer because we all need a team. I work with 11 contractors in my creative business and value them highly. We all need professional editors and professional cover designers, at the very least!

(5) There are fun parts…but some of it will be -- hell!

There were the beautiful moments of cresting a hill to see a field of wild flowers stretching into the distance, or the expanse of the sky and soaring birds overhead. But the human body is not happy doing 100 km and it hurt a lot. Just like writing. Sometimes it’s fun and ideas explode and words stream onto the page. And sometimes it’s like walking that last 30 km. Every step and every word is difficult.

(6) Don’t compare yourself to others. The Race is only ever with yourself.

Two thousand people started the Race to the Stones. The fastest time was just over eight hours, running straight through. I came in at 25 hours 38 mins, arriving in the last batch of people at 8.10 p.m. on Sunday. I walked nearly 12 hours on Saturday and 14 hours on Sunday. The longest time was 33 hours, 32 mins. However, many people didn’t finish the 100-km so although slow, I still came in ahead of them.

But the point is that I was never racing the super-fit ultra-marathoner at the front of the pack. And I am not "better" than the people who did 50 km or didn’t finish because it hurt too much. I just wanted to make the end – which I did. You can’t go at the pace of the seasoned ultra-marathoner on your first event. Just like you can’t expect to achieve great things with your first book. It’s only the beginning of what you can achieve. Quit comparing yourself to others and go at your own pace. Run/walk/write your own race.

When I started back in 2008, self-publishing my first book and then starting this blog, I made early friends online. Most of them have disappeared, with only a few staying the course.

Many authors only write one or two books and then give up.

I only have a multi-six figure business as an author-entrepreneur right now because I have been consistently creating, learning, and taking action for nearly 10 years.

Persistence is the secret of success in writing as much as finishing ultra-marathons.

So, would I do it again?

I’m not planning on doing another ultra-marathon, but I will be booking more walking adventures. After all, 100 km over four or five days is actually enjoyable.

Walking is a bit like writing a book for me in that way. I don’t want to revisit the same terrain twice. I want to try something different next time. But I am a chronic goal-setter, so I will be looking for the next challenge…

  This article originally appeared at The Creative Penn

Joanna Penn

Joanna Penn is a New York Times and USA Today best-selling thriller author, creative entrepreneur, podcaster, professional speaker, and travel junkie. For more, visit www.jfpenn.com