#ive spent hours and hours doing practice problems but Nothing Is Sticking

[iron-niffler]

fuck calculus :)

#i can do the math okay #i just can't remember any of the gosh darn formulas #ive spent hours and hours doing practice problems but Nothing Is Sticking #im shaking and can't tell if it's nerves caffeine or sleep deprivation #life is great :) #i need a week long break and finals haven't even STARTED yet #i have been over almost every slide and worked out every single in class example #but i still know just as much as i did when i started #which is terrifyingly little #at least i got mid 80s on my matsci and physics exams at least i got that going for me #even if i am about to bomb the second calc exam in a row #got a 64 on the last one which was like two points above the class average but still #not up to the impossible standards i set for myself so i spent like two hours crying while watching various random youtube compilations #the a's and b's without studying in high school to struggling college student pipeline is hitting HARD #im studying engineering bc i thought it was interesting and cool and it is but i am just Terrible at it #but im too stubborn to quit so it is going to be a rough four years

[astromechs]

slipped away into a moment in time ('cause it was never mine)

taylor swift made me do it. expect more, because the entire folklore album was basically angst fodder.

also on ao3!

i.

All things considered, Gamora has been through worse. Fought through worse.

There’s a lot of blood, but the gash across her thigh, courtesy of one of Annihilus’s minions, isn’t terribly deep — no exposed bone, nothing that would suggest any long-term damage. Still, though, when the Front has made its retreat to the makeshift camp and the wounded are being ushered into a medical shelter, when the skies clear over this rocky planet she’s already forgotten the name of, when the surroundings are quiet and there’s no longer a fight to focus on, a spasm of pain seizes her entire leg when it bears weight, and for a second, just one split-second, she winces.

You know what happens when you show weakness, Gamora. The voice of Thanos in her head, right on cue. That voice is right, of course; she knows what happens next, knows that it’s a mistake that’ll cost her.

Instantly, her hand reaches for the hilt of her sword, hanging on her hip; if someone’s coming to take advantage of that weakness, she’ll be ready for them. She’ll be ready for anything.

“Hey. You okay?”

Except, maybe, for this.

It’s not that she hadn’t heard Richard Rider, Nova Prime, Commander of the United Front, coming; that man doesn’t have a subtle bone in his body, and his steps would’ve likely been noticeable from several clicks away. He could never sneak up on her, but — something about him always seems to throw her off balance. Something about the perpetual kindness in his eyes, even through the worst of this war. Something about the gentle tone of his voice, a stark contrast to the power he holds in his hands.

No one like him has ever existed in her reality, and even now, months after joining a war effort that seems more destined to lose by the day, she still doesn’t know what to make of… any of it.

Her hand drops back down by her side, and she’s the picture of perfectly cool, even, with the requisite: “It’s nothing.”

She doesn’t quite see it under his helmet, but it’s obvious from the expression on his face that he’s raising a skeptical eyebrow. He’s a lot smarter than she’d initially given him credit for; maybe strategy isn’t his strength, no, but he knows those working under him, every single one — by name, by capability, by his own keen intuition that alerts him to anything that might be amiss.

There’s no getting past him. She knows in the instant before he says, “Doesn’t seem like nothing. You should go to medical.”

His voice isn’t chiding — just genuinely concerned. Again, she feels the ground shift under her feet; again, she feels so unsteady she could topple over. Instead, though, she swallows down a strange lump forming in her throat, hating the way her own voice sounds more strained than it should when she insists, “I’ll be fine.”

The conversation should end there; she owes him nothing more. But something tugs in her, prompts her to offer one useful piece of wisdom, perhaps in some attempt at equivalent exchange:

“Kindness will get you killed one day, Richard Rider.”

Then, she turns on her heel and leaves without another word, head held high, doing her best to ignore the limp in her steps.

ii.

He’s been staring aimlessly out the flagship’s viewport for hours.

She hasn’t been keeping track, not really; she’s purely exhausted her need for sleep on this particular night cycle, and in all the times she’s wandered by, he hasn’t moved, not even the arms folded across his chest. Nothing’s coming for them in this stretch of space, so any effort to keep vigil is pointless at best.

But she knows this isn’t that. Even if in this war, they’ve been handed nothing but defeat, Richard takes every single one of them hard, personally shoulders the weight of every life lost under his command. It’s a risky quality to have in a leader, and she’s still certain in what she’d told him before. Still certain that, one day, kindness will kill him. Break him.

She doesn’t want to see it happen.

Instead of moving on, she stops. Watches him for a moment longer, eyes lingering, before crossing the floor to stand next to him. If he’s heard her approach, he doesn’t acknowledge it, and so, for a time, she lets the silence hang in the air between them. Until —

“People die. This is war.” Her voice isn’t cold when she says it, nor is it any semblance of gentle or comforting, because she’d never been built for that; it simply is, another piece of factual wisdom that she’s trying to impart.

He exhales a long breath, and when he turns to look at her finally, expression haggard, he looks much older than anyone as young as him has a right to. “I know.”

Perhaps it’s that, above all, that tugs at something deep in her core, past years of hard-learned truths and carefully constructed armor; it aches in her chest, this sudden thought that maybe, in some ways, they’re not so different.

A hand reaches for one of his, winding their fingers together.

After a beat, he squeezes back.

iii.

Gamora gives him whatever small pieces of inconsequentials that she’s capable of giving. She gives him her nights, saves a spot for him in her bed. Gives him release from the pressure he threatens to crack under some days, gives him just one place where he doesn’t have to make all the calls.

Sometimes, she gives him an extra hour of the sleep that’s so difficult for him to find.

Already, she’s declined four pings on his comm this morning, but sooner or later, someone will come looking for him. He’s important, after all. And he would be angry at himself over missed duties.

“Richard-Human.” Her hand reaches for his forehead, gently brushes the hair from his forehead.

At that, one bleary eye opens to peer at her, followed by another. His hair is sticking up in all directions on the pillow, and he looks completely ridiculous. “Hey,” he says, raspy but soft.

His smile, though, lopsided as it cracks his face — his smile is bright enough to light up a star.

She thinks she could burn under the force of it, because for someone who’s spent most of her life in the dark, it’s almost too much to bear. The eye contact certainly is in this moment; her gaze drops, fixating on the tangled sheets that still cover them both. Time’s ticking on these moments she’s stolen, she knows — this thing they have, whatever it is, can only live in a warzone, and if they both make it out of this alive, he’ll go on to a life that certainly doesn’t include her. That’s what he deserves. What….

Fingers brush the lines of her jaw, graze over the skin of her face, and pull her out of her thoughts. Bring her eyes back up to meet his. She drifts closer, ever closer, until their lips meet and everything else fades away.

She lets herself have this.

For now.

iv.

The Kree prisoners fall under her sword. Their deaths are quick under barely more than a single stroke; their blood rains down, soaks the ground below.

If you find nothing useful, her teachings would tell her, wipe them out.

By them, she had done well.

She wipes the blade and sheaths it, steps delicately over a body that’s still warm. And —

Meets a pair of eyes that she’d never wanted to disappoint, their cold stare cutting through her like daggers.

It’d only been a matter of time. She’s so skilled in exploiting limits that it’s practically reflex to her; sooner or later, she’d have found the limits of his affection, his naive faith in her, too.

She’ll never see those eyes again. She’s sure of it.

v.

The first thing she thinks is that she feels — empty. Cold.

It’s a feeling she’s far from a stranger to. For years, it’s been her constant companion as she’s drifted, from one planet to the next, one galaxy to the next, between wars fought for causes and jobs taken for nothing at all, looking for something that’s long eluded her: purpose. Richard had been imbued with it every single day like it’d been effortless, conviction burning brighter than the force of a star that had propelled him — and she’d wanted that, more than anything, wanted to experience even just a fraction of what that could feel like.

Eventually, she had found it, buzzing through her veins with every directive from the Phalanx. Purpose. As part of a whole, part of something beyond herself, she could keep moving forward on a clear path with a set destination; weeds like guilt and regret had withered, making everything… blissfully uncomplicated.

And now it’s gone. It’s gone, and all she feels is cold.

They’re cured, Richard says, with his particular brand of bright-eyed earnestness, like all the universe’s problems are fixed, just like that, but it isn’t a solution at all. It puts her right back where she flarking started, and she’s — she’s tired, down to her cybernetic bones. Tomorrow, she’ll have to start drifting again.

But today, with his steady hands there to pick up the pieces, she allows herself to break.

It’s as ugly as she is inside, full of ragged breaths and stumbling words, full of the kind of weakness that would get someone killed. She hates it, she hates this entire situation — and she hates herself most of all.

But in spite of everything, in spite of the fact that not an hour ago, she’d been ready to kill him, blade pointed at his throat, he doesn’t waiver. She doesn’t deserve anything that this man doesn’t hesitate or question giving — not his comfort, not his acceptance. Doesn’t deserve to be anywhere near the presence of someone so unfailingly kind and good.

“It’s gonna be okay,” he says into her hair, both arms wrapped tightly around her as he pulls her close to his chest.

Foolishly, she doesn’t fight it. But what’s most foolish of all is that in the warmth of his embrace, she almost lets herself believe him.

coda.

She hasn’t cried in decades; Thanos had firmly seen to that. Tears had been considered a weakness, and like every other she’d once carried, they’d been removed under the cut of a knife, her back strapped to a table, screams so long-buried that they hadn’t even attempted to rise to her throat. Several times since, in the private silence of cold nights, she’s waited, head bowed, for some kind of reminder that she can still feel, that she lives and breathes beyond being someone’s object.

But even if she could cry, could let tears cloud her vision and allow for some kind of release for the heaviness in her chest, she doesn’t think she would now.

There’s no point in crying over what she’s long known to be inevitable.

When her passport activates and the Cancerverse fades from view, when the familiar sights and sounds of Knowhere fill her senses once again, she doesn’t even get angry. There’s no point in that, either, she thinks.

Hope is fleeting, a flower that can sometimes manage to grow even in the hardest and driest of dirt — but it will always get crushed out of existence. Light can never overtake the dark; this is the way of things.

Richard Rider’s days have always been numbered; a light that brilliant could’ve never stayed.

The universe returns to balance.

#gamora #richard rider #richmora #* fic #my stuff #please go to the tags #IT WENT TO THE TAGS YAY

[itsreallylaterightnow]

Let’s Just Order Take Out From Now On for @blondsak

Aunt May’s always been a pretty bad cook, but never before had she poisoned her nephew

It was just going to be a simple weekend together. It was a long weekend for Peter with school, so he, May, and Happy decided to take a trip up to the compound. They had driven up on Friday as soon as Peter got out of decathlon practice. Peter and Tony had spent hours working in the lab until Pepper had called them up for a movie night.

Saturday had been a day filled with sparring and lab work. Tony and Peter had been eating a late breakfast when Peter had - looking at his waffles - said, “I wonder if I could stick to a non-stick pan?” And it had turned into a four-hour evening of seeing if there was anything Peter couldn’t stick to. The answer had been, so far, nothing.

May had walked into Tony’s lab at 4:30 to find Peter and Tony sitting crisscross on the floor, Peter’s hand in a bowl of water.

“What on earth is happening?” she asked, furrowing her brows as neither of the boys looked at her. She cleared her throat.

“Testing out… to see if I can stick,” Peter had responded, eyes glued to the bowl of water in concentration.

“Stick to what, exactly?”

“Water,” Peter had responded.

“Wow. Alright well. when that fails, you two come on up to the family floor. Dinner is almost ready.” And, watching them with genuine interest as to why they were both considered genius’, she stepped out of the hall.

Peter and Tony turned up in the kitchen not much later, looking disappointed.

“I can’t believe that I don’t stick to water,” came a grumble from Peter.

“But you do stick to wet things. I don’t really understand why you can’t stick to water.” Suddenly Peter perked up, whipping his head around to look at Tony.

“Do you think I could walk on water? Like those water spiders do?”

“I think that since the spider that bit you wasn’t a water spider… then probably not.” Peter just hummed, shrugging his shoulders. He turned to see May and Happy standing at the kitchen island chopping up pickles.

“Are those the- “

“Pickles I made myself last year? Yes, yes, they are,” she had said, a proud smile crossing her face. Peter had smiled before laying across the island to reach into the jar. She swatted at his hand, but he came away from the jar with a pickle, nonetheless.

“You’re going to ruin your dinner!” she jabbed as she resumed chopping. Peter took a big, crunchy bite before leaning forward and grabbing the rest of the jar.

“To be fair, I’m pretty sure I could eat every jar of these pickles and then some and still be hungry enough for dinner. Enhanced metabolism and all,” he had joked. May just set aside the few pickles she had chopped and continued on with cooking.

Peter ended up eating the whole jar, and he could attest to the fact that pickles were one of the few foods his aunt could make well.

They were halfway through dinner, Peter thoroughly enjoying the potato salad when May gasped and buried her face into her hands.

“I’m so dumb! I knew the potato salad was missing something!” Peter looked down where his fork was digging in.

“What’s it missing? It tastes great.” May just gave him a look.

“I chopped up the pickles for it but never put them in.” She went to stand, but Happy grabbed her arm.

“Sit and enjoy your dinner, it tastes just fine without the pickles,” he said, smiling.

“Are you sure? Because it’ll just take a sec- “

“I’m sure. Come on, this is great.” And just like that, it was forgotten.

After dinner, the crew migrated to the living room to watch another movie. Peter had ended up on the corner of the couch, feet tucked under Tony’s legs for warmth as the group watched Good Will Hunting. Peter smacked his lips; his mouth was uncannily dry. He reached down for his water and took a sip. It didn’t help very much, but he really didn’t think anything of it.

As the night progressed, Peter let out a yawn. He moved his mouth around, his face feeling a bit strange. All of the work with Tony had really taken it out of him. By the time the movie was finished Peter was exhausted. His eyelids weighed him down.

“I’m going to head to bed guys,” he muttered, pushing himself to his feet.

“Spider-baby’s already sleeping? You’re getting old on me Pete,” Tony joked as he put his arm around Pepper.

“Yeah well, during all of our – tests, who’s the one doing all the work?” Tony had just chuckled before saying a goodnight.

Peter brushed his teeth quickly before slipping into his pajamas. His stomach felt a bit tight, and he guessed he must have been much more tired than he had thought. He climbed into his bed with a groan, going to scrunch his eyes closed. His face felt oddly… weak? Like he couldn’t move the muscles like he normally could. But the pull of sleep drowned out any thoughts he may have had about the strange feeling.

*****

Waking up to his spider-sense going haywire was never something Peter enjoyed. He would jerk awake with a gasp, looking around frantically to find the problem. But this time when the creeping sense of danger spiked and Peter woke up, he could hardly move.

God, he felt terrible. His throat and mouth felt like they were stuffed with cotton, he could barely breathe, and within a second, he realized he was about to throw up. Peter went to turn over and found himself flailing awkwardly. It was as though his arms and legs were weighed down by ten tons. He could hardly get them to move. He grunted, turning himself on his side, and puked off the side of the bed.

“Fri-," his voice cracked like he hadn’t drunk water for a week. “Lights… Tony…” He tried to stand, needed water. He didn’t even make it to a semi-standing position before he ended up on his face – thanking God that he hadn’t fallen in the vomit. He couldn’t move, and he couldn’t breathe, and he had no clue what was happening.

The lights flickered on in the room, but it didn’t matter because he was just staring at the wall opposite him, dragging in ragged breaths.

He heard pounding footsteps coming down the hall. Tony. Tony would make this better.

“Peter! Pete!” Someone fell on their knees beside him, and hands were rolling Peter over. He stared up at Mr. Stark’s face. The man looked about three seconds away from passing out himself. “FRIDAY, call Helen. Have her meet me in the Med bay. What’s wrong with him? Is he safe to move?” Peter’s spinning brain couldn’t keep up with everything Tony said.

“Dr. Cho is on her way, I am unable to get a read on the reaction Mr. Parker is having, although it looks to be some kind of poisoning. He is safe to move; I would recommend immediate medical treatment.” By the time FRIDAY was saying ‘treatment’ Tony had already lifted a completely limp Peter into the air. The man grunted at the deadweight but took off down the hall.

“Open the elevator, take us to floor three.”  

The events were swirling around Peter. His chest felt like it had when Toomes had dropped the building on him, and he couldn’t move anything. He wanted to throw up, but it seemed as though his stomach was paralyzed as well. He was seeing double Tony’s staring at him.

“You’re alright. Just breathe, okay? Helen’s going to meet us in the Med bay. You’re going to be fine. You’re going to be fine.” Tony was staring down at him looking frazzled, his eyes wide with anxiety. Peter wanted to respond, to tell Tony he was sorry for freaking him out so bad, but his vision was getting darker and darker as the cracking wheezes rattled from his throat. He wanted to explain that he had no idea why he was feeling like this, that he hadn’t done anything reckless to get sick. He felt them moving again, then there were new voices.

“Get him on the bed! FRIDAY, run-down on symptoms. Stark, grab the oxygen mask from behind you.” Peter could hear FRIDAY’s voice, but things were making less and less sense. Something was put over his face, a cool rush of oxygen pulsed into his mouth. He would have sighed with relief if he could have. Then a hand was on his eyes, and something so bright was being shone in them. He grunted again.

A hand slipped into Peter’s loose one, and he felt it squeeze.

“Peter, can you squeeze my hand back?” Helen’s voice came from… somewhere. She was asking him to do something. He liked Helen. Wanted to do what she asked – but he couldn’t remember what it was anymore. “Peter can you hear me?” Who was Peter? Why was he hearing someone? He didn’t know.

He got one last glimpse of a worried face – felt a sharp pain in his stomach – inability to move – couldn’t breathe – it was getting dark again.

*****

Peter woke up to a quiet beeping beside his head. The first thing he felt was the oxygen mask over his mouth, pushing cool air into his lungs. He could feel an IV in his arm, and a soft hand in his. He heard quiet sniffles beside him.

With a mammoth effort he peeled his eyes open, looking down to see May, face buried in the mattress with his hand gripped in hers. He could see her shoulders shaking as she cried. Peter licked his lips as he squeezed her hand.

She shot up suddenly, looking at him with wide eyes.

“Hey baby, oh God it’s good to see you awake,” her voice shook as she raked her free hand through his hair. Peter blinked heavily.

“Wh’re y’o cryin’?” he muttered, and he had no clue how she understood him, but she did. “Am I dyin’?”Her face visibly paled at that, and Peter caught movement from a chair behind her. Mr. Stark looked exhausted, his eyes dark and his hair was a mess as he stepped beside May.

“You’re not dying. Well, not anymore. You’ll be fine,” Tony said, his voice firm. “Your aunt took a page out of my ‘self-deprecation’ hand-book,” Tony said, as May flashed him a dirty look.

“Wha’ happened?” he asked, reaching a clumsy hand up to the mask. Tony caught him before he made it and pushed his hand back onto the mattress.

“Let’s leave that there until Helen says otherwise.”

           May sniffled and looked down. “I poisoned you. I- the pickles… it was Botulinum poisoning in the pickles. I- I’m so sorry, Peter. I can’t believe – I don’t…” She broke off, looking down as more tears trailed down her face.

           “You didn’t mean to. Plus, ‘m fine,” Peter said, but he felt his eyelids growing heavier again, the exhaustion of the … well, he didn’t know how long this whole ordeal had been, but the exhaustion was prevalent anyways. “It’s a good thing you didn’t put them in the potato salad,” he muttered. That would’ve been bad since they didn’t have spider-healing. Peter felt his chest tightening as he thought of May, Happy, Tony, or Pepper having gone through the same thing he had.

           “Hey, bud – you alright?” Tony asked, and Peter noticed the heart monitor was steadily increasing its pace as he forced a few deep breaths.

           “I’m fine. I’m fine.” He muttered, noticing how neither adult in the room believed him.

           “Yeah, well – it’s hard not to blame yourself when you poison your nephew,” she said. She wouldn’t look at him. He hated that she wouldn’t look at him, so he squeezed her hand harder.

           “May, it’s not your fault. Please don’t – don’t feel guilty. It happens,” he had said, stifling a yawn.

           “It does not happen, Peter. I’ve never heard of anyone else poisoning their-” He squeezed her hand again.

           “Don’t. ‘m fine. Plus, I’m really tired, and I won’t be able to sleep if you’re crying by my bed,” he teased, blinking heavily.

           “Oh, sorry. Did I wake you?” she said, but Peter smiled softly as he heard the guilt leaving her voice.

           “Eh, that’s okay.” He closed his eyes, sighing at the feeling of her hands in his hair once more. “Let’s just order takeout from now on.”

#fanfic #Peter parker #Tony stark #may parker #whump #poisoning

[ofsage]

is that [MATTHEW DADDARIO]? no, that’s just [SAGE SLATER]. [HE/HIM] is [TWENTY-EIGHT] years old and is a [PRIVATE INVESTIGATOR]. rumor has it they’ve been in town for [ALMOST HIS ENTIRE LIFE]. on a good day, they’re [ASTUTE & JOCUND]. but watch out! they can also be [RECKLESS & UNRULY]. [LOWLIFE BY NECK DEEP] plays in my head whenever i think of them. can’t wait to see them around springhill! [sam, 23, est, she/her]

hey there demons! it’s me...sam, and i was here briefly once but i decided it might be time to retire the muse i had brought in, so i’m back with a brand new muse that’s still a lot like the last one so please message me if you would like to plot!

i. stats

𝕗𝕦𝕝𝕝 𝕟𝕒𝕞𝕖: sage silvestre slater

𝕙𝕠𝕞𝕖𝕥𝕠𝕨𝕟: springhill, new jersey

𝕕𝕒𝕥𝕖 𝕠𝕗 𝕓𝕚𝕣𝕥𝕙: june 1st, 1991

𝕫𝕠𝕕𝕚𝕒𝕔: gemini

𝕠𝕣𝕚𝕖𝕟𝕥𝕒𝕥𝕚𝕠𝕟: bisexual

𝕠𝕔𝕔𝕦𝕡𝕒𝕥𝕚𝕠𝕟: private investigator

𝕚𝕞𝕞𝕖𝕕𝕚𝕒𝕥𝕖 𝕗𝕒𝕞𝕚𝕝𝕪: dr. rosemary slater good ( mother ), professor of psychology at ucla & corwin slater ( father ), retired detective of the springhill police department.

𝕡𝕠𝕤. 𝕥𝕣𝕒𝕚𝕥𝕤: astute, jocund, ebullient, well-meaning.

𝕟𝕖𝕘. 𝕥𝕣𝕒𝕚𝕥𝕤: reckless, unruly, flippant, puerile.

ii. history

sage silvestre slater was born and raised in springhill, new jersey. at the time, his mother had a small practice in town while his father was an officer rising quickly through the ranks at the local police department.

he was a precocious kid, but more often than not his natural intelligence was overshadowed by an ostensible inability to sit still and constant antics. ( a diagnosis of adhd later on would explain some of this behavior. ) his teachers were nonplussed and unsure of what to do with him, but his father had a plan.

sage’s father saw potential in him and decided that he would train his son, honing his raw skills and molding him into the perfect detective. five years old when the lessons and lectures began, sage was too young to question his entire life being planned out for him, which often led to feelings of confusion and dejection when he was scolded for spending his time on the things he had a genuine interest in : games, movies, television, spending time with his friends. typical kid stuff that he wasn’t allowed to enjoying.

he was eleven years old when his parents officially divorced, an event he could have handled well by itself, but it led to his mother accepting a job offer all the way in california. he felt abandoned and his father floundered. he was never the parent who dealt with emotions. he eventually decided that his solution was to simply ignore it. he didn’t even try to talk to sage about the divorce or his mother leaving or any of his problems ever.

fishing trips ( something he’s always hated ), rides in the passenger seat of his cruiser ( dampened by lectures on police procedures that he had no interest in ), regular visits to the shooting range ( where it was quickly discovered that he’s a crack shot but he hated it after trying it once ). his father tried everything except talking and listening.

sage was so frustrated and angry that he started acting out. he was getting constant detentions at school and his perpetually middling grades plummeted. he argued with his father every day and broke curfew every night. he bought a motorcycle at sixteen and at seventeen, he dropped out of school and left town in the middle of the night.

it was the first time in his life that he had ever felt freedom. no teachers, no arguments, no controlling father breathing down his neck. he spent a couple months simply wandering around the country, picking up random odd jobs just for the fun of it ( and for the cash ). he had no permanent residence, no responsibilities and no attachments. it was practically paradise for him except for one thing : he can’t turn it off.

he was working as a cashier at some convenience store in the middle of nowhere when it was robbed by several figures in masks that completely covered their faces. sage solved the case with minutes to spare before the police arrived and he immediately told them who to go arrest. the story generated headlines that went viral, and for once in his life he hated the attention he was receiving...until the offers started pouring in.

he found out that people were willing to pay him to solve their mysteries : everything from people asking him to locate their missing keys to assisting police departments around the country with cases, often ones that were labeled unsolvable until he came along.

maybe he wasn’t a police officer at heart...but he was certainly a detective.

by the time he returned to his hometown, sage felt like he was gone for several lifetimes when it had only been a few months. he started renting a cheap apartment and avoided his dad for as long as possible. ( he found out through the local rumor mill that the man had finally retired while he was gone. ) a steady stream of cases kept him busy until one in particular left him stumped and he didn’t know where else to go for advice, except the person who taught him everything he knows about solving a puzzle.

his father disapproved of the business ( which didn’t surprise sage at all ), but would ultimately begin to offer advice whenever his son approached him with a difficult case. the two are currently working on improving their relationship, but often fall back on their old habit of petty squabbling.

PERSONALITY : the textbook definition of man - child. spends his free time playing video games, watching movies and eating snacks. has a joke or sarcastic remark prepared for every single occasion and he takes almost NOTHING seriously. constant obscure pop culture references mixed with eerily accurate statements about a complete stranger can make him difficult to hold a conversation with, but he’s also affable and witty. he’s an extremely loyal friend who’s always there when it counts, but not the best person to trust with the little things because he will fuck up somehow. does ABSOLUTELY EVERYTHING purely for the fun of it. a literal genius who’s borderline ashamed of his intelligence.

iii. extras

sage is hyper - observant and highly skilled at deductive reasoning. he can look at something for all of five seconds and then hours later he’s describing it perfectly, right down to even the tiniest detail. he often learns things about people through his observations rather than through conversation, which he sometimes forgets and so he slips up and says weird things to people about themselves.

he loves movies and television. there’s always something on in the background when he’s working on a case, and most of the time it’s something obscure and / or 80s.

takes adderall for his adhd, but he’s really irresponsible about it so from day to day whether or not he’s on his medication is honestly a toss up.

HUGE COMMITMENTPHOBE. it’s likely part of his abandonment issues. he tries to avoid relationships altogether, but if he gets into one then he’s a total disaster and usually resorts to self - sabotaging when things are going well so that he isn’t abandoned again.

in high school he was captain of the baseball team and he played football and basketball. he had his letters and probably would’ve gotten noticed by scouts if he hadn’t dropped out and run away from home.

he has a sweet tooth, which is obvious due to his diet of nothing but candy, snacks, and junk food. he’s always hungry and usually always eating because he somehow always has food on him.

he was probably born late and has continued the trend by never ever being on time even once in his life.

wears mismatched converse high top sneakers : one green, one blue. a decision made because one day he just could not find either of the other shoe has turned into a fashion statement and is now one of his most distinctive quirks.

drives a norton motorcycle that he basically built from scratch himself and it’s his child. he loves it and he drives it everywhere to the point where’s racked up A LOT of unpaid parking tickets in town.

he’s well known for sticking his nose into the local police department’s cases. he might occasionally provide useful information, but for the most part he’s probably viewed as a nuisance who gets by on his father’s goodwill.

iv. wanted connections

lifelong best friend / watson to his sherlock *wc on the main

cousins ( maternal and paternal, don’t necessarily have to be from springhill so almost anything goes for this )

friends

clients AND people he’s investigated

enemies / people who find him annoying

high school friends

exes / flings / one night stands

( these are just a few base ideas, so please don’t feel limited by what’s listed here! )

#springhillintro #abandonment tw #crime tw #medication tw #hello everyone!

[acarrow]

        “ what separates the wolf from the sheep is not a matter of good or evil.              we all have teeth   —   but only some of us are willing to use them. ”

( danielle rose russell, twenty, cis-female ) my goodness, is ALECTO CARROWback? it’s been a while since the PUREBLOOD has been around the castle, but i’d recognize HER anywhere. rumor has it the SEVENTH YEAR spent the year aligned with the DEATH EATERS. but I hear they’re still POISED & SHARP and OVER-CAUTIOUS & DESIROUS. and the RAVENCLAW still reminds me of jeweled daggers tucked into frothy skirts like a secret; gilt edged pages on old books; perfume pressed to pulse points like a shield; the cool, lonely whisper of dead leaves on marble steps. well, then, I guess some things never change.  ( zoe, 21, cst, she/her )

WARNINGS:  discussions of war, parental neglect, familial death; alcohol mention, weapon mention, manipulation  ADDITIONAL MATERIALS:   alecto’s playlist, stats page, & pinterest board    

i.

the carrow family had amycus, so it wasn’t a total let down when alecto ilse carrow was born and was born a girl. but if everyone was being honest, there wasn’t any real thrill there for her either. they loved her in a rote way and cared for her in a rote way and their distance and cool removal from her life spoke more than anything they ever did for her.

they would tell strangers, of course we love our daughter. but alecto herself couldn’t recall ever hearing them tell her they loved her, not to her face.

the carrows, historically, were not the most refined when it came to the most sacred. sure, they were one of the best families  ---  but their machinations never seemed to be the sort that won the hearts of a people; their plans, never the ones put to action. they had wealth and connections enough, bloodlines going as far back as any of the other twenty-eight’s; but they were not half so perfect.

alecto didn’t like people not expecting perfection from her. her parents saw so little when they looked at her, and it grated to see the same from the people they were surrounded by. so she made changing that expectation her mission at, in all honesty, too young an age. 

they thought carrows weren’t the ones to beat. fine. wasn’t she one to beat all on her own? wasn’t she enough to change the tides of her family’s reputation?

her parents, they were amused; let her try, for soon she’d realize that she was a girl, and would always, always fall short of expectations. she’d decided this at a precocious eight years old after a particularly disastrous dinner party; at the time, this mission of hers started with presenting a flawless front to anyone looking at her expecting another carrow wildcard. she’d always been precocious; she knew what game they were all playing and just how to play it.

( didn’t they all know how easy it was? to become like them? )

ii.

around the same time she reached this decision, for the path she’d tackle the rest of her life, her aunt dulcinea died and crushed alecto’s heart.

aunt dulcinea and uncle anatole were distant carrow relatives and in alecto’s weaker, punishable, childish moments   —   she’d wished they’d been her parents. she wished it stupidly, in place of wishing for her own parents to love her.

at the reading of her aunt’s will, alecto received dulcinea’s wand (  12 ¼", griffin feather and aspen, quite flexible and carved with a loving hand ). and though she wasn’t of an age yet to use magic, her uncle practiced dueling with her using sticks found in the gardens on the carrow estate. even before she could legally utter a single spell, alecto was a skilled duelist. she tucked this into her back pocket like a secret; would let out shining peals of false, childish laughter if ever anyone asked about those dueling lessons. her, dueling? no, no, no. she was itty, bitty, and ladylike, faint at the very idea of fighting. her uncle anatole had simply been indulging her silly games of make - believe.

iii.

she made friends greedily as a child; ostensibly so she could have the connections, the network, that was so vital to the lives of adults in pureblood society. but the small truth was that alecto just fed on human connection. she loathed how much liked people to like her and resented that she needed people at all. but it was true, and it could be useful.  

she tried, at times, unthinkingly, to imitate the distance her parents had with her. she loved talking and hated talking all at once, but she did pride herself on being able to fill hours of conversation with no substance at all. and it better cemented the idea that she didn’t actually desire the friends or acquaintances she had   ---   if every interaction was hollow, what could prove she thrived on them? how would anyone know much she relished the meandering words?

she could be very cruel to those around her   —   not necessarily on purpose, but also not not on purpose. there was a threshold, where acquaintances shifted into someone alecto would trust with her life. at that threshold she tended to turn mean, to turn people away, and it was a horrible habit and one she wouldn’t break.

but all the feigned distance in the world couldn’t keep her from finding actual friends, and she would kill for those she cared for. reckless all or nothing thinking like that was just the carrow way. true, 

fierce friendship was an earned thing, but a warm-looking smile from dear alecto cost her nothing at all.

iv.

she was sorted into ravenclaw; perhaps it would have disappointed her family, if they’d had expectations high enough to disappoint in the first place. when alecto was eleven, and wrote home with news of the sorting, she knew she’d lost any chance of being the favorite   ---   slim as the chance had ever been. oh, her parents had indulged her goal of making a name for herself. she was their daughter; clever enough, pretty enough, to indulge. but they’d never seen that indulgence yielding anything, and her sorting only confirmed it for them.

( she suspected they wrote to her brother more, while at school. no, of course she never asked him. she was a ravenclaw, smart enough to know that some doors need not be opened. )

imagine: a little carrow in ravenclaw tower, all alone amongst peers of all blood statuses and backgrounds. she thrived there, much though she hid that fact from her parents. they certainly never imagined her thriving. she had her aunt’s wand and her uncle’s scattered owls, friends she made cautiously and recklessly in equal measure, a feeling of total abandonment gifted to her by her parents’ abandonment. it was heady, and dangerous.

she kissed people her parents would have been scandalized to know she knew at all, linked arms with girls from families her father had long disparaged over breakfast. joined the quidditch team and shared sportsman-like handshakes with any opposing player she could hunt down after matches.

her grins were sharp and wicked and her laughter soft and surprised and she knew   ---   she knew!   ---   that the home she felt in the castle could never last once outside of it.

it was a home, and that word just didn’t mean anything for girls like her. 

alecto was just a girl, darling little thing. the carrow daughter with a whip-sharp mind   ---   that she made sure to only show in carefully curated fields, that was a problem all the same. she would bring no heirs, and the thought of the mind on her made it hard for the family to imagine setting up an enviable match for her. she would never find it easy, being a trophy hanging off someone’s arm. they may not have cared for her any more than they had to, but they knew her better than she ever thought they did. she did not bend or bow to anyone, and that would make her life harder than her parents thought it had to be.

the lives of pureblood daughters could be easier than breathing, in the new world they had hopes of cultivating. if only alecto would let things be easy.

v.

her parents might have thought she had an allergy to the simple route. and maybe she did; maybe they were right, and she was wired all wrong. her mind was a tricky place   ---   all those forbidden books in her common room, all six and a half years, they had an impact. perhaps on a stronger carrow they’d have been nothing when compared to the things her family had told her all her life. but she acted like they were no stronger carrows, and pretended like the act didn’t cost a thing.

when her parents and their cohort went and got her home blown up, alecto learned to pretend like lots of things cost her nothing at all. 

see, the pretending was easy: she just had to strap her knives and wand to her thigh with pretty little garters, the better to flash the steel beneath silk skirts and lace robes. the beauty of the muggle weapons caught her eye and held it   ---   she heard someone whisper it was a sign of her cruelty, that she could imagine wielding something so primitive. heard someone else whisper she was pretty as one of her daggers, and twice as sharp.

oh, how she hadn’t missed full immersion in pureblood society. at night, she dreamed of ravenclaw tower. 

in her years away from school, she learned to enjoy the refined burn of shots worth more galleons than some could ever see. she learned to love glittering adornments, and tossing her hair, and beguiling with a single flash of her pearly-white fangs. she was good. except when she was bad. and loathe though she was to admit it, she could still find enough ancient carrow in her to be very, very bad  ...  when she so chose.

badness could very easily be written off as youth, except by those who shared alecto’s youth with her. to them, well, it was her typical carrow tendencies coming out to play. it was her growing tired of the never ending act she’d started years and years ago. it was her doing very reckless things, perhaps unknowingly   ---   or perhaps awaiting the mess she’d leave in her wake. she’d have to fix the mess, of course, and in that fixing would lie the cool reminder that while she looked like any of the rest of them, she would always be a carrow. and carrows are too sharp, too much, and so alecto is, too.

( the secret was she was too much alecto to be anything, really )

vi.

she didn’t even like pureblood society that much; up close, it didn’t glitter like she’d imagined as a child, on the outside looking in.

she resented the idea that she’d have to marry some man eventually, who she likely wouldn’t care about and who likely wouldn’t appreciate her for all that she was. but if she wanted to be more than a wife or mother she knew she’d have to show her hand   ---   reveal that she had a mind for strategy, that she knew a thousand wicked things. sign herself away to the war for a side she doesn’t believe in. it would surprise no one to learn that both action and inaction held steep consequences.

but alecto didn’t want to fight; and in the meantime, no one was asking her to, not really. without her n.e.w.t.s, she was in a limbo. her parents and their ilk suspected how useful she could be, but had no final grades to prove it. it wasn’t worth the embarrassment, bringing a girl to the dark lord with no way of showing she had use. so she took up an easy job at some publishing house in diagon alley, something that required little wandwork. nothing flashy enough to catch the attention of someone who’d ask why she wasn’t putting that wand of hers to use. but something that let her escape her family estate and the stifling meetings conducted there. 

( she attended one here and there, when roped into it; the carrow girl on the sidelines, showing how much loyalty her father inspired in those around him. a less skilled actor than alecto might’ve gagged on the falsehoods and prejudice clouding the air. )

her family continued ignoring her, most of the time; neglecting to see any real usefulness. and there was safety in that   ---   she might yet make it to a disappointing marriage without any blood on her hands.

in a perfect world she could lay down in neutral ground and not move a muscle for either side. not have to enter some loveless future, either. but what would that make of her family loyalty? the last thing she wants is more disappointment from her parents. more proof that she’s never been what they wanted. for all that she despises them, she can’t help but want her parents to love her; and deserting their side of the war will not inspire love. 

this was, of course, no perfect world. alecto was not the sort of girl who lived in happy endings. so while she didn’t want to join the war, had no desire to loan her mind to the death eaters   ---   she knew she would. she would have to. she was a carrow, and so of course she’d join the fight. the plain and simple fact of the matter was that there was no possible path for her that didn’t beat her heart into bloody submission. so that life, that planned future, was better than nothing at all. right? 

vii.

alecto couldn’t be paid to give two shits about blood status. she knew her family fought tooth and nail along with all their peers for the glory and triumph of blood purity   ---   and regrettable as it was to dwell on, it was background noise she would ignore because she could afford to ignore it. just because she could care for, or befriend, a muggleborn with no internal struggle didn’t mean she'd ever actively do anything to help them; not with things as they were now. things had been different in school, and this damned war had ripped that from her too soon. 

she didn’t have much exposure to people of other blood statuses as a child and that’s when she set her heart on winning at life in pureblood circles. sometimes goals like that were hard to let go of. so while her stomach curls at the lack of intelligence she sees as inherit in blood purist ideologies she doesn’t actually  ...  fight the fact that pureblood circles are run on purist ideologies. for as much as she hates being tied to her parents, she’s loyal to the carrow name. if they’re not jumping ship, then she can’t either. she won’t be the only carrow stupid enough to leave.

she’d rather break her heart and throw herself into a cause liable to kill her than become her own person separate from the life she’s wasted years building.

viii.

no one needed to know she hated this; softness was worse than wildness, in alecto’s eyes. her wildness couldn’t be helped, but she’d die before anyone saw her weak. let them see a ruthless game-player with a heart carved from crystalline ice. let them see a wicked woman with a cold interest in the ways people could hurt. let them see a girl, damnably neutral while she still could be, cards always held close to the chest.

hogwarts opened back up and alecto was desperate for the chance to return  ---  and desperately happy that she’d retained her neutrality while outside its walls. damnable it might’ve been, but alecto hardly cared. her family and their pureblood peers could all assume she was on their side; assume that though ( tiny slip of a girl that she was ) she’d never taken up arms, she agreed with them. who the fuck cared? 

she was going back to her one true home, if only for one more year.

she could put off proving those assumptions true for a little while longer. 

she can pretend she won’t prove them true; it’s a kind thing to pretend. but a kind mask is still a mask. and alecto knew masks, could pluck one from her shelves and put it on in her sleep. it was easier, after all, to not think; some part of alecto has always known this, long learned how to turn off her racing thoughts, her conscience, her heart, in order to do what needed to be done. she hated it. but she did it. at least for one more year, she’d be turning off her racing thoughts, and her conscience, and her heart, for kind and selfish reasons. she so seldom did things selfishly, and there were worst last hurrahs. 

sooner or later alecto would give in  ---  in a way that could never be undone. or, perhaps, she’d come to hate feeling her family’s belated pride resting on her head like poisoned laurels. prove even herself wrong and desert them and their pitied crowns.

( she prays for the former and hopes for the latter, with her wicked, traitorous heart. )

#thq intro #( ⊱ ━━ 𝒃𝒆𝒕𝒕𝒆𝒓 𝒓𝒖𝒏 𝒇𝒐𝒓 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒉𝒊𝒍𝒍𝒔 ┊ intro. )

[neonlights92]

THAT WAY: IV (M)

Byun Baekhyun rejected you all those years ago.  He didn’t see you that way.  You were just friends.  So why did it feel like he might have been lying?  And why couldn’t you just understand him?

Warnings: Language & Smut

A/N: Gotta be honest.... i reeeeeallly loved writing this

You wanted to leave.

Wanted to just pack everything up and go.  

You couldn’t bear the thought of having to watch Baekhyun and Yuna again, having to act like everything he’d said last night didn’t stick to your skin like oil.

But you knew that it wouldn’t help anything.  That disappearing would only make things worse.

So, despite the fact that your heart was breaking, you forced yourself to stay.

You rolled out of bed that morning, and plastered the biggest smile you could onto your face, trying your very hardest to ignore the way your chest was tighter than it had ever been.

After showering and changing into some track pants and a t-shirt, you waltzed downstairs, and found yourself alone, in the kitchen.

“Breakfast,” You mumbled to yourself, opening the fridge and inspecting it’s contents.

There wasn’t much to work with, in all honesty.  You spotted a couple of eggs, and some orange juice, but your stomach grumbled back at you for bacon.  

“Damn it,” You slammed the fridge shut and leaned against its surface.

“Morning,” Your eyes lifted and you felt a tug in your stomach at the sight of Baekhyun, hair still damp from the shower, “What’s got your panties in a twist?”

You cleared your throat, “There’s not much left to eat.” “No?”  Baekhyun moved towards you, and you shifted, allowing him to inspect the fridge himself.  When his head popped up he frowned, “Didn’t we get enough food for a week?”

You shrugged, “I guess people get greedy on vacation.”

“Shit,” He groaned, rolling his shoulders back, “We’ll just have to go to the grocery store.”

You arched a brow, surprised at his use of the word ‘we’.

“That’s a forty five minute drive into town.” “You want to eat don’t you?” He carded a hand through his hair and you frowned.

“Well yeah…” “So let’s go,” He grabbed his car keys from the kitchen table and threw you a look, “Or you want me to make the forty five minute drive on my own?” Part of you wanted to inform him that it was certainly not your job to keep him company.  That was what Yuna was for, wasn’t it? But another part - a much larger part - was secretly thrilled at the thought of spending time alone with him.  You chided yourself for still allowing Baekhyun to control your emotions like this: you had to get over him.

“What about Yuna?” It was Baekhyun’s turn to roll his eyes, “She’s hungover, which apparently means she will spend the rest of the day in bed.”  He grabbed your wrist and pulled you towards the front door, “Let’s just go.  You know what to buy, anyway, right?”

“Fine,” You tugged your wrist away from his grasp, and ignored the look he gave you, “But you’re driving.”

“Of course,” He jangled his car keys keys, and you followed him outside, to the small red fiat Baekhyun had affectionately nickname Sofia, “Let’s get this show on the road.” You were surprised when he opened the passenger door for you, and thanked him as you climbed inside, buckling yourself in.

Your heart was practically thumping out of your chest as Baekhyun reversed out onto the main road, one hand on the steering wheel, and the other resting on the open window ledge.  You tried not to focus on the sharp line of his jaw, or the way his brown eyes were softer than chocolate underneath the morning sun.

It was difficult to concentrate around him, but your forced yourself to look elsewhere, your eyes trailing the huge trees lining the road, that seemed to reach up into the sky.

“Beautiful, huh?” Baekhyun spoke after a moment, and against your better judgement, you turned to face him, “The trees I mean.” He grinned and you felt yourself flush.

“I didn’t think you were talking about me,” You grumbled, angry at the way you were so sure he was flirting with you.

“Why not?” He frowned playfully, “It could apply to you.” The compliment - as nonchalant and non-committal as it was - still made your heart catch, and you had to remind yourself to breathe.

He didn’t like you that way.

Hadn’t you heard him say that just last night?

“Stop it.”  You answered quietly, cheeks blushing.

Baekhyun bit his bottom lip, “Why, are you getting embarrassed?”

You wanted to kill him.

What was his problem, anyway?  Didn’t he have every single fucking girl at his disposal?  Wasn’t there a beautiful girl waiting for him in that stupid cabin? Why did he have to flirt with you too?  Why did he have to tease you, and smile at you, and make you feel like you were invincible if he was only doing it for fun?  Couldn’t he see how much you liked him?  Couldn’t he see how much it was hurting you?

You felt something ugly crawling up your spine.  Anger.

You were angry with him.

“Baekhyun, just concentrate on driving.”  

“Hey,” He caught onto the iciness in your voice, “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing is wrong.”  You wanted to pull your own hair out, “I’m just not in the mood this morning.” “In the mood for what?  Oh come on Y/N, you know I’m only joking around.”

And then he reached over and squeezed your knee.  You flinched away from his touch, and turned your face to the window, pressing your cheek against the cold glass.

Why had you agreed to come on this stupid, godforsaken trip?

“Y/N,” his voice was softer, gentler, “Seriously.  What’s wrong?”

You could hear the hurt in his tone - probably from your sudden coldness - but the truth was, it didn’t phase you.  Not really, anyway.

Baekhyun had spent far too long controlling the way you felt, and it was time that changed.

“Nothing’s wrong Baek,” You swallowed past the lump in your throat, “How many times do I have to tell you?”

He sighed heavily, and your eyes moved to the side of his face, watching as he opened and closed his mouth several times.  

“Y/N….” And then the car jerked angrily.  Baekhyun pounded his foot down on the brake, and you felt yourself straining against your seatbelt, your head bouncing off the glovebox unceremoniously.

The car skidded for a while, sliding against the gravel road, until it finally hissed to a stop, and you pressed your hand against your forehead, groaning.

“Shit,” Baekhyun sounded annoyed, “What the fuck was that?” You blinked a couple of times, watching as the dust from the dirt road settled across the windshield.

“Do you think you blew out a tyre?” You asked eventually, voice shaking from the shock of what had just happened.

Baekhyun rolled his eyes and tugged a hand through his hair, “I fucking hope not.”  He turned to you, his eyes big and earnest, “Are you okay?”

The concern on his face turned your heart and you nodded, dazed.

“I’m fine.” He reached out and brushed hair away from your face, running a thumb across your forehead, “Does it hurt?” You winced slightly, aware that a bump would probably form at some point in the day.

“It’s fine,” You shrugged, “Let’s get out and check the damage.” Baekhyun stayed like that for a moment, lips pursed in worry, and his forehead crinkled in a frown.  His fingers were soft against your skin, and you had to force yourself to remember that he didn’t like you that way.

“Alright.”  He said eventually, dropping his hand from your forehead, and climbing out.

You took a deep breathe and composed yourself, cracking your knuckles and trying to clear your head.  Your feelings for Baekhyun, and the way he’d touched you, had to be shelved for a moment.  The butterflies gnawing away at the lining of your stomach begged to be paid attention to, but you ignored them the best you could.

Eventually you joined Baekhyun, who was bent over by the front left side wheel, a scowl on his angelic face.

“It’s blown,” He looked up at you, “I guess this terrain is too much for old Sofia.” You groaned, “Have you got a spare tyre?”

Baekhyun shook his head, blowing some hair that had fallen into his eyes, out of the way.  He clicked his tongue, “Nope.  I’m going to have to call a repair company.”

“We don’t even know where we are.” “I’ll just tell them we’re about 30 minutes away from town,” He shrugged, “It’ll be fine.  You can wait in the car.  Here,” He passed you the keys, “Put the air conditioning on, it’s boiling.”

You took his keys and nodded, making your way back into the car, this time sitting in the driver’s seat.  You switched the car on, and cranked the air conditioning all the way to the top, watching as Baekhyun leaned against the hood of the car and made the call.

It was hard not to notice the sharp edge of his jaw, or the way his eyelashes fluttered as he explained your current situation.  He wasn’t angry - Baekhyun didn’t get angry - but you could tell he was frustrated, as he tugged his hand through his hair more times than necessary.

It was unfair, really, how much you longed for him.

It had been so long - so many years of unreciprocated feelings.

You felt stupid, of course.  Your friends had told you to get over it.  Chanyeol, Minseok… People who cared about you.  And you knew they were right, but that didn’t seem to change anything at all.

Baekhyun wasn’t yours, had never been yours, but you were his.

When he hung up the phone and turned around, he caught you staring, and you looked away, clenching your jaw.

Things had to change.  After last night, how could they stay the same? It wasn’t fair that you kept pining after somebody who didn’t want you.  Chanyeol had encouraged you to move on, and you knew he was right.  It was time for you to let Byun Baekhyun go.

He opened the car door and climbed in beside you, humming at the way the cool air hit his body.

“It’s going to take a while,” He told you, eyebrows drawn into a tight frown, “They said it’s going to take them a couple of hours to get here.” “A couple of hours?” You whined, “Baek I haven’t eaten anything!”

��I know, I know,” He shook his head apologetically, opening the glove compartment and rummaging through, “I think I might have some muesli bars somewhere in here.”

You waited a moment, trying to bite back the smile at Baekhyun’s concern, before his head popped up and he smirked at you triumphantly, “Here you go.  Chocolate chips and berries.”

“What about you?” He shrugged, “I’ll be fine.  C’mon, eat up.”

You took a bite out of the bar, and offered him some, but Baekhyun insisted he didn’t want any.  As you chewed on the snack, your eyes refused to meet his, afraid he would be able to read every single stupid thought you were thinking.

That was what Baekhyun was like.  He read people.  Read them like a book.

So you had to be careful around him; had to act with measured steps.

“So,” His voice was gentle, and against your better judgement, you looked up, “Are you going to tell me what I did to piss you off?”

The question was a loaded one.  

You couldn’t tell him what was actually bothering you.

Couldn’t say that the reason you were pissed off with him, was because you were so hopelessly in love with him, and he just saw you as a friend.

And maybe, in some ways, you were being unfair.

How was any of this Baekhyun’s fault?  It wasn’t, and that was what made everything feel so much worse.

Eventually, you shook your head, “There’s nothing wrong, Baek.  I’m just in a bad mood.  It happens sometimes,” You tried to crack an easy smile, but he wasn’t convinced.

“Y/N…” Something inside of you snapped at the look on his face.  There was a long pause, longer than anything that could be deemed as comfortable and you rolled your eyes.

“What does it matter?”  You raised a brow, “Seriously Baek.  I’m just a friend, right?  Who cares if I’m pissed off at you?” Baekhyun frowned, “I care.  You’ve been my friend for a long time-” “Five years,” You interrupted him, “And I’m finally just fed up, Baek.” The last part was quiet, dimmed, and you knew in that moment, that it was over.  You didn’t want to fight anymore.  You were tired of this.

“Fed up?”  He looked hurt, “Of me?”

“Of you… of me… of this whole stupid thing,” You shook your head furiously, catching the breathe in your chest, and trying not to start crying, “Baekhyun.  It’s not the same for me.”

He blinked.  Once, twice.  His dark eyes roamed your face, and you almost felt yourself hide behind denial.  But you didn’t want to.  You didn’t want to.

“What are you talking about, Y/N?”  His voice changed.  It was soft and gentle, like he was being careful not to hurt you.

After a moment, you sighed heavily, pushing a hand through your hair.

“You rejected me, Baek.  All those years ago, when I told you I liked you, you rejected me.  And you probably thought I was over it.  It’s been so long hasn’t it?  Why would I still be pining after someone who had made it so fucking clear that they only liked me as a friend,” You spat the words out, like they were poison you didn’t want to swallow, “But I’m clearly an idiot.  I didn’t get over it Baek.  If anything, I just fell harder for you.  Every single time you smile at me, or flirt with me, or wink at me… It just gets worse.  My heart hurts more.  Fuck.  It’s killing me, Baekhyun.  Can’t you see that?”

Your words broke at the end, as your chest caught on a sob.

You turned away from him sometime during your rant, staring quite decidedly at the hands knotted nervously in your lap.  You didn’t want to see the pity on his face.  Didn’t want to see the way his eyes would glaze over, as he thought of how to let you down gently.

You waited a beat.  Then two.

And then, just as the silence was swelling to an unbearable thickness, Baekhyun cleared his throat.  

Slowly, you raised your eyes to meet his own.

“You… still like me?” You scoffed, “I love you, Baekhyun.” What was the point of pretending, anymore?  His eyes darkened, and you watched as he rolled your words around his head, again and again and again.  You braced yourself for the inevitable.  For the crushing rejection that you knew so well.

But it didn’t come.

Instead, there was only silence.

After a moment, after waiting as though your chest was going to cave in, Baekhyun shook his head.

“I can’t do this anymore,” He whispered, and you opened your mouth to tell him that you understood, that it was alright if he couldn’t be your friend… Maybe that was for the best, but he reached forward and brushed his  hand across your cheek, stopping any reasonable thought in it’s track, “I can’t fucking do this anymore.” And then he leaned forward, and pressed his soft mouth against your own.

And you understood, finally, what he was talking about.

He’d been pretending, just like you.

Baekhyun pulled you towards him, and you climbed over the gear shift, laughing as it dug into your thighs.  He laughed too, his breathe skating across your skin.  You were so dizzy, when you finally settled over his lap, ignoring the cramped space, and the way the ceiling of the car was pressing down against your ponytail.

Baekhyun was kissing you, and you were kissing him and suddenly everything made sense.

He moved away from your mouth, peppering open mouthed kisses across your neck and your chin, murmuring quietly against you.  You couldn’t pick up his words, but your heart swelled, and you thought you might very well faint.

“Y/N,” Baekhyun mumbled against your lips, “Fuck.  I’ve wanted this for so long.” His kisses turned harder, sloppier, and you felt a rush of excitement rolling through your spine.  His hands untied your ponytail, fingers running through your hair.  

“Baekhyun,” You felt like tears were going to burst out of your throat.  This was everything you wanted, “Baekhyun oh my god.”

His fingers danced along the hem of your t-shirt, slipping under to press against your skin.  He was still kissing you, and you could feel your whole body flush at his closeness.

He pulled away after a moment, resting his forehead against your own and breathing heavily.  You felt your heart catch in your throat as his eyes lifted to meet with yours.  He smiled at you, and you grinned back shakily, playing with the collar of his t-shirt.

He blinked slowly, his large eyes roaming your features.

He was reading you, and for once, you didn’t mind.

“Y/N,” He said finally, his voice quiet in the small space of the car, “You’re fucking beautiful.” The compliment poured over you, like some kind of perfume you’d been smelling your entire life.  You melted against him, feeling your face blush embarrassingly.

“Baek,” You whispered, “I want you to touch me.” The words were quiet, and perhaps you should have felt a little embarrassed by the desperation in your tone, but you couldn’t bring yourself.  His eyes were glittering as he swiped his tongue across his bottom lip.

“Yeah,” He leaned towards you, and nudged the column of your neck with his nose, “Yeah.  C’mere.”

His mouth pressed against your skin again, but this time you could feel the shift in the atmosphere.  It was different, this time.

You groaned against his ministrations, feeling gooseflesh prickle across your skin, shivering slightly at his touch.  You felt good, so good, and you wanted this to go on forever.

Slowly, Baekhyun’s lips moved down your collarbone, stopping where your shirt began.  He looked up at you.

“Shall I-” You nodded quickly, blushing when Baekhyun smirked and pulled your t-shirt over your head.  It was slightly uncomfortable in the car, and you couldn’t help but think that anybody could pass by and see the two of you like this.  But the truth was you didn’t care.

You’d wanted Baekhyun for so long, it didn’t matter to you.

His lips marked the valley between your breasts, and he hummed against your skin, his dark eyes connecting with your own, as he slipped your bra off.

“So fucking beautiful,” He repeated his words from earlier, dipping his head down to press his mouth against your exposed skin.  You arched your back, feeling warm from his touch.

“Take this off,” You whined, playing with the hem of his t-shirt.

He smirked at the tone of your voice and nodded, allowing you to tug it over his head.   Your hands sank against his skin, as though your fingers were made of butter.  He was so beautiful, and your heart caught in your chest.

“The things I wish I could do…”

Baekhyun trailed off, as his hands travelled to the waistband of your trousers, slipping past and brushing the (thankfully pretty) lacy panties you were wearing.  He groaned.

“Fuck,” He kissed the pulse of your neck, “Fuck I want you so badly.” With great effort, you pulled your track pant off, and Baekhyun pushed his own pants down to rest by his knees, laughing as you both fumbled in the cramped space.  But you didn’t care because this was Baekhyun, Baekhyun, and he was finally yours and he was touching you like you mattered more to him than anything in this world, and your heart could barely catch up.

“I’ve got a condom-” “Don’t worry,” You whispered, as you helped him pull his boxers down, “I’m covered.” He grinned at that, and brought you closer towards him, his  hands splayed out across your back, and painting pictures into your skin.  

“Please Baekhyun,” You whispered, your faces so close your lips were resting against his own, “Please do something.” He nodded, wordlessly, lifting you slightly, and finally, finally, finally entering you.  You steadied yourself by holding onto his shoulders, and his eyes met your own, soft and gentle and tumultuous.  

“You okay?” You breathed, his hips shifting slightly, allowing you to get used to him.

You nodded, eyes trailing his features quickly, wanting to soak in this moment as best you could.  His fingers brushed across your waist, gripping the skin gently, and you wondered if he could hear the way your heart hammered in your chest.

“I’m nervous,” Your cheeks pinked at the confession, “But this is everything I ever wanted Baekhyun.”

He chuckled at your admission, “I’m nervous too.  But I’ll go slow, okay?”

You nodded and Baekhyun took that as his cue to start moving, thrusting his hips slowly, and you wiggled around, enjoying the feel of having him so close.  His arms wrapped around you, and his nose pressed against the dip in your shoulder, your head curved into his neck.

“Perfect, perfect, perfect,” You could feel the way his muscles strained beneath you both, and you shuddered at the way his voice was crackled, and gravelly.

He kissed you again, his mouth hovering against your own as he pulled away to whisper, “Does it feel good baby?” You nodded furiously, not even caring how pathetic your desperation seemed.

Let him know how desperately you wanted him.

“Good, good,” He crooned, and his fingers slipped between your legs, touching you just where you needed it.  The tightness in your stomach expanded, and you knew you were going to explode, “C’mon baby girl, don’t worry.  I’ve got you.  You’re so ready, Y/N.”

The words, caused your body to shiver, and with a moan that you were infinitely embarrassed of, you felt yourself stiffen against Baekhyun’s chest, your climax rolling over you in waves.  

He kissed the wide expanse of your shoulder as you shuddered against him, “That’s it.  Good girl.  So good for me,” He mumbled, and you weren’t sure if he even knew what he was saying.

Baekhyun smirked once your heart slowed down and your body relaxed, pushing your sweaty hair off your forehead, “Was that good?” You nodded quickly, biting your bottom lip.  You waited a second, before moving around in his lap again, watching as he face screwed up in pleasure.

“Now I want you to feel good,” You whined desperately, “Come on Baeky.” The nickname caused him to pout, his lips forming the perfect heart shape, and you felt your heart turn at the intimate gesture.

“Okay,” He breathed, his hips moving as he thrust into you, his forehead pressed against your tightly.  

Your hands travelled across the naked skin of his chest, tracing constellations you hadn’t even knowns you knew.  His eyes latched onto yours, and you kissed his brow.

“Y/N,” He moaned, as he stilled, spilling into you.

You slumped against his body, feeling your heart beat slow down as Baekhyun’s fingers danced across your naked skin, as though playing some kind of symphony only the two of you could hear.

After a moment, he cleared his throat, “The car repair company….” You pulled away, eyes widening as you realised where you were.  In the front seat of Baekhyun’s car.  You blushed as he handed you your t-shirt, before slipping his own over his head.

You pulled your track pants and panties up, flushing from excitement and nerves and downright happiness, as you climbed off of Baekhyun, heart thudding as he made himself look presentable.

He ran a hand through his hair and smiled at you, eyes crinkling.

You swear you could marry those crinkles.

His phone started ringing and you both looked towards it, your heart feeling like it might fall out of your chest, as you read the caller ID.

Yuna.

Oh fuck.

//

#baekhyun #exo #fanfiction #baekhyun x reader #romance #love #smut #exo smut #baekhyun fluff #baekhyun smut

[always-the-little-spoon]

Five Times Scott Found Stiles or Derek Sleeping, and the One Time He Didn’t

Part I | Part II | Part III | Part IV | Part V | Part VI

Part III: aka Cheat Day

Early-ish October was shockingly warm, even for northern-ish California. Scott had taken to jogging across campus in the late morning after his first class, and more often than not, by the time he hit the main green outside the library he’d lost his shirt. If he cut through campus instead of running the perimeter like usual, he could treat himself to one of those ridiculously sweet pumpkin spice drinks that had rolled out with the changing of the leaves on the trees.

True to form, Scott’s grey tank top was already tucked into the waistband of his loose basketball shorts. He wiped the sweat from his forehead with the back of his arm while he crunched through fallen leaves, aware of the appreciative eyes that followed him. He couldn’t help but preen under the attention and puffed out his chest.

Scott was proud of his body. He didn’t work hard for it, what with natural werewolfness to maintain his six-pack for him, but he needed to put in a little effort, hence the daily run across campus. But after growing up the weak loser with a breathing problem back home, getting bitten by a rogue alpha hadn’t been the worst thing in the world.

Turning down the path that lead down to Greek Row on campus instead of finishing his circuit, Scott caught sight of a huge black dog curled up beside a man. Scott liked animals. As a veterinary student, it was sort of a requirement, so he altered course a bit to pass by.

It wasn’t until he was closer that he recognized the man, who wasn’t actually a man, but a kid. A teenager, technically.

Stiles looked sixteen at most, not that Scott knew his actual age, and he was human, but for some reason, one that Scott hadn’t figured out yet, Stiles hung around the only supernatural fraternity on campus. At first, Scott thought Stiles’ presence had been part of his pledge week.

Scott had spent the week proving his control, which had mostly involved a series of annoying, and equally ridiculous tests that included being pummeled by water balloons, six straight hours of sparring with every member of the frat, and a few other strange tasks. So, that week he’d made a point to hide all supernaturalness around the human. But then, Stiles was still around, like a permanent fixture in the house. He was friends with everyone; even Boyd would crack a smile for the kid. Stiles even had a key, which he used, and often.

Last weekend, Scott had come down in the morning to find Stiles making pancakes in the kitchen. It had become a party, sort of, because Boyd had texted Erica, and then half of the KIT sorority had invaded the Alpha frat house for Stiles’ infamous pancakes.

Scott slowed to a stop a few feet from Stiles and the dog. But Stiles wasn’t just sitting under a tree reading a book with a dog because the giant dog wasn’t actually a dog at all, but a huge black wolf.

“Sup, man,” Stiles greeted with a short wave. He closed his copy of Snow Country and tossed it on the grass where it landed a few inches from one of the wolf’s massive front paws.

The wolf was asleep, head in Stiles’ lap, and curled protectively around the human. Stiles ran his fingers through the shaggy fur and scratched behind the wolf’s ears. Scott tensed for a moment when the wolf shifted and growled quietly, but it settled down quickly, nudging its nose into Stiles’ belly.

“That’s a wolf,” Scott said lamely, and Stiles laughed.

“Cool, right?” Stiles played with the wolf’s ears and patted the giant beast’s side. “He can find me on campus no matter where I am. Once he waited outside the labs until I finished a night lab at ten. Can’t say I didn’t appreciate the company on the walk home. Plus, totally freaks people out.”

The wolf snuffled softly in his sleep and the human huffed in amusement before he resumed petting the wolf.

Scott inched closer with his hand cautiously extended. “Can I, uh… pet him?” he asked.

Stiles paused his scratching behind the wolf’s ears and scrunched up his nose with a frown. “Probably not a good idea. He’s not exactly a big fan of other people. Almost took off Isaac’s fingers once.”

Scott snatched his hand back, clutching it to his chest, and took several giant steps back, but at the same time, he caught a whiff of a familiar scent. He glanced around to locate Derek, but the older alpha werewolf wasn’t in sight. It took him a few seconds to track the scent to the black wolf dozing in Stiles’ lap.

Derek was the wolf. Not only was Derek the wolf, but he actively followed and cuddled Stiles all over campus, and the human didn’t have a clue. 

Stiles was being stalked by a werewolf. An alpha werewolf, for that matter. An alpha werewolf that was currently curled protectively around a clumsy human, and fast asleep.

“I should probably go,” Scott said quickly. He backed away, barely staying on his feet as he tripped over a stray branch.

A full shift wolf was rare. Scott hadn’t even known Derek could do a full shift, though he wasn’t all that surprised. The guy was pretty zen for an alpha. Grumpy, but still pretty chill. As fellow alpha’s they sort of tolerated each other, but Derek was pretty awesome with the rest of the fraternity and even the girls in KIT. Like the time he literally threw a drunk human frat guy at a party out the front door of the sorority house when the dude grabbed Kira’s ass. The guy was intense and protective.

Stiles raised his eyebrows at Scott’s hasty retreat. “You okay, man?”

“Yeah,” Scott croaked. He cleared his throat and ran a hand through his damp hair. “Yeah, great. Fine. I just need to grab lunch, you know, before my afternoon class.”

“Right…” Stiles drawled. “And it has nothing to do with the fact you’re afraid Padfoot will eat you.”

“You named him after a Harry Potter character?” Scott asked. A giant black wolf that turned into a man. The irony was overwhelming. “That’s… interesting.”

“Got it in one.” Stiles grinned and winked. “I knew I liked you for a reason. Derek just rolled his eyes and called me an idiot.” But Stiles was should be thankful that’s all Derek had done, though it fit into the weak spot Derek apparently had for the human.

The only person, human or otherwise, that got away with anything was Stiles. He pestered Derek into going places, getting take-out, or even cooking, and practically lived at the frat house. Stiles was the only one that could change the station in the car, which Scott learned the one time Derek drove him anywhere because Isaac had tried and had his hand slapped like a kid trying to get into the cookie jar.

On one memorable occasion the week before, Stiles had borrowed the Camero. Even the other brother’s in the fraternity who were used to Stiles’ antics had been shocked by that one.

“I’m just gonna…” Scott pointed in the general direction of the fraternity and jogged off without another word, but didn’t miss the disappointed sigh behind him.

“There you go chasing off another potential friend, and you’re not even awake,” Stiles said to the wolf. “Who are we kidding. You’re a giant puppy. Clearly, I’m the problem. Freaky genius kid doesn’t need friends, right?”

At the soft sound of a sniffle, Scott chanced a glance over his shoulder before he turned the corner. The sight of Stiles hunched over the wolf, faced buried in his fur, and shoulders trembling was an alpha force punch to the chest. But it was the glowing red eyes glaring at him that made him stumble and trip. He skidded across the ground. His skin shredded as he grated his face across the pavement and left a smear of blood.

Scott staggered to his feet and out of sight, bloody gashes disappearing as his skin knit itself back together. Maybe it wasn’t Stiles that was sticking around the fraternity, but it was Derek that was systematically ensuring he kept Stiles close, but why?

TBC

#little spoon works #sterek #5+1 fic #part 3 #outsider pov #stiles stilinski #derek hale #wolf!derek #scott mccall #oblivious scott #eternalsterek #teen wolf #sterek fic #teen wolf fic #college au #established relationship

[themoneybuff-blog]

Why financial literacy fails (and what to do about it)

April is Financial Literacy Month in the United States. This is a pure and noble thing. I think it's great that there's one month each year devoted to promoting smart money habits. That said, it has become increasingly apparent over the years that most financial literacy programs fail. They don't work. And this isn't just me speaking anecdotally. In a 2014 paper from Management Science, three researchers conducted a meta-analysis of 201 prior studies regarding the efficacy of financial literacy. Their conclusion? Interventions to improve financial literacy explain only 0.1% of the variance in financial behaviors studied, with weaker effects in low-income samples. Like other education, financial education decays over time; even large interventions with many hours of instruction have negligible effects on behavior 20 months or more from the time of intervention. To put it in plain English, financial literacy education makes no discernible difference in behavior. People who take personal-finance classes manage their money no better (and no worse) than the general population. We're pumping tons of money and time into a fruitless endeavor. All of this push to promote financial literacy accomplishes nothing. Zero. Nada. Why is that?

It probably won't surprise you to learn that I have some strong opinions on this subject. Today, let's talk about why financial literacy fails (and what to do about it). Note: This afternoon (April 24th) at 4 p.m. Pacific (7 p.m. Eastern), I'll be part of a Facebook Live interview about this very subject. If you're free at that time, you should join us! Update: Here's the entire interview. Why Financial Literacy Fails Financial literacy fails because it almost universally addresses only one part of the problem: math and mechanics. FinLit (as it's sometimes called) focuses on facts and figures while largely ignoring behavior. This is insane. This is like promoting sex education that talks about penises and vaginas while never discussing what it's like to be madly in love with somebody, so in love that your brain stops working. For sex education to be effective, it has to deal with real-world circumstances and behavior. It has to teach about psychology and emotions, not just body parts. The same is true with financial literacy. In fact, the same is true with actual literacy. The National Assessment of Adult Literacy says that working literacy has two components. The operational piece of literacy focuses solely on knowledge. It involves word-level reading skills such as recognizing words.The conceptual piece of literacy focuses on everyday tasks: Literacy is the ability to use printed and written information to function in society, to achieve one's goals, and to develop one's knowledge and potential. The first part of literacy is about mechanics. The second part is about practical application. Modern financial literacy efforts spend nearly all of their time on the knowledge piece. I've reviewed maybe a dozen FinLit programs over the years. Most pay no more than lip service to behavior, to the conceptual piece of financial literacy. Let me give you an example from my own life. When I was in high school (w-a-y back in the mid-1980s), every senior in our district was required to pass a class in personal finance. It covered topics like compound interest, the Federal Reserve, how to write a check, and the dangers of credit cards. I took that class. I aced every test. And five years later, I had the beginnings of a debt habit. I'd mastered the knowledge but not he behavior. The behavior was never taught. From what I can tell, the kids from my high school grew up to be no different than the rest of Americans. We learned the basics of financial literacy, but it had no perceivable impact on the way we saved and spent and earned. We still made stupid mistakes. We still spent more than we earned. Why? Because facts and figurs are only one-half of financial literacy. (And I'd argue they aren't even the most important half.) The solution to financial literacy isn't to feed people more facts and figures. It isn't to teach them how bonds work or to explain the sheer awesomeness of a Roth IRA. If we want to boost financial literacy in the United States, what we really need to promote is behavioral education. Behavioral Finance Personal finance is simple. Fundamentally, you need to know only one thing: To build wealth, you must spend less than you earn. The end. That's it. We can all go home now. Everything else simply builds on this. Why, then, is it so hard for everyone to get ahead? For some people, the problem is systemic. There's no doubt that some people are trapped in a cycle of poverty, and they truly need outside help to overcome the obstacles they face. But for most of us, the issue is internal: The problem is us. In other words, I am the reason that I can't get ahead. And you are the reason that you can't get ahead. It's not a lack of knowledge about compounding and credit cards that holds us back, but a chain of bad behavior. The math and mechanics of personal finance are easy. It's the psychological side of money that's hard. One of the key tenets of this site is that money is more about mind than it is about math. That is, our financial success isn't determined by how smart we are with numbers, but how well we're able to control our emotions our wants and desires. There's actually a branch of economics called behavioral finance devoted exclusively to this phenomenon, exploring the interplay between economic theory and psychological reality. There's a new wave of folks who are exploring the gamification of personal finance; they're trying to turn money management into a game. More and more, experts are seeing that our economic decisions aren't based on logic, but on emotion and desire. It's time that financial literacy programs incorporated these new(-ish) approaches into their curriculum. For years, I struggled with money. I knew the math, but I still couldnt seem to defeat debt. It wasnt until I started applying psychology to the situation that I was able to make changes. For instance, I used the debt snowball to pay down my debt in an illogical yet psychologically satisfying way. It worked. And Ive learned that by having financial goals such as travel Im much more inclined to save than if I have no goals at all. Behavioral Literacy

To me, the answer to our country's crazed consumerism and poor financial skills has nothing to do with traditional financial literacy. (Okay, maybe it has a little to do with traditional financial literacy.) Instead, I see two fundamental problems that need to be addressed. First, we soak in a bath of the mass media. We're constantly exposed to a barrage of programming in which we're given subtle messages about what people do (or should) consume. We cannot help but be influenced by the power of marketing. (I've talked to many people who think they're immune to marketing. I just shake my head and think, You, my friend, are the most influenced of all.)Secondly, we don't think about our spending. We spend on impulse. Or we spend to subconsciously keep up with our family and friends to keep up with the Joneses. We spend to make ourselves feel better when we're down and blue. We spend to show off. We spend on things we think we want instead of the things we actually use and do. We spend because spending is a habit. Instead of teaching Americans about credit cards and rates of return, we need to be teaching them about behavioral finance. We need to be showing them how to break free from the marketing messages that are all around. We need to be showing them how to set (and achieve) personal goals, especially financial goals. We need to teach skills like conscious spending. There's a reason that my core message doesn't start with math and mechanics. It starts by asking people to think about their goals and purpose. This is the piece of financial education that's missing in our society. This is what financial literacy education ought to be teaching. Note: For a clear demonstration of how I'd approach financial literacy if I were to design a program, check out my Money Boss Manifesto. It's a free ebook that outlines the financial philosophy I've developed after nearly fifteen years of reading and writing about money. The Bottom Line Sometimes people wonder why we don't spend more time on the nitty gritty of money around here. Why we don't cover more topics like where to find the best credit cards or how to create a budget? It's because deep inside, I believe these things are secondary. I believe behavior is more important. Building a better budget isn't going to change your attitude toward saving and spending; but changing you attitude toward saving and spending could very well lead you to building a better budget. Ultimately, if we want Americans to be smarter with their money, we need to encourage them to consume less media to avoid advertising and we need to teach them to master the emotional side of personal finance. We need to show them how to change their behavior. We need to appeal to their self-interest. We need to help them find intrinsic motivation to save. Each of us needs to dig deep inside to find what it is that's important to us, what it is that brings us joy, and we need to prioritize that instead of all the other garbage. I'm not suggesting that we abandon traditional financial literacy completely. But I think a constant push for more financial education is a waste of time if it's only going to focus on mechanics, to stick to facts and figures. To truly be successful, financial education has to address the behavioral side of money because that is absolutely the biggest piece of the puzzle.

Author: J.D. Roth In 2006, J.D. founded Get Rich Slowly to document his quest to get out of debt. Over time, he learned how to save and how to invest. Today, he's managed to reach early retirement! He wants to help you master your money and your life. No scams. No gimmicks. Just smart money advice to help you reach your goals. https://www.getrichslowly.org/why-financial-literacy-fails-and-what-to-do-about-it/

[nickygrows]

My Journey

By Nicky Jones

We have arrived once again at 4/20. Today we celebrate all things Cannabis. As we contemplate a more laid back manner of doing things, allow me to tell you my story of how Cannabis saved my life. It gets a bit heavy, but sometimes that's just the way it is. Here goes...

Six years ago, at the age of 34, a nuclear warhead was detonated in my life. After a lifetime of wondering if I had back problems, an acute disc herniation at L4-L5 painfully confirmed this suspicion. Prior to this incident I was an active father who enjoyed running quite a bit and had a decent job working in a mill. After the incident, I quickly lost touch with who I was completely.

When I first met the neurosurgeon that went on to operate on my spine, he thought he was in the wrong room. He stared down at the chart in his hands and then back up at me with a puzzled look on his face. The MRI looked bad. At the time, I didn't so much. Just before my injury, I was in good shape clocking in at a fairly lean 180 pounds. He explained that my spine looked like the spine of a much older, much heavier man. He didn't expect to see this young, fit guy on his examining table when he walked into that room, but there I was. Pain and fear had crashed into my life like an 80 mile per hour head on collision. I rushed to the operating table.

My postoperative recovery went pretty much as bad as it could go. The company I worked for decided I needed to hurry back to work to keep my job. So I skipped much of the healing process and went chasing a little bit of money. My employer soon realized I was no longer the strong and capable worker that they had hired. It didn't take long at all for them to find a reason to push me out the door after nearly five years with the company. I had surgery in January and was jobless by April. I quickly found another job working for the city. I worked 3 days and they also fired me when they got the results of my pre-employment health screening. They said I was too high risk and therefore unemployable. I didn't know it yet, but I was down for the count. I gained 100 pounds the first year after surgery putting me around 280 pounds. I was in constant, immobilizing pain which was compounded by the added weight. The weight kept me from being active and being inactive caused more weight gain. To make matters much worse, my pain was horribly managed with a myriad of drugs including dangerous opioids, which would be given and taken away seemingly at random. I felt like I was being tormented by a mean bully. I now know this bully’s name is pain management. Round and round you go, where do you stop? Look at the statistics and you will see. Years of destructive drug addiction and pain ensued. All the while I gained weight.

Three hard years had passed since my spinal surgery and I was almost at rock bottom. Not far to go now. I was around 320 pounds. I had gained approximately 140 pounds since my injury. To mask the pain, I was on a fentanyl patch that would kill me if I were to put it on right now. I had to lose weight. I joined a weight loss program that offered a pathway to gastric sleeve surgery. This was a last ditch effort to be rid of the extra person I was carrying around. I am honestly not sure how I made it to surgery in the weight loss program. The program was great, but by this time I was in a very bad place. The psychologist that evaluated my emotional ability to have the surgery and move forward postoperatively did not want to clear me. I was a mess. With tears running down my face, I explained to the doctor that this was my last hope to get any semblance of my life back. Although I really didn’t believe it would work, I somehow convinced them that I did. I was cleared. I had to give it a shot. I was literally dying.

In preparation for my surgery, the pain management doctor decided to cut my pain meds in half. They explained that if they didn’t decrease my tolerance, then there would be no option to treat my postsurgical pain. This sent me into a tailspin of opioid withdrawals much akin to coming off of Heroin. I felt like I had some nightmarish version of the flu. In addition to all of the typical flu symptoms, I was also experiencing mind-melting depression and anxiety among other things and was having to change clothes and sheets several times a night due to the fact that I literally sweating it out. After a few days of this I made a monumental, life-altering decision. I decided that if it was gonna be this bad to reduce this poison coursing through my veins by half, then how much worse could it get to just do the whole enchilada. The answer was: much worse, It could get much worse. I had my wife hide my firearms. I had to phone friends and family I hadn't reached out to in years in the middle of the night just to avoid losing my grip on my sanity. It felt like I was sick right down to the center of my soul. This went on for weeks that seemed more like years. I decided to try medical cannabis to help with the withdrawals and the pain. I came out on the other side completely done with opioids and ready to move forward with the surgery and the next chapter of my life.

I had gastric sleeve surgery on April 10, 2017. There was nothing easy about this process. However, once I made the decision that I wanted to live my life rather that allow it to continue to be stolen from me by circumstances, I took the surgery and everything that it involved very seriously. I stuck to the program’s month long liquid diet to the letter before the surgery and left the rest in the capable hands of my surgeon. Everything went well with my operation and recovery. I continued to follow the program instructions which set me on a path which led me out of darkness and into the light.

Since my surgery I have continued to educate myself on how to live healthier. I am now very careful about not only the quantity, but the quality of the things i put into my body. I was able to go back to work, but I gave up the mill life. I now earn my living as a gardener, which is a passion I have had most of my life. I have developed a yoga practice that helps me deal not only with my pain, but allows me to condition my mind, body, and soul to remain focused on a positive, healthy lifestyle. I continue to use cannabis as an alternative to opioids and it handles my pain and occasional anxiety much more effectively than anything I have previously been prescribed. And all without the horrible life-ending side effects that come with opioid pain medications. It didn’t happen overnight, but I made it back down to 180 pounds which is where I was before my life-altering spinal injury six years ago.

I am very specific with which Cannabis strains that I use. I stick with Sativas during the day to stay focused, creative, and energetic. They help tremendously with inflammation and take the edge off my pain. Some of my favorite Sativas are Jack Herer and Green Crack. In the evening I switch over to a heavy hitting Indica such as Yoda OG or 9 Pound Hammer . These make the pain drift away and my sleep quality is top notch.

In January of this year, I experienced another acute disc herniation. This time at L5-S1. I was taken to the ER by ambulance and spent nearly a week in the hospital learning to walk again with the new level of pain. This was nearly the same injury with nearly identical symptoms and pain as my original spinal injury. But this time it went much differently. In the hospital, the entire staff were very interested in what was different about me. It really caught their attention when instead of asking for more IV pain medication, I said “No thanks, I am weaning myself off of that, so I won’t need my dose for another 6 hours”. Before I left the hospital, I was completely off the IV pain meds and up walking the halls. According to my nurses, I was a continued hot topic during daily staff meetings. The thing is, I wasn’t seeking any attention or special treatment. I used the spotlight to show anyone who was willing to look that there was a better way to swing when life throws curves. They sent me home with a few pain pills which I was done with 3 days later, about the same time that I ditched the walker I came home with. I now have the most heartwarming support system in the form of family, friends, and healthcare providers. With the help of my beautiful RN wife, amazing physical therapist, and a brand new perspective on life I am healing my current injury without surgery or opioid pain medications. Therapy and Cannabis. Although my right heel remains completely numb as a reminder that I did in fact experience some serious nerve agitation due to the herniation, the rest of me is wide awake and present for every moment of my life.

Happy 4/20 💚

[4jimin]

Let The Walls Break Down | 4

CHAPTER IV: Closer | crossposted on ao3 Summary: Resistance never really was their forté. A/N: all i have to say is: i'm sorry i have a lot of reasons to why i took so long to update (i was writing lost stars and another oneshot i didn't post yet) but it still doesn't justify, so for those who were waiting for it, i'm truly sorry and i hope you're still here sdjdkfj anyway i hope you enjoy and i promise i will do my best to not let that happen again

It wasn’t the way Jimin's body was moving under the blinding white lights of the dance studio. It wasn’t the way his sleeveless shirt was sticking to his solid muscles, the wetness of the fabric turning it see-through. No. It wasn’t how he rolled his hips like it was liquid, his thick thighs keeping the pace while his upper body flowed just as the lightest leaf. No, it wasn’t. It fucking wasn’t. It was the sleepiness spur of midnight, his mind too dizzy, too sore from the nonstop practice to be thinking straight. “Jungkook.” Namjoom bumped shoulders with him. “You're standing in the way... If you're tired go sit over there and relax a little, okay? We'll be going home in half an hour anyway.” He numbly nodded thinking maybe he really needed to take a rest. His line of thought was getting a little bit out of control, too much for his dismay. He sat on the corner of the room, away from everyone, a bottle of water in hands and a heart beating on his throat. He drowned it in water, shoving the beats down within each gulp. The hot sweat accumulated on his forehead and arms had already turned cold thanks to the air conditioner – Jungkook attributed to this the fault for his shivers. The room was filled with a loud beat that wasn’t their music anymore since some minutes ago. Almost everyone was seating or laying down trying to catch their breaths – except for Jimin and Hoseok, still up, all the energy from the world spilling from them. It almost didn’t seem like they had just spent the whole day dancing and trying to get their new choreography right. Hoseok was doing the most, randomly dancing to the foreign song blasting out of the speakers, moving his body everywhere, in a lame and forced attempt of sexiness due to the vibe of the song, which was, yeah, now that Jungkook realized, pretty sexual. Jimin was bending his body forward, too much laughing stopping him from standing straight. The sound of his laugh was filling the room, almost overlapping the song, and providing that so usual joy to Jungkook’s chest everytime the sound reached his ears. Hoseok stopped moving, hands on his waist and the brightest smile on his face – but still sweating and panting, obviously tired. He pointed with his chin to where Jimin was standing catching his breath and trying to stop laughing with a hand on his tummy, as if saying 'your turn'. Jungkook could only gulp, because Jimin sexily dancing to a slightly too explicit song was definitely not what he needed in that moment. No one was actually giving them too much of attention so Jungkook thought it would be weird if he was caught intensely staring. He busied himself pulling out the plastic label of the water's bottle on his hands, and heard Jimin's voice over the music. “Aish, hyung, no, no.” He was laughing and giggling all cutely – that way it made everyone’s heart melt. “Come oonnn, Jiminie! Show me those sexy skills you got, dance for hyung!” Jungkook put the bottle aside – the plastic around it now partially hanging off – and searched for his phone on his bag. His father had called him. He should call him back. Yeah, he probably should. In fact, he should call him back in that exact moment. “Aish, okay.” Jimin's little mumble didn’t go unnoticed by the maknae’s ears. Jungkook stood up, hurrying to leave the room so he could find a silent place to talk with his father, but somewhere along the way his body stopped moving, his own eyes betraying him and shooting a glance at Jimin. He was obviously fooling around, but that alone was enough for Jungkook's palms to get extra sweaty and tingly, because what the fuck? He was rolling his hips all the way, more for Hoseok's loud squeaky laughs along with the intense clapping of his hands than anything. Jimin kept pulling out faces that were kinda funny and destroyed the mood, but Jungkook was totally ignoring it, focusing on his body alone, because that was far than enough. Some point along the way, the beat seemed to really start enveloping Jimin's skin, because he was suddenly too serious, body moves too sharp and controlled – too letal, much for Jungkook's despair. His breath hitched when he looked up his face and their gazes met. Was he fucking dancing for him? No way. But Jimin didn’t break eye contact, eyelids partially falling closed in that way he knew it was too fucking tempting. He took his hands to the back of his neck as he tauntingly threw his head backwards, rolling it to the side until it was back staring at Jungkook's eyes, gaze piercing through him. Jungkook thought that was already too much when Jimin suddenly dropped his upper body down, thighs tensing for a second, before he was back up again, arms and hips hitting the beats too pointedly, too perfectly for a improvisation. Jungkook was barely breathing. Hoseok was the one who stole Jimin’s attention, body starting to move with the music again. They got serious about it and Jungkook didn’t know what to do. He should leave. He didn’t know what just happened, but he needed to leave for sure. It was when the music suddenly ended and the place was plunged in silence, heavy breaths being the only thing responsible for filling it. Jungkook held his phone on his hands harder and glanced over at the two men in the middle of the room one last time. It was just curiosity. Hoseok was smiling as always, but Jimin was looking directly at him, the slight hint of a smirk playing on his lips. He lifted his head up a bit, hands resting on his hips as he teasingly smiled. “Like what you see?” Jungkook's heart fastened its pace so violently and in such a short period of time his vision blurred. Hoseok's turned his head to him, still smiling innocently and probably completely oblivious to what was happening there. “I... You–“ he weirdly muttered, cheeks blushing and voice failing, “You were cool.” He gulped changing his focus to Hoseok so he wouldn’t feel on the verge of exploding. “The dance. It was cool.” Hoseok smiled more widely than before and Jungkook almost felt guilty – his eyes didn’t focus on him even once. “Anyway, ahm... I gotta... call my father, so, mhm, yeah.” He left the room without having the guts to meet Jimin's eyes again.

•••

Jimin knew more ways to have a crush than to actually deal with one. He had always been the person to fall for the small things. He was a hopeless lover, he could do nothing about it. He was in love with many things – Namjoon's dimples, Taehyung's eyes, Hoseok's smile, Seokjin's laugh, Yoongi's little nose –, not to mention other things unrelated to his members. But Jungkook... It was fucking crazy, to begin with. Jungkook was his dongsaeng, Jimin had always believed his love for him was old-brotherly – and the fucked up thing was, it really was old-brotherly, it really used to be, but... But what? He didn’t know and it was driving him crazy, because that shitty feeling had already caused problems enough, for god's sake. It was past the time for him to get his shit together and simply get over it, but it always seemed like there was something holding him back every damn time he decided to let go. Maybe it was his wishful mind making things up to delay his heartbreak, but Jimin always noticed – or he think he noticed – the sublte (sometimes not so sublte) glances Jungkook directed at him, the way he cleaned his hands on the back of his pants every time Jimin approached him – or even, how one night his eyes clearly landed on Jimin's lips, seeming to drift away from the conversation for a second or two. Jimin knew all of this could mean many things, none of them being what he wanted – he could have had a strand of hair sticking on his lips, maybe. He knew it all, but his mind kept creating nonexistent things to fill his need for correspondent love. Yeah, it was love and fuck that. He knew it, because different from with the other members, Jimin was in love with every single thing about Jeon Jungkook. His flaws. He was in love with his flaws, for fuck's sake. He wasn’t in love with anyone's flaws – not even Taehyung’s, not even his owns. He sighed loudly, his head falling from the couch while he watched a shitty anime on tv. “Your neck will hurt later if you keep doing this.” Hoseok warned walking past him. “I don’t care.” “Aish, stop being a brat and straighten your back.” He slapped Jimin's legs. “I'm the one you look for later with puppy eyes asking for massages.” Jimin grinned. “You can’t say no to my puppy eyes.” “I'll start to learn to, you cocky asshole.” He smiled back and Jimin straightened his back, returning his attention to the television, until Seokjin parked in front of it, hands on waist and looking pretty pissed. He sat straight on the couch to listen the scold he knew it was to come. “What did I say about the bathroom, Park Jimin?!” Jimin lowered his eyes, little guilty remembering him his forgotten duty, “For god's sake! I told you, bathroom is yours and Jungkook's responsability, didn’t I? It's not because we have a cleaning lady coming every week we need to leave the house this disgusting mess for her to do all the work!” “I'm sorry, hyung...” he sincerely apologized. “I don’t want apologies, I want you and Jeon Jungkook cleaning that bathroom until it's shining! Now!” Jin turned off the television and pointed for Jimin to leave with his finger. And he left, head down and feeling slightly embarrassed. He did nothing all morning, he could have quickly cleaned the bathroom, but he kept procrastinating until he forgot it. Jungkook was already there, sitting down, a sponge in hands rubbing the tiles of the wall. He heard Jimin's footsteps and looked back, smiling understandingly. Jimin shifted his gaze away, because his smile did funny things to his stomach. “Jin-hyung can be pretty serious when he wants to, right?” Jungkook started, returning his attention to his duty. “Yeah... What were you doing when he appeared?” Jimin took a sponge for himself to clean the sink. “Playing fallout. He was pretty pissed.” Jungkook giggled. “Oh, and toilet's yours.” “Jungkookie!” Jimin whined, turning his head to look at him in deblief. “No!” “You should've been faster to call dibs.” Jungkook laughed. “I hate dibs.” He pouted. “And I hate you.” “Ahhh, don’t be like that...” Jungkook teased, a smile sounding on his voice, “You know I'm your favorite dongsaeng.” “You're my only dongsaeng.” “Shhh...” Jimin laughed. He really hated him. “You're a brat, Jeon Jungkook.” “Hyung loves me anyway...” He singsonged. Jimin shook his head laughing. A brat. He was in love with a brat. Unbelievable. Time went by and silence dominated the place as they kept rubbing and cleaning. Jimin was already feeling bored and his fingers were starting to get wrinkled from the water, when, with no previous warning, a cold hand was placed on the inner part of his warm – bare – thigh, making him shudder, caging his breath inside his lungs. He looked down – a gulp in his throat – just to find a pair of innocent eyes staring back at him – completely unaware of the effect his touch had on Jimin's body. “Hyung, can you pass me the disinfectant?” But his hands remained there, and Jimin suddenly didn’t know how to speak. “Oh, it's so warm here.” Jungkook closed his eyes, taking his other hand to rest on the back of Jimin's knees. “Jungkook–“ Jimin gasped, because, one: his hands were pretty cold, and well, the other reason he was trying to ignore. “My hands are cold, hyung.” He frowned whining. “Yeah, I know that.” “Oh.” The younger snapped his eyes open, taking his hands off Jimin's skin, “Sorry.” Jimin swallowed the tip of disappointment that surged on his gut. “Sure. Disinfectant, right?” He reached for the bottle on his right. “Here.” “Thanks.” And there was the silence again. But this time it was awkward. Jimin finished with the sink and took a deep breath, knowing the toilet was next. Disgusting. He crouched down by Jungkook's side, who was almost finished with the bottom tiles, and plunged the sponge into the foam bucket. Jungkook grabbeb his wrist before he could take it out. “Oh, no, hyung, I was joking. I'll take the toilet.” “No, it's o–“ “Hyung.” Jimin was trying to avoid eye contact, but Jungkook was searching for his eyes so he gave in, “It's okay.” When did his eyes become so warm? Jimin sighed, shifting his gaze away. His heart was racing stupidly. “Okay.” He murmured, pulling his hand out of the bucket and his wrist out of Jungkook’s hold. It was silent for a second until Jungkook leaned in closer, startling Jimin. He turned to face him, eyes slightly wide and a question hanging on his lips. What are you doing? Jungkook's eyes were glued to his jawline and as Jimin's breath got increasingly shorter, Jungkook brought his hand to the side of the older's neck. “You...” he murmured while brushing his thumb over it. “There's soap on your neck.” Jimin felt the cold foam spreading on his skin until Jungkook completely wiped it. “T-thanks.” He managed out, wondering why Jungkook was still with his hand on his neck. Their eyes met and Jimin fisted the fabric of his shorts a little, the distance between their faces being the only thing he was thinking about. “Hyung, I–“ “Are you two going to take the whole day to finish this or what?!” Seokjin's loud voice was heard from the hall. Jimin jumped on his feet so fast he almost slipped on the partially soapy floor. His heart was thunder on his chest, the welcomed air on his lungs showing he was unconsciously holding back his breath for god knows how long. Jin appeared by the doorframe while Jimin was still trying to figure out how to act. But, thank god, he didn’t give a shit to them, just inspectioned their job with a nod. “Okay, that's fine, just finish the tiles and the floor, so you can come eatn. Lunch's already ready.” “And the toilet?” Jimin heard Jungkook asking. How was he so calm? “Nah, it's okay. Just throw disinfectant in it and press the flush. Be quick, we're waiting for you to eat.” He was gone just as fast as he came, leaving the two of them alone to deal with the weird atmosphere that settled in there – which they didn’t, just tried finishing their duties as fast as possible, so they could go away from each other and pretend nothing unusual happened at all. Just another ordinary day.

•••

It was under the soft fabric of his blankets, air beginning to get stuffy and thick from too little oxygen to breath inside his made up shelter, that Jungkook had his first anxiety attack after a long time. His mind was dizzy, and he was miserably failing at the only function he needed to focus on in that moment: breath. Exhale and inhale. He couldn’t do it. He couldn’t do it, and his throat was closing and he was panicking. He pushed the duvet off his head and even when the cool air of the room hit his face – he still couldn’t breath it in. He wanted to cry, but the tears were stuck, making his nose tingle and then burn, until he had no other option apart from laying on bed and waiting either for death or for his mind to pass out. He closed his eyes, trying to concentrate on the soft sheets around his body, on how the sensation on his skin was refreshing, and on how the hum of the air conditioner was far more welcoming than the idle buzz inside his ears. Eventually, oxygen naturally invaded his lungs without warning, so smoothly he was scared to stop doing it again if he got too focused on it. So he just redirected his attention to the cozy sound of the ac filling the room. He was alone, Namjoon wasn’t there. No one was in the house, in fact. He was alone. But it was okay. He was going to be okay. His grandmother once told him if he kept repeating a lie for too many times, it'd might turn true. In the time, it had been a warning to stop him from lying little lies, but now it was just an encouragement for him to get through difficult times. It's okay. You’re going to be okay.

He woke up to the blinding light of early morning invading the windows. His eyes were blurry and gross, so he rubbed it to see better, the sleepy state of his mind confusing him about where exactly he was. When Namjoon's silhouette took in his sight on the other bed, he let his head fall back on the pillow. He was feeling drained and he had barely woken up. His phone buzzed on the nightstand, so he took it in his hands. Full of useless notifications. Except from one. He clicked on it, a lazy smile settling on his lips for the next five minutes as he stared at Jimin's latest selfie on twitter. He was so gorgeous. Jungkook sighed, a tiny hint of exasperation hidden in the way he closed his eyes and licked his mouth. Why him of all people? He was always so sure he liked girls, why was that happening to him? It was so frustrating. As his thoughts floated on his mind, memories of the last night flashed quickly before his eyes before he blew them away. He didn’t want to remember. It was so embarrassing – even more considering it had almost a year he didn’t have a crisis like that. Stupid. All due to a sexually frustrated crush. Because that's what it was, in the worst of cases. A sexually frustrated crush. It couldn’t be any more than that. He wasn’t going to let it be. Jungkook knew it was okay, and even normal. He knew it all – he and Jimin talked, he had read things and had even heard Namjoon talking about it one day. It was okay for people from the same sex to love each other. It was normal. But for other people. Not for him. For him, loving Jimin was his mother's disappointed eyes, his father's harsh words, his grandpa's disgusted face and his grandma's promises of praying for the lord to save him. It was his fans heartbreak, his members dream being shoved into a trashcan. All of that and more. He couldn’t risk it. Jungkook was still laying in bed when the door softly opened some minutes later – one arm resting above his eyes to block the sunlight and the other on his stomach, which instantly reacted the moment he saw Jimin's sleepy face by the door. Jimin peaked inside the bedroom and assumed everyone was still sleeping, because he was about to close the door when Jungkook's hoarse voice resounded in the place. “Hyung.” Jimin put his head back in again, wondering if he was hearing things. Jungkook still seemed asleep. “Hyung.” He called again, voice scratching his dry throat. He had a bad morning taste in his mouth, so he completely regretted calling Jimin the second he started walking till him. Now he was going to smell Jungkook's terrible breath and would be disgusted by him. The smaller boy crouched by his side and Jungkook's futile worries were completely washed away. Jimin's hand went to his hair, and it felt almost as refreshing as cold water soaking his scalp during a shower after an unbearable hot day. Jungkook allowed himself to relax, closing his eyes for a moment too long to drown in Jimin's touch. “I thought you were sleeping.” Jimin's low whisper forced him to lazily open his eyes. His face was such a wonderful thing to see first in the day. “I came to see if anyone was awake, so I could do breakfast for more than one person only.” Jungkook slowly nodded, partially stunned by the sight before him, eyes dazed like it was a dream. He was so beautiful. “You're still sleeping, it seems.” He wasn’t. He was so fully awake. Jimin giggled and Jungkook's heart skipped a beat. He wanted to hear it one more time. “Hyung...” he called again, even though Jimin was right in front of him. “What is it?” the older rested his chin on the border of the bed, staring at Jungkook’s eyes just a few inches from his, hand's still on the younger’s hair, caressing it softly and sweetly. Jungkook's throat closed and he was scared to break in front of Jimin. He wanted to take his hands on his, kiss his knucles and ask him to lay by his side. He wanted to intertwine their fingers and ask him to sing him to sleep. He wanted to, but he couldn’t. He couldn’t and it fucking hurt. “I–“ he started, voice choked. But Jimin was mistaking his sadness with sleepiness. He didn’t know if that relieved or depressed him. “Can we... Can we spend some time together today?” Jimin's brows briefly furrowed, lips falling open in a silent coo, unaware of the situation he was in. “Of course we can. But why all of a sudden, though?” “I'm... I’m homesick.” Jungkook lied, watching the expression in Jimin's eyes change. “Are you okay?” he slid his hand down to caress Jungkook’s temple with his thumb, worry hanging from his words. Jungkook closed his eyes again, fighting the urge to cry. “Yeah, just...” he slid his eyelids up, “Stay with me today.” Jimin smiled and, for a moment, it was like there was no evil in the world. “Of course I will.” Jungkook nodded, a weak 'okay' escaping his lips. Jimin turned around, still crouched down, and then looked at him over his shoulders. “Come on. Hop up.” Jungkook didn’t fight when a sweet smile bloomed on his lips. “What?” he asked, sadness being replaced for a fluttering heart. “Hop up. I'll carry the sleepy baby to the kitchen. We need to be together today, right?” Jimin giggled and Jungkook was far more than pleased, “Come on.” “Can you even handle my weight?” he teased. Jimin placed a hand on his chest, mouth hanging open in a dramatic offended expression while looking at Jungkook with fake disbelief. He got up on his feet. “Oh brat, you'll swallow those words up.” He wrapped his arms around Jungkook’s back and picked him up. “Hyung!” Jungkook ridiculously squeaked in surprise, heart beating like crazy, scared to fall in the ground but already falling – in a completely different context. “Hyung, put me down!” he complained even though his arms were already around Jimin's neck. Jimin just adjusted the younger's body better on his arms and smiled. “Enjoy the ride, bride.” Jungkook pinched his shoulder, but buried his face in the crook of his neck anyway. He closed his eyes and resisted with all the strength of his body to not place gentle kisses all over it. He failed, giving in to the will one time only, his lips sticking to Jimin's skin like honey – lasting one moment too long and one moment too short. Neither of them uttered a word about it – the butterflies in their stomachs speaking a lot more than necessary, but never reaching each other’s ears.

•••

By spending time with each other, Jungkook didn’t mean losing the entire afternoon on a practice room working on a choreography a little bit too intense to catch on, but he guessed that was what life had for him. They remained there though, after everyone left, Jimin saying he wanted to train his vocals and Jungkook just following him around everywhere and agreeing with everything he wanted to do. That definitely wasn’t what he had planned on his head when he asked Jimin to be with him that day, but to be completely honest, he was far more love struck than he ever thought he would be. And it was okay, because it wasn’t romantically speaking (or so he told himself). It was a too-stunned-and-too-admired-to-form-a-word type of love struck. His eyes were glued on Jimin's focused features, unable to swerve away even for a second. Because Jimin was singing. Acapella. And it was simultaneously the most beautiful thing Jungkook had ever seen and heard his entire life. Jimin had his eyelids tightly pressed against his lower eyelashes, getting his brows to slightly furrow as he hit a high note that bristled Jungkook's nape hair. It was when he opened his eyes that Jungkook realized he was holding back his breath. He slowly sucked in a good amount of oxygen to his lungs, feeling refreshed but still in trance. He watched as Jimin took his hand to the back of his neck and pressed the muscle – probably sore from too much exercise –, a slight hint of pain hidden in the way he pressed his lips together and failed to sing the next note. The melody stopped flowing out of his mouth to be replaced for a little whine and a frown on his face. “God, it hurts.” Jungkook almost instantly double tapped the ground in front of him. “C'mere.” His muscles were just as sore, but he'd do anything to erase that expression of pain from Jimin's face. “Let me massage it for you.” His hyung crawled till him without resistance, accepting Jungkook’s offer with pleasure. He settled his body between Jungkook's legs, his back to the younger's chest, and lowered his head, waiting for Jungkook's hands to do the job. Jimin was wearing a tank top, so Jungkook had to deeply breath before his fingertips met the skin of Jimin's nape. He pressured the sore spots with just the right amount of force, completely cupping the neck with both hands to make it feel better for Jimin. He slided his hands to the smaller boy's shoulders, pressuring the muscles with his palm and thumb, Jimin's tiny moans reassuring him he was doing right. “Mhmmm...” Jimin let out and Jungkook was forced to close his eyes in order to maintain his self control. He continued to squeeze Jimin's shoulders and neck with eyes closed, trying not to focus on the little whimpers coming out of the older's lips, pretending to not notice the droplets of sweat forming on his own nape. He was doing fine, until Jimin roughly grabbed his thighs with both hands and loudly moaned, Jungkook's breath hitching. “Oh, right there, Jungkookie, right the– God, yes...” Jungkook stopped moving to breath, Jimin's palms still pressed down on top of his painful thigh muscles. He closed and opened his eyes a few times before bringing his fingers to move again, Jimin's warm skin feeling so soft against his touch. He had such a nice skin. In that moment it was creamy and a little bit shiny from sweat but Jungkook didn’t care. He straightened his back – increasing the height between them even while sitting –, and somehow it made him feel a little confident, to see a small Jimin melting under his touch. “Mmm– God, this feels so good–” It was in a dizzy spur of lust and desire that Jungkook leaned in closer, placing an open mouthed kiss on the back of Jimin's neck. He slightly sucked it, his stomach twirling and his heart thundering, loving to hear the way Jimin gasped midway his sentence and held on Jungkook’s thigh so hard he dugged his nails on the flesh. Jungkook didn’t care, intoxicated by the feeling. He slided his hands to Jimin's biceps and kept massaging it, mouth travelling to the skin behind Jimin's ear. He tasted like after training salty sweat and Jungkook was addicted. He swiped his tongue over Jimin's ear lobe, catching it on his lips a second later, hearing the older loudly sucking the air through his mouth, hands clutching so tight on Jungkook’s leg it made him whimper, voice vibrating against Jimin's skin. Jungkook didn’t know what had got into him, but he decided he didn’t want to take the time to find out, tracing a path of kisses on Jimin's neck instead, hands pressuring his muscles roughly now – both stimulus seeming to be too much for the boy to take it, having turn into a moaning mess already. “Mmmm... Jungkook-ah...” Jungkook clutched Jimin's arms hard, the sound of his voice crying his name making his cock twitch and his heart burst. His eyes were tightly closed as he tried to easy his unsteady breath – hotly hitting on Jimin's now wet skin and making him shiver. The pause in the moment made Jungkook hesitate, fear menacing to invade his empty mind – but it only needed for Jimin to drag his hands up his thighs for him to be back at it again. He brought his right hand up Jimin's shoulder, fingers sliding beneath the fabric of his shirt and swiping it down, exposing this shoulder. There was something so sexual about that sight that Jungkook couldn’t repress the needy moan escaping his mouth in response. His lips found Jimin's shoulder at the same time his arms found his waist, pulling him closer, the end of his back clashing against Jungkook’s cock and causing the friction he was so much earning for. Jungkook tightened his thighs by the sides of Jimin's body in instinct, wanting the contact to be bigger. It was when Jimin pulled away and Jungkook almost instantly felt terror settling inside him. But just as fast as he was gone he was back, straddling Jungkook's body with both his thighs and sitting on his lap, Jungkook's mind going instantly blank, a groan escaping both their lips. He held on Jimin's waist and pressed him down, their erections briefly touching, too many clothes between them. Jimin harshly placed his elbows on the wall behind them by both sides of Jungkook’s head, their faces so close he could feel their noses brushing. He was panting, hot breath invading Jungkook's mouth, and a look on his eyes that made him gulp in antecipation, heart beating too fast for his own good. “I swear to god...” Jimin started low, voice hoarse and iris so dark Jungkook swore they were black, “You're going to be the fucking death of me.” Jungkook closed his eyes, ready to feel the most perfect pair of lips against his mouth, – but instead he felt a trace of cold air spreading on his skin where the missing warmth of Jimin’s body was a second before, his weight leaving his lap in a heartbeat. He snapped his eyes open in confusion just to find a nervous Jimin fixing his shirt and signalling for him to get up – when Yoongi entered the room and Jungkook was terrified, pulling his knees up to hide his too much apparent hardness. “Hey kids. I brought food.” He showed the plastic bag on his hands, walking past them to put it on the table in the corner of the room. “Hi hyung. Ahm...” Jimin started while fixing his sweatpants, thankfully large enough to hide any sign of what was happening there an instant before. “Weren’t you supposed to be home?” “Me?” Yoongi looked at them, but Jungkook was too scared to look back, “No, why? I was working on the mixtape at the recording room.” “I see...” Jimin nodded and the room was  oddly silent for a moment. Jungkook wanted to disappear. He was feeling guilty and dirty, as if he had cheated on the most important moral principle of his life, when in fact he had just – partially – made out Jimin. God. He had partially made out with Jimin. “Come eat before it gets cold.” “Actually, ahn...” Jungkook jumped on his feet, avoiding both gazes on him and hurriedly picking up his things from the ground, “I have a really important thing to do right now and I can’t be late, I'm sorry, hyung. Thanks for the food anyway.” Yoongi turned around to pick Jungkook's portion so he'd at least take it with him, but when he looked back a second later the younger was already gone, having left behind just the loud sound of the door closing shut and a confused Yoongi with a package of hot yakisoba in hands.

#it has years i updated this on ao3......im sry my computer is broken so its hard to update here #armiesnet #btsmaknaenet #busanboysnet #jikook fic #kookmin fic #bts fic #jikook #kookmin #bts

[captainsbabysitter-blog]

Jim Kirk Headcanons

Let’s start at the very beginning. A very good place to start. I should note that these are all TOS headcanons because honestly I love TOS more; each character just has more... Character. Just my opinion.

Questions under the cut!

Addendum: This took forever, so I may just answer asks unless I get reeeeally bored again.

1. What does their bedroom look like?

On the Enterprise, I see his room being somewhat sparse. He’s busy making strategies and interacting with other crew members in his off time. His home off-ship is full of shelves upon shelves of books. Jim is a reader. It’s how he escaped a less than awesome childhood and it expanded into a genuine, everlasting love.

He would also have posters of space. Educational, nerdy posters depicting the blueprints of ancient space shuttles and schematics for various things that grabbed his fancy.

And his chess boards. I hardcore headcanon that Pike taught him chess and he has several boards on various flat surfaces throughout his bedroom, but there’s one that’s special. One that has really crudely carved out pieces on a board with roughly painted black squares checkered with the natural light tones of pine that he made himself when he was on Tarsus IV and it’s a reminder of his belief in no-win scenarios and his duty to those who depend on him that stays with him even after he’s given his captaincy on the Enterprise.

2. Do they have any daily rituals?

Jim walks every path of the ship at least once a week. He likes the first-hand knowledge that everything is okay, everyone is safe, and he has a rotating schedule of the areas he visits. Mondays and Tuesdays are the upper decks, and so on and so forth.

Sometimes Bones or Spock will join him if they’re feeling up for it, but for the most part it’s just something he does himself.

3. Do they exercise, and if so, what do they do? How often?

See above. Beyond that, yes. He practices fighting styles and does other strength training on top of his daily walks.

4. What would they do if they needed to make dinner but the kitchen was busy?

He’d help in the kitchen, honestly. He’s not particularly good at cooking, but he can do some basic stuff and whatever helps moves things along faster is what he’s going to do.

Just picture him wearing a Kiss The Cook apron over his command golds, flour on his nose and an easy grin.

5. Cleanliness habits (personal, workspace, etc.)

It depends. His work space is spotless. He needs that clear space to stay in the right headspace for leading an entire ship.

Home? Home is a disaster. He has projects on every surface, pictures and posters all over the walls, and it’s sort of an organized mess, but it IS a mess.

6. Eating habits and sample daily menu.

This one is less headcanon and more canon. If he can get away with eating steak and fries with every meal, he’s going to. But everyone knows Bones would annihilate him before his arteries had a chance to clog, so he’s forced to eat some greens once in a while.

7. Favorite way to waste time and feelings surrounding wasting time

Chess or reading or even just sitting in the rec room watching his crew enjoy themselves. In his eyes, time isn’t wasted if it’s spent on something enjoyed.

8. Favorite indulgence and feelings surrounding indulging

He indulges in expensive alcohols on special occasions.

Promotion for him or a member of his crew? A few fingers of a nice southern bourbon Bones gave him for Christmas.

Spock or Bones’ birthday? Share a few fingers of a scotch Scotty brewed up in that “secret” still of his.

Anniversary of the Enterprise launching with its present crew? Enjoy a few with his favorite people and reminisce about the fun they’ve had and the dangers they’ve faced and survived and remember the people they’ve lose (because Jim remembers every. single. one)

9. Makeup?

He wouldn’t be above a bit of color on special occasions or if it were culturally important, but he would stick mostly to concealer/foundation.

10. Neuroses? Do they recognize them as such?

He has a near-neurotic need to ensure himself that his Enterprise family is safe. Even after his long walks along the ship, he would stop by the places he knows Spock and Bones will be just to check up on them before he retires to his own rooms for the night. They would come to expect him and know that it makes Jim feel better knowing where they are and that they’re safe.

If questioned, he’ll deny it. Doubly so if you claim it’s neurotic in any way.

11. Intellectual pursuits?

Oh oodles. Jim will take on any intellectual pursuit he’s presented with if only because he’s curious. Even if he doesn’t keep up with it or loses interest after a day or two of poking around and getting a feel for it, he has at least a passing knowledge in a multitude of fields.

12. Favorite book genre?

All of them. He’d have his reasons for each individual genre and wouldn’t be able to choose just one.

13. Sexual Orientation? And, regardless of own orientation, thoughts on sexual orientation in general?

Pansexual. I’ll note here that to me, the term pansexual means that he would appreciate people on all places of the gender spectrum and various representations.

But Jim wouldn’t really call himself that. He doesn’t really bother with labels like that for himself, but doesn’t really judge other people for theirs either.

14. Physical abnormalities? (Both visible and not, including injuries/disabilities, long-term illnesses, food-intolerances, etc.)

Jim has a few food allergies, and tree nuts of any kind is a big one. It’s severe enough that the replicators have a restriction barring them from making anything with nuts as an ingredient.

Not sure why, but I also always saw him as being allergic to cats.

15. Biggest and smallest short term goal?

Biggest short term goal is to get Bones and Spock to openly admit they enjoy each others company.

Smallest is getting through two away missions in a row without everything going sideways.

16. Biggest and smallest long term goal?

Biggest long term goal is getting through the mission without losing any of his officers. The events surrounding Wrath of Khan shattered him on multiple levels because he felt like he failed.

Smallest long term goal is to serve Starfleet as long as he can manage to get away with.

17. Preferred mode of dress and rituals surrounding dress

Outside of uniform, he’s not picky about his clothes. He’d rummage through his closet until he found something resembling a full outfit and call it good.

18. Favorite beverage?

Saurian brandy, but he doesn’t indulge in that too often.

19. What do they think about before falling asleep at night?

Jim thinks back on any mistakes he may have made that day either on the bridge or on an away mission and would devise ways to go about them in better ways next time. He’s a renowned strategist, and he didn’t get that way by accident. He enjoys thinking up these sorts of scenarios and solutions; it’s relaxing and helps him sleep knowing that he’s ready for anything the universe might throw at him.

20. Childhood illnesses? Any interesting stories behind them?

None, really. There’s a reason he was spared on Tarsus and it wasn’t because he was sickly or suffering from any sort of illness.

21. Turn-ons? Turn-offs?

Confidence is a huge turn-on for him. It sounds cliche, but Jim loves a person who knows how to handle themselves. He also has a thing for throats and necks.

He can’t get into someone who feels like they’re better than others. You could be the richest person in the known universe with looks that take the breath of all who look upon you, but if you snub a server or sneer at someone of a lower caste, Jim won’t look at you twice.

22. Given a blank piece of paper, a pencil, and nothing to do, what would happen?

Depends on his mood. He might jot down some random thoughts that he doesn’t want to forget, but he’s more likely to make little doodles. He once spent an hour listening to Bones and Spock bicker and drew them while they did it. It’s one of his favorite drawings.

23. How organized are they? How does this organization/disorganization manifest in their everyday life?

He functions on a sort of organized chaos. He has an order in which he responds to problems, and his work space is immaculate, but if he’s studying or researching, he’s very much one of those people who would have PADD’s or even books strewn all around him while he’s searching for exactly what he needs.

24. Is there one subject of study that they excel at? Or do they even care about intellectual pursuits at all?

Tactics. There’s a reason he loves chess so much, and he’d love the challenge that comes with a new, unfamiliar opponent.

25. How do they see themselves 5 years from today?

If he has any say, he’ll still be on the Enterprise with his favorite people, exploring the universe.

26. Do they have any plans for the future? Any contingency plans if things don’t workout?

His only real plan is the Enterprise. He wants to fly until he can’t anymore and then he wants to settle down with Bones and Spock when they’re all retired. Any other plan isn’t acceptable to him.

27. What is their biggest regret?

That he didn’t know his son the way he feels a father should.

28. Who do they see as their best friend? Their worst enemy?

Spock and Bones are his best friends.

Khan is his worst enemy.

29. Reaction to sudden extrapersonal disaster (eg The house is on fire! What do they do?)

He’s trained to respond in emergencies, so he’s the one grabbing the extinguisher and/or making sure the others are somewhere safe before he lets himself hand the reigns over to someone better equipped to deal with it.

30. Reaction to sudden intrapersonal disaster (eg close family member suddenly dies)

Jim goes inward when someone close to him dies. He sits alone in his room and truly contemplates what life will be like now that that person is gone, and if he drinks just a bit too much in those moments? Well there’s no one there to chastise him.

31. Most prized possession?

Anything gifted to him by someone close to him. The secretly joint gift of reading glasses and print novel given to him by Spock and Bones on his birthday are his favorite.

32. Thoughts on material possessions in general?

He could take ‘em or leave ‘em. He doesn’t have a lot of space for such things on the ship, so it’s not something he’d really care about.

33. Concept of home and family?

The Enterprise and her crew are his home and family, and ultimately home is wherever he can be with Bones and Spock.

34. Thoughts on privacy? (Are they a private person, or are they prone to ‘TMI’?)

Jim’s a surprisingly private person. He doesn’t feel the need to broadcast every single happening in his life to anyone other than those that are the closest to him. A captain needs to maintain a certain amount of decorum with his crew no matter how close they get.

35. What activities do they enjoy, but consider to be a waste of time?

He doesn’t see anything that he enjoys as a waste of time. A waste of time implies it was both not enjoyable and serves no higher purpose.

36. What makes them feel guilty?

Failing in any way that results in injury to a member of the crew. That sort of thing eats at him for weeks.

37. Are they more analytical or more emotional in their decision-making?

A good captain knows how to balance both. He wouldn’t put one over the other because they’re both essential to his very being and so he goes with his gut, but he backs it with facts (even if the facts are made up on the fly).

38. Would they consider themselves a Type A or Type B personality?

He considers himself a Type B. Someone has to balance Spock and Bones, and besides... Being high strung never got him anywhere.

39. What recharges them when they’re feeling drained?

Chess with Spock or a nice stiff drink with Bones.

40. Would you say that they have a superiority-complex? Inferiority-complex? Neither?

Neither. He’s as good as he is, but he’s no better than anyone else. Yeah, there are people that are better than him, but they have experience that he doesn’t and strives to achieve.

41. How misanthropic are they?

Not at all.

42. Hobbies?

Reading and chess.

43. How far did they get in formal education? What are their views on formal education vs self-education?

You don’t get to be a captain by dropping out and never finishing school. He has a lot of extensive schooling both through the standard system and through his years at the academy.

44. Religion?

Not religious.

45. Superstitions or views on the occult?

Skeptical. He’s never seen evidence that any of these things exist, so he doesn’t tend to believe in them.

46. Do they express their thoughts through words or deeds?

Primarily words, but also in deed. He’s a diplomat, and so he knows how to charm anyone if he sets his mind to it.

47. If they were to fall in love, who (or what) is their ideal?

He doesn’t have an ideal. An ideal implies that you restrict yourself to one type of person, and that’s just not Jim’s style. His only real requirements are that they be someone that he can find mentally stimulating.

48. How do they express love?

He’s a tactile lover. Touches to the arm, a hand at the lower back, a thumb brushing a cheek, laying so that the entire length of his body is touching his lover’s are all silent, simple ways Jim would express love.

49. If this person were to get into a fist fight, what is their fighting style like?

A little thing I’ve called James T. Kirk’s Full-Body Karate. It’s funny because he just... Flings himself at enemies.

50. Is this person afraid of dying? Why or why not?

No. It’s a possibility he’s long since accepted about his job and position in Starfleet. He knows that one day he might die and he’s made peace with it.

He’s still convinced that he won’t die so long as Spock and Bones are with him, however. After all, he’s going to die alone.

#jim kirk #james t kirk #star trek tos #headcanon discourse

[maritzaerwin]

How Time Management Skills Can Positively Affect Your Career?

You know how it goes: you can get something done fast, cheaply, and well. But only two of these can be achieved at the same time. This means that something needs to be sacrificed. Yet in today’s job market, the limits of what is humanly possible seem to be moving at a rapid pace. Just like our personal lives, our careers have been sped up by growing demands for instant results, often at whatever cost.

Still, the truth is, as long as our tasks and job descriptions keep evolving, we need to evolve as well. For career-driven individuals, becoming obsolete is out of the question, and highly successful people are increasingly coming up with new, effective ways of getting things done. Time management skills are an essential part of this growth.

Nowadays, there’s a huge range of available time management tools and products you can invest in, as well as online courses, books, podcasts, and articles that deal with the subject. And that’s no surprise. After all, professionals who want to make it to the top need to know how to plan and control the hours spent on accomplishing a goal.

So, whether you’re only entering the job market, or are an established professional wanting to advance, working on your time management skills is crucial. And there are a few areas in which they will have the biggest impact on your career. By being aware of all possible obstacles, as well as studying the ways of overcoming them, you can make your road to success not only faster, but smoother as well.

The Negative Effects of Poor Time Management

Lacking organizational skills can have a strong impact not only on your career but also on your mental and physical health. Regardless of whether your work assignments are time-sensitive or not, you don’t want to give in to the enchanted circle of procrastination and overexertion, as these tend to negatively affect performance and job satisfaction.

i) Stress and Anxiety

Research has shown that deadlines are the biggest cause of work-related stress. Having a tight schedule to stick to can truly cause a great deal of mental strain, and can even have a serious impact on our health. Elevated cortisol levels due to chronic stress have been shown to contribute to conditions such as anxiety, depression, digestive problems, heart disease, weight gain, and even impaired cognitive capacity.

ii) Quality of Work

Those who are constantly in a hurry to get tasks done often have to sacrifice revisions and quality checks. Furthermore, overworking oneself in order to meet a deadline can easily result in lower levels of productivity. As a result, you’ll need even more energy to finish tasks that could have been done far more effectively.

iii) Work-life Balance

One of the most impactful consequences of a lack of organizational skills is a compromised work-life balance. With more time spent at the office and fewer hours dedicated to rest and leisurely social activities, job satisfaction inevitably suffers. Without paying proper attention to core career values, and getting the opportunity to step back and relax, it becomes increasingly easy to suffer from burnout – a condition affecting significant numbers of professionals every year.

iv) Reduced Opportunities

For most employers, the ideal employee will be able to perform tasks in a timely matter, without compromising the quality of the results. So, it comes as no surprise that being unable to deliver in this aspect can lead to a reduced chance to advance, both in terms of position, as well as monetary compensation.

What Is Good Time Management?

Once you know how much you can benefit from keeping track of every hour you spend at work, you can start moving towards being efficient in everything you do. Unfortunately, there’s not a single formula that will work for everyone. Instead, scheduling, tracking, and managing should be regular daily practices, with the goal of finding a method that works best for each individual.

There are, however, a few constituents that make up a great system for maximizing work performance and productivity. What’s best, some of these can be used for more than just assignments and tasks. They can even play an important role in organizing errands, personal events, or other private affairs.

1) Organization

The first step towards having better control over the way in which you utilize your working hours is to become better organized. This goes for both physical and mental space. An office and mind which are smothered in clutter are filled with distractions that break up your pace (thus slowing you down) and open up room for mistakes.

The best way to overcome these obstacles is to remove distractions and clearly define your goals and the actions required to achieve them. Clean up your desk, turn off unnecessary notifications, and keep open only the tabs you need in your browser.

Next, take a piece of paper or open up a blank note on your laptop and write down everything you need to finish until the end of your workday. Finish each day by planning out your assignments for the next day, or even week.

2) Timeliness

In order to ensure your results are the best they could possibly be, it’s important to give yourself the opportunity to edit and revise. The only way to achieve this is to start on time. Beating procrastination can be difficult, so before you can get started, try to identify your reasons for putting off tasks.

For some, it’s as simple as their brain trying to keep them from facing negative moods. For others, this process will require questioning their core values, aspirations, and the price they’re willing to pay in order to achieve what they want or think they want.

3) Negotiation

Once you’ve learned how to organize your thoughts and responsibilities, as well as how to get started with your assignments on time, you’ll gain priceless insight into the actual amount of time required to finish a project. This will, in turn, help you take a proactive approach to scheduling.

For freelancers, this will mean the ability to better evaluate the number of hours that will go into a job. Those who work for an employer, on the other hand, will be able to negotiate better timelines with their management, seeing that they’ll be able to set realistic goals and deliver in the agreed time period.

4) Delegation

Entrepreneurs who have limited staff will often take on more than they can handle. In short bursts, this can be a budget-friendly solution, but in the long term, it can lead to neglecting priorities or using a highly skilled workforce on low-priority tasks.

To avoid this pitfall, it’s best to determine the importance of each task. If you’re the only one with the expertise and authority to do it, place it high on your to-do list. If, however, the task is not something that requires your specific set of skills, you can delegate to an employee or even outsource to a freelance specialist.

5) Automation 

While technology has a number of drawbacks in terms of time management, it can certainly be a huge asset, too. The key lies in knowing how to use it in the best way possible.

Today, there is an abundance of software solutions that can help minimize the hours you’re spending on menial things such as time-tracking or invoicing. Investing in such software can be a great help, especially when said software can take existing data from your calendar and turn it into actionable reports, statistics, or invoices you would otherwise spend hours preparing.

4 Proven Time Management Techniques

The great thing about efficient time management is that there’s a wide variety of already existing methods that you can try and implement into your routine. Better yet, these can be combined into a hybrid routine that will answer all of your demands, helping you take control of how you schedule, utilize and manage your working hours.

In order to find out what works, it’s best to give several methods a go and to decide whether they’re effective for your individual needs.

1) Pomodoro Technique

You’ve probably already heard about this working method that combines 25-minute periods of work with short breaks. What makes it effective for a number of professionals are that it limits the available time we have to spend on projects, creating a positive sense of urgency and cutting down on distractions.

2) The 2-minute Rule

For smaller things that you’re putting off, but that needs to be done, try this rule. The concept is simple: it asks that you dedicate just two minutes in your day to a single job. More often than not, once you actually start, you’ll either find that you have finished the thing you’d been putting off, or that you’ve already started and decided to finish.

3) Time-tracking Apps/Extensions

You can do this either by using a time-tracking app/extension or by just writing down the times when you start and finish work on something. Tracking achieves two important things: it gives you valuable insight into how you’re spending precious minutes and hours, and it discourages procrastination and multitasking (which are problematic for most modern workers).

4) Minimize Making Many Decisions

Sometimes, the things that take up most of our energy are the ones we should be spending the least amount of time on. This is especially true with decisions such as what to wear in the morning, or what to eat for dinner.

You can completely eliminate these time-wasters by minimizing the number of options you can choose from in the first place. Create a routine and try to stick with it – much like former President Barack Obama. You may just find that you have far more willpower to dedicate to what actually matters.

Conclusion

For most employers, great time management skills are high on their list of priorities. This is why, if you want to be successful in your field, you need to prioritize them as well. For a number of people, however, it’s easier said than done, mainly due to the all-or-nothing approach we tend to take with these things.

Nonetheless, when broken up into smaller, manageable bits, organization, focus, and efficiency become easy. They simply become a part of our everyday routines. And their most important effect isn’t a better bottom line or an increase in pay. Instead, it’s the fact that we’re left with more energy and resources to dedicate to the things we truly love about our jobs.

The post How Time Management Skills Can Positively Affect Your Career? appeared first on CareerMetis.com.

How Time Management Skills Can Positively Affect Your Career? published first on https://skillsireweb.tumblr.com/

[rebeccabrynposts]

Splattering Richard over my Laptop. – the secrets of award-winning author, Sarah Stuart.

So who is Sarah Stuart? I mean, who is she really? Who is the very private woman behind the pen – no, make that keyboard, please make that keyboard: Sarah’s writing is totally illegible to everyone except me, and I struggle. Is this why I have her comments in bold?

‘Getting to know you, getting to know all about you…’

‘Getting to like you, getting to hope you like me.’

‘Quiet, Sarah. One, you can’t sing, and two, you get your fifteen minutes of fame in a minute.’ As Sarah is a lover of musical theatre, and the theatrical world is the backdrop to Sarah’s amazing Royal Command series of novels, that song seems like a suitable place to begin and, as I’ve known Sarah for more years than either of us will admit to, who better to ask her those difficult, probing, embarrassing questions? (Cue evil laughter from stage right.)

‘I’m leaving right now! You’ve invited the Wicked Witch of the West.’

‘I am the Wicked Witch of the West. Sarah, you’ve been writing since you were a child. What and who would you say were your greatest childhood influences and why?’

‘My father worked appallingly long hours, and when he was home he was gardening or building excessively heavy furniture. My mother was never in good health. So, the short answer is loneliness. My make-believe world was more real than reality. It wasn’t as black as that. My father loved opera, and he could sing, and my mother thought of chapters from Charles Dickens as suitable bedtime stories. She also had touching faith in my ability to write. On day, my prince… my bestseller would come.’

‘Your books have enough awards for that to become a reality. All you need is exposure.’

‘Can’t I get arrested for exposing myself to the Wicked Witch of the West and all the people who happen by?’

‘Only if you have a raincoat.’

‘Of course, I have a raincoat. I live in England!’

‘You should try living in Wales! I’ve always admired your courage and determination through adversity, Sarah. Would you like to tell us about some of the things in life you’ve had to overcome? Those you can tell us about, that is.

‘Him Indoors made one of his many career moves some years ago, dragging me, and my dog, away from our new interest, dog obedience training. My Border Collie, Sweep, was gleeful. He was a good boy. Yes, after two years hard work, he was so much improved I had my eye on entering obedience competitions. Not to worry, Him Indoors declared, there’s an obedience club right here. Sweep and I joined, and I got co-opted onto the committee. At the second monthly meeting, the trainer announced she was moving, like now, so who would take over? I could write a book about the excuses why nobody was able… they weren’t able, and their dogs proved it… their work was seasonal, so they had no time from January to May… I volunteered; only fifteen people turned up on a good night, and Sweep needed to practice working with other dogs around. Fifteen people? There were forty members, all with more than one dog, and they’d all turned out to watch their new trainer make a fool of herself.

‘Children brought up alone tend to be self-contained almost to the point of shyness, and very self-reliant. I was no exception, and all I knew about teaching other people to train dogs was what I’d learned from watching at my first club where the trainer worked her own dogs at Crufts level. Helpppppppp… run… No way! I pretended to be that trainer, and six months later I realised I was no longer acting; I’d learned a lot from her, and I had a talent for teaching.’    

‘Do you think these experiences, and the way you dealt with them, have translated into your writing? Can you give us an example?’

‘I hadn’t thought about it until now, but a lot of my characters’ problems stem from their determination not to ask for help, or a lack of communication. Take Dangerous Liaisons… if you haven’t read it, do take it while it’s free. If Lizzie and Michael had talked, she’d have known he wanted children… He’d have known she valued his company over wealth, and not set out to prove he could succeed without help… The root of the whole series is a failure to interconnect. I could give dozens more examples from book one alone, but I’d spoil the story for new readers and have existing ones commenting that they could have told me that!’

‘Are you sure you’re the Wicked Witch of the West or a guide who demonstrates instruments of torture like the Iron Maiden and the Rack to visitors at the Tower of London?’

‘My secret is out! I love torturing the truth out of people and finding out what makes them thick… I mean tick. (Freudian fingers) The Royal Command series has been through many drafts and rewrites over the years to reach its present polished state. It takes determination and commitment to stick to a project long term. What, or who, kept you going throughout all the changes?’

‘Michael. He was never intended to be the lead character. Lizzie was my heroine, the story was hers and it was to be pure romance with a happy ending, not the start of Michael’s life story, but he gets inside my head and starts talking, and they say only women nag!’

‘I find the historical thread that runs through this series really interesting. Why did you choose this period in history to explore?’

‘The Tudors are popular and reasonably well known, but very little fiction has been written about Henry VIII’s elder sister, Margaret. Princesses were pawns in the political marriage game, so she was married young to James IV of Scotland. It is commonly regarded as a happy marriage, but why when the only evidence is the births of six children? The king had mistresses, but he needed an heir. What interested me was the gap between their firstborn boy, who died, and the second. The truth is very likely a miscarriage, but…’

‘Quite. An illegitimate child, a treason punishable by death when you’re the wife of a reigning monarch, makes a better story. You’ve dealt very cleverly with some pretty taboo subjects in The Diamond Superstar, Michael Marsh’s, ‘unconventional’ showbiz family. Did you intend to write about incest, sexual perversions, and child sex-trafficking or did the characters behave recklessly, as usual, and take you by surprise?’

‘Incest took me by surprise, though it shouldn’t have given the way Lisette was brought up, rarely seeing the superstar father she adored, combined with the dangerous romantic command in the Book of Hours to “find love where ye may”. The result, Harriet, caused problems with the end of my “one book”, Dangerous Liaisons, and led directly to Illicit Passion; there was no way there could be a long-term happy ending for either of The Diamond Superstar or Lisette, though they appear to achieve it in the sequel when the evil, perverted, “bodyguard” drowns. I did have a hand in book three by planting the grounding. Bodyguards working for that company worked in pairs, which left one of them, cheated of his money to “turn-a-blind-eye”, on the loose and, apparently, intent of revenge. Nothing so simple, as I discovered when Brian left his wife, pregnant Lisette, and flew to New York.

‘Sex-trafficking was added deliberately. I investigated it while I was recovering from researching Evie’s troubles, and the ease with which such men could trap youngsters had to be revealed, and Michael’s youngest daughter, Greta, was a prime target.’

‘I love all the books in the Royal Command series but I found the latest, Sweet Temptation, particularly fascinating. The courage you show in reliving the nightmare of your weeks in a coma and the subsequent recovery astounds me. You have given us a rare glimpse of what it must have been like and it’s terrifying. Do you think you took research for Evie’s character a step too far? Or was it just a ploy to get out of cooking Christmas dinner?’

‘I detest cooking, and Christmas dinner is definitely one of the most demanding meals of the year. (The others are dinner parties where I know at least one of the guests is a superb cook.) Now, let’s be clear on this: I didn’t catch pneumonia, and a very fancy sort at that, on purpose. The puzzle is from whom I caught it. I didn’t date a strange man as per Evie! I have a perfectly good chap at home. I enjoyed writing a lot of Sweet Temptation, but I found Evie’s hospital POVs extremely tough to write. My nightmares were adapted to her life but thinking about them made me feel ill, and I started suffering nightmares again for a while. The worst aren’t in the book, and they were truly horrible.’

‘I did say I’ve always admired your courage in adversity and this illustrates it. Tell, me, Sarah, when writing, are you a plotter, or a pantster: do you have a plot chart or do you dive in and see where your characters take you?’

‘I used to have plots, but what’s the point when none of the characters stick to them? Michael was in a coma in Illicit Passion, since edited now I know what it’s like, and I cried buckets because I was afraid he was going to die.’

‘So was I! But you are giving away your plots. Now, what next? Um, what is the most embarrassing thing that has happened to you? The truth now, Sarah.’

‘According to Him Indoors, I should have been embarrassed by a neighbour who asked if I minded her husband stepping over the fence to clear weeds that were seeding over their garden. Until he explained, I took her at her word and said he was very welcome.’

Excuse me while I choke with laughter. ‘That is so typical of you!’

‘True, and he ignored my generous permission!’

‘How very annoying of him. Since gardening obviously isn’t a passion of yours, what are your passions? What gives you the greatest joy and what really makes you spit?’

‘I have spent my life writing, one way or another, and I thought the greatest joy was knowing somebody was reading what I’d written. I ran a dog-training club and submitted articles to the members’ magazine. Ditto, a glossy called Wildlife with a worldwide circulation and they were published. I wrote stories with adult content in simple words for my literacy students. I published my first novel, and sales, and especially reviews, showed people had read and enjoyed it, and the same happened with subsequent books. The biggest thrill of all was when Dangerous Liaisons won the Romance/Sizzle bronze medal in the Readers’ Favorite Contest and made me an award-winning author.

‘A lot of things make me angry: injustice; mismanagement, self-seeking and stupidity by people elected to govern, political correctness – I almost fell down a manhole without a cover this afternoon, only to be informed it was now an inspection chamber – greed, theft… the list is endless and very non-PC. What really makes me spit with fury is mans’ inhumanity to animals. They ruin their habitats, throw them out because they’re no longer fashionable, and worst of all, they kill them for fun. It’s called sport, but terrified, exhausted animals don’t see it that way. 100% of my royalties go to animal charities, and a good many of the dogs I’ve owned, and do own, are rescues.’

‘I’m with you there, Sarah. Some of my royalties from ‘Touching the Wire’ go to support holocaust education. It seems the least I can do after the research I did opened my eyes to what happened. And I think rescue dogs are so rewarding. Our little mongrel is such a happy little soul and makes us smile every day. Dogs don’t deserve bad homes any more than children do. I know you’ve fostered children in the past, amongst the many selfless things you’ve done, but tell us one thing about yourself no-one else knows, not even me.

‘Films that feature the evacuation of Dunkirk make me cry inside, and so does the ferryboat across the Mersey from Liverpool to Birkenhead that has a plaque let into the deck saying she took part. Maybe it’s the reason my characters “sniff back tears”; I know it’s possible.’

‘Having written about World War II, I understand the terrible hardships and tragedy that led to Dunkirk, so I know what you mean. My present work-in-progress, working title, The Dandelion Clock’, is about The Great War. Can you tell us a bit about the next novel waiting to explode from beneath your fevered brow and splatter all over your laptop?’

‘Did you have to say splatter and remind me I killed my last laptop with tea? Chapter one is entitled Monday, Monday, and as you know “you can’t trust that day.” Richard has a Jack Russell terrier called Ben, and he believes ill-fortune comes in threes. One of the women in his life is about to prove him wrong.’

‘We’ll see a bit of the first draft of ‘Monday, Monday’ in a minute. (That’s the working title, by the way, until Sarah knows what Richard will get up to aided and abetted by his scribe.)

‘Oye! This is too much! I’ve been Michael’s ’umble scribe for years. Richard will do as he’s told… or he might if I had a plot. How do I know where his rebellion will end?’

‘Indeed. Thank you, Sarah, for ‘A Conversation with, dare I say, Richard’s scribe.’ (Ducks for cover.) – Now to a special offer, your book links, a bonus gift, and lastly, a splattering of Richard…’ It’s an interesting beginning to a new story , and I’m looking forward toreading more.

And NOW is your chance to grab the whole series while it’s on offer!

Book 1 is FREE for a limited period from today.

Books 2, 3, and 4 are 99p/99c from today until November 1st

  Dangerous Liaisons: The Backstreet Boy and the Royal Heiress

viewbook.at/DangerousLiaisons

Illicit Passion: The Consequences of Seduction

viewbook.at/ILLICITPASSION

Dynasty of Deceit: Margaret Tudor’s Legacy of Forbidden Love

viewBook.at/DynastyofDeceit

Sweet Temptation: The Agony and the Ecstasy of Passion

viewbook.at/SweetTemptation

As an extra, Sarah has published this short story, Greta Comes of Age, absolutely FREE for you to download here: http://www.independentauthornetwork.com/sarah-stuart.html

And, finally…

Monday, Monday. (You definitely can’t trust that day, Richard. Be warned, Sarah has awful things lined up for you. Are you going to let her get away with it?)

Monday, Monday

Richard Carpenter threw a punch at the figure silhouetted against the faint light from his open front door and heard the satisfying crunch of breaking bone. His new eighty-five-inch Sony television landed on his foot, and he bit back a howl of pain. He was entitled to protect his property if he used reasonable force… Sensible respected bank managers didn’t make headlines in the local rag by using rusty boxing skills on burglars. They “stayed asleep” and telephoned the police in the morning.

Undeterred, the thief dodged around him and started dropping Royal Doulton figurines into something. Sack, rucksack… it made no difference; the dogs would have chipped ears at the very least. His dog, Ben, was hurling his weight impotently at the kitchen door. He grabbed the man by the back of his collar, bundled him onto the pavement, and bolted the front door. If he’d shot the bolts like he usually did at night, picking the lock would have done the scum no good.

Lights on, he surveyed the mess. One television with a cracked screen and an empty mantelshelf where his china collection had overflowed the cabinet. Ten thousand pounds should cover it and he could claim on his insurance… and risk prosecution for injuries a magistrate might not regard as reasonable force? He and Ben retired upstairs with a large brandy and a chew designed for a St Bernard that the Jack Russell was, in his dreams.

The second Monday in October dawned three hours later. He let himself out of the back door, drove cautiously into the centre of town, acutely aware he was over the alcohol limit, and met his undermanager as usual. Andy went to make coffee, and he switched on the fax machine. The first sheet of paper it spat at him caused him to step back on Ben’s tail.

It is with regret that we inform you that the Hackmoor Bridge branch of this bank is closed as of today. Redundancy notices for all members of staff will follow together with information on payments due to each.

He tucked indignant Ben under his arm and read it a second time. He’d known for months that this branch was on the list of two hundred possible closures, but he hadn’t expected it to happen. Hackmoor Bridge was a large, thriving, town, and his was the only branch anywhere within a thirty-mile radius. Andy, married with a young family, would be distraught. All the staff would be. None of them would be relocated to another branch; short of somebody dropping dead, there were no vacancies. Applications for jobs at other banks were unlikely to be successful. If they were it would very likely mean a move, and his three female cashiers were married with husbands still in work locally.

All members of staff. Ben licked his ear, reminding him that he too was jobless. The pair of them could end homeless. The plus was having no mortgage and a new BMW he’d paid for outright thanks to money left to him by his mother, and he’d been spending ever since. He had some savings, and severance pay to come… and it would go on utility bills and food. How could he tell Bridget the wedding was indefinitely postponed? Her parents were dead too, so the expense of the grand affair she had planned were down to him. As if she’d picked up his gloomy thoughts, his mobile vibrated: Bridget. ‘Hi, love, I need to talk to you.’

Bridget didn’t ask about what. ‘Richard, remember that London modelling agency I applied to?’

He did, but Bridget had been for an interview weeks ago and come back depressed. ‘What about it?’

‘I’ve been accepted.’ Her voice sounded muffled. ‘They want me today, so I’m packing and going straight to the station.’

‘But…’

‘Ouch, broke a nail, damn it. Richard, the wedding’s off… for good. Models don’t get work living in the wilds, or pregnant. Bye.’

They hadn’t even discussed having a family… He called Bridget back and got her answering service. A burglar, no job, and no wife-to-be.

‘Things happen in threes, Ben. Basket.’

The Jack Russell hated to be still and ignored, but after today he’d get extra walks because renewing his golf-club membership was a no. His whole lifestyle would change; he’d have to cook from scratch, not live on ready-to-microwave luxury dinners, and Ben must be satisfied with own-brand chews from the supermarket, not the big ones he ordered online for the stray he’d adopted and promised the world.

~~~

Richard envied Ben. He’d picked up the gloom at the bank, information and instructions faxed by faceless men in secure jobs at head office, but it didn’t stop him gobbling his dinner and looking for more. For once, the dog could have more; he couldn’t face his food. Memo to self: check how quickly he could cancel monthly deliveries, and not just of meals for him and dog chews. He could save on boxes of a dozen choice wines, financial magazines, golfing glossies, and he could live without tempting offers on china figurines dropping into his email inbox too.

Tomorrow. Tomorrow he would do all that, and check the insurance covered the deposit he’d paid to secure the wedding venue, the caterers, the drinks supplier, and the florist booked to provide out-of-season flowers. Christmas weddings, he’d discovered, were popular, and everything had to be reserved months in advance. Should he consider himself lucky Bridget had ditched him? She had expensive tastes her handmade lace products didn’t support… and some nights she’d warmed his bed with her beautiful body. Would she have moved in if he hadn’t paid the rent on her flat? Had she loved him? She’d dumped him without a second thought when fame and fortune beckoned. Second memo to self: cancel the direct debit for Bridget’s rent.

He grabbed a bottle of brandy and one of the remaining St Bernhard-sized chews. ‘Come on, Ben. You’re sleeping with me. The central heating is off until I get another job.’

Ben bounced up the stairs ahead of him. Dogs didn’t worry about the future, and they didn’t stop loving you either.

Two glasses of brandy later, he decided getting drunk wasn’t the answer; all it would do was give him a hangover, but it had numbed the edge of misery a bit. He lay down with Ben curled behind his bent knees and closed his eyes. Tomorrow… tomorrow… Maybe the sun would come out tomorrow and maybe it wouldn’t, but a man who was no longer a respectable bank manager could strum his guitar in the town square if he felt like it…

The ringing of his front door bell set Ben yapping and triggered a thumping headache. Who the dickens wanted Richard Carpenter at… He squinted at the luminous dial on his alarm clock:  twenty minutes to midnight. He got out of bed and found his slippers by the light of the brilliant harvest moon. It was late for Mrs Stokes who lived next door to arrive home, but it must be her; he held her spare door key.

His visitor was his thirteen-years-ex-wife, Naomi, and she looked spiteful, the way she had when his divorce lawyer had reminded her legal representative that she’d signed a prenuptial agreement and couldn’t claim half his worldly goods.

Waking Mrs Stokes with a row on the doorstep just before midnight was unfair. ‘Come in, Naomi.’

‘No chance, Richard. I only rang the bell to make sure you still lived here.’

‘Eh! Why?’

She ran back to the sports coupé gleaming under a street lamp, lifted the boot lid, and dumped a suitcase on the pavement.

He raised his voice. ‘What the dickens are you doing?’

Naomi paid him no attention, and he wasn’t going outside in his pyjamas. She was wearing a fur coat and the suitcase very likely had wheels. What could she have put in a suitcase that she wanted him to have?

Next, Naomi opened the passenger door. ‘Out, Maria, and take that bloody basket with you.’

Cold or not, he wanted answers. It was still Monday, and he’d had his days-worth of problems. He marched towards Naomi. ‘Who is Maria?’

‘Your daughter, Richard Carpenter, and I’ve done my bit. It’s your turn.’

She swept around her car, slid behind the wheel, and gunned the engine. Brakes screeched at the end of the street and the coupé vanished.

He didn’t have a daughter. If he had, Naomi would have claimed child support… Maria was here, and he couldn’t leave a child alone on the street whoever she belonged to. He grasped the suitcase handle and waved her towards the dimly-lit hall. Ben, who’d obviously discovered how to push down the handle on his bedroom door, flew out, and stopped yapping and started sniffing when Maria placed her basket carefully on the carpet. Something in there was alive and Ben wanted it. Heaven preserve him if the child had a cat; it was one of Ben’s life ambitions to catch and kill a cat. Numerous claw scars testified to his failures.

Shivering, he went into the front room and switched on the electric fire destined to be removed and replaced by living flames created by twigs and dead branches littering the common. Maria followed and opened the basket. He grabbed Ben by the scruff of the neck and dropped him, shocked. Cuddled in a woollen blanket was a baby, and it looked very like one a member of staff on maternity leave had brought into the bank and proudly announced was only a week old.

The blanket was an uninformative yellow. ‘Whose is he, she… it, Maria?’

‘Mummy’s, like me, only she doesn’t want him. Can we call him, Tim?’

‘Timothy Carpenter.’ It had a ring to it… and no way could the boy be his.

‘Oh, great. Mummy said you had loads of bedrooms. We just need to go shopping for a cot and stuff. Tomorrow will do. There’s bottles, formula, and a heater in with my clothes.’

Tomorrow… tomorrow… It was tomorrow, but this was another Monday disaster. What he should do was call the police, who could contact the social services… But suppose Maria was his? She had his fair hair and blue eyes, and a nose that tilted at the tip like Naomi’s did. It wouldn’t be just the baby they’d take into care. He’d be condemning Maria to a children’s home or foster parents, and he’d never get her back. What the heck was he going to do?

Ben made up his mind for him. When Maria sat on the rug nursing the baby, the dog licked her cheek and looked at him with pleading eyes. The same pleading eyes that had made a fool of Richard Carpenter at the dog’s home. He hadn’t resisted them then, and he couldn’t now. He flopped on the sofa, put his aching head in his hands, and groaned.

Maria smelled faintly of Mr Burberry Black, ridiculously expensive perfume he’d bought Naomi as a wedding present, and it was Maria stroking his hair. ‘We’ll be okay, Pop, promise.’

Her body trembled. It could be cold, but it was more likely shock. How could Naomi care for a child for thirteen years and dump her on a stranger’s doorstep? She wasn’t fit to be a mother, of Maria or Timothy, but how could Mr Carpenter, ex-bank manager, soon-to-be ex-prestigious golf club member, explain the sudden acquisition of two children?

First things first. A warm bed, in a warm room, for Maria, and a well-padded drawer for Timothy, and show the girl the kitchen and make sure she really did know how to make up a bottle for a baby. He’d risk anything to keep these two, except the baby’s life.

    my novels

A conversation with... Splattering Richard over my Laptop. - the secrets of award-winning author, Sarah Stuart. So who is Sarah Stuart?

#Author interviews #Sarah Stuart

[contiinuation]

I think that on some level my mother always blamed herself for my epilepsy. A lot of her theories were based on the fact that I was born a month too soon via c-section. She cites that the doctor may have pulled me out of her too aggressively or something, or perhaps he grabbed me by the neck the wrong way while I entered the world, kicking and screaming. Shortly after I was born, my lung collapsed. My mom has theorized that perhaps I went too long without oxygen and that’s why I found myself fighting a seizure disorder twelve years later. She blamed vaccinations for a while there. She also blamed braces for shifting my teeth around so drastically that I had developed a seizure disorder.

My mother blamed herself and the things she did for my seizures so naturally, she threw her entire being into fighting them.

My mom is a nurse of thirty years and has seen first hand what drugs (legal and not legal) can do to a person. She’s a pretty hard-headed and thick-skinned woman and I couldn’t do what she does on a daily basis. Growing up, her experience in the medical field seeped into our home life. Our family’s medicine cabinet was twice the size of all of my friends’ medicine cabinets and it was always filled to the brim with vitamins and medical supplies, including latex gloves, medical tape, surgical tools and she sometimes kept syringes locked in the other medicine cabinet in her bathroom. I even saw an IV drip bag up there once. I never thought this was weird but in retrospect maybe the syringes were a little bit questionable. It’s nice to know, though, that if the absolute end of time occurred while I lived with my parents, I would have a generally good chance of surviving and repopulating the earth.

With respects to drugs though, my mom was a firm believer that there’s always something natural out there that can cure minor ailments like headaches and period cramps. She liked the idea of curing things naturally rather than turning to harsh drugs to fix things. Advil and Claritin made very rare appearances in our house. Period cramps were treated with a heating pad and this weird tea she brought home from Russia once (which worked). Muscle pain required magnesium. Have a headache? Take a nap and down a litre of water. Allergies? Nettle tea and Vitamin C. Nauseous? Ginger tea. Cold and flu? My grandma used to make this mixture which was basically a full jar of liquid honey that was packed to the brim with lemon and ginger slices along with fifteen to twenty cloves of garlic. I swear one tablespoon cured you within hours.

My mom applied the same logic to my seizure disorder. Before my doctor could put me on meds (I hadn’t had enough seizures/tests done until six months after the first one for him to make a formal diagnosis allowing him to write the appropriate prescription) my mom tried what felt like every possible natural remedy on the face of the planet.

Remedy #1: Aura Cleansing

When I first got sick, I remember having a lot of appointments in a very short time frame. One of the first ones took place in a little apartment building in North York. I’m pretty sure it was an under-the-table operation because this was literally in this little Eastern European lady’s apartment and she was adamant about it being cash-only. My mom explained this appointment to me as “aura cleansing,” something that would “draw negative energy out of my me”.

The Eastern European lady had a few degrees hanging on the wall of her kitchen stating that she was certified in accounting from a local university and one in Russia. She had another certificate hanging next to the accounting degrees allowing her to practice in the field of Holistic health and healing.

I remember looking around and thinking it was a homey apartment. It vaguely resembled my grandmother’s in Poland: there were doilies on every piece of furniture and it smelled somewhat like boiled potatoes. She also had a beautiful cat, Felix, who was long and slender and spotted like a Jaguar and I loved him.

After asking my mom and I a few questions about my general health the lady lead us into a spare bedroom where she had a bookshelf, a loveseat and a massage table. My mom sat down on the loveseat and the lady turned on a radio that played ocean noises at a soft volume. I took my place on the table and the lady asked me to close my eyes and started talking me through deep-breathing exercises, which lasted an entire half-hour. I started getting restless. She then moved on to asking me to stay completely still while she hovered her hands over my entire body in steady, rhythmic motions. I remember thinking, “if the problem is in my brain, then how the hell is this going to help?”

By the end of the appointment I was primarily fixated on finding Felix again. I was relatively smart for a twelve year old. I knew this “aura cleansing” wasn’t going to help a problem in my brain. My mom paid the lady while I hung out on the floor of her foyer with the cat.

In the car my mom and I talked about how I felt about the appointment. I told her I didn’t like sitting still for so long but I didn’t complain. I knew she was just trying to help. We went back a couple more times but eventually I think my mom clued in that I didn’t like going and didn’t think these “aura cleansing” sessions weren’t helping. I continued having seizures regardless of how much this Russian accountant cleansed my aura. The appointments frequently interfered with my normal kid stuff like Girl Guides and homework and whatnot so we never went back.

Remedy #2: Biofeedback Therapy

Around the same time as the aura cleansing sessions, my mom started taking me to an ADD/Biofeedback clinic close to our house. My parents told me that these sessions would help me control my seizures, like when or if they happen and the severity of them. I didn’t fight it because it sounded fantastic in theory - if I could control them then I could theoretically never have a seizure ever again. These appointments would prove to be equally as useless as the aura cleansing. At the very least, these appointments helped me come to terms with how little control I had over my life anymore.

The first appointment was focused on teaching you proper breathing techniques and how to divert your focus to certain parts of your brain. I’m not sure of the specifics of it but it was a weirdly satisfying experience being able to direct my brain processes and I knew it was working because I could feel it. I could literally feel my brain waves diverting themselves at my control. I’ve retained the ability to do that and sometimes I divert my focus for fun.

This clinic was huge and there were individual rooms where patients would be hooked up to a machine that resembled an EEG machine. With this machine you would basically be controlling a virtual game on a computer screen with your brain waves and breathing pattern. My favourite was the roller coaster game: the roller coaster would speed along the track as long as you kept your focus and breathing rate to a certain standard. With every game you completed successfully in a  given time frame you’d be awarded points and eventually you would be able to exchange your points for prizes. It was like a Chuck-E-Cheese for kids with neurological conditions.

When I collected enough points I traded them in for a $20 gift card to Chapters. The day I won the gift card my mom and dad took me to the bookstore and I bought one of those Guinness Book of World Records books. I came across the book in my parents basement a couple weeks ago and smiled.

I wish Biofeedback Therapy worked for me. The outcome sounds like a dream. Being about to control when and where and if you have seizures sounds like a dream. However, unfortunately, they didn’t work. Seizures kept happening regardless of how hard I tried to redirect my brain waves - and believe me, I tried, but they continued.

Remedy #3: Dairy-Free and Gluten-Free Diet

Right after my diagnosis with Epilepsy my mother did a lot of internet research and came to the conclusion that dairy and gluten would be ultimately detrimental to my health. We went back to the aura-cleansing lady - who happened to also have a vast amount of knowledge about the dietary needs of epileptics - who confirmed that dairy and gluten in any form should be avoided in every way possible.

I’d never been a picky eater so this diet never really phased me in the slightest. It didn’t help with my seizures at all but living without dairy and gluten didn’t bother me. I managed to find substitutes for all of my favourite things, some things I ended up liking more than the original anyway.

This diet lasted two years. No one actually forced me to stick to it for this long; I genuinely liked the foods I was eating for those two years and I felt generally more physically healthy, but I started to miss the fun foods that I could technically no longer eat. The fact that I was getting older also didn’t help. I was going out with friends more often and we’d usually eat out or order in, and take-out dairy-free, gluten-free food wasn’t typically available anywhere at that point in time.

One night in 2011 I found myself at Laura’s house. Her mom made a Baked Alaska for her birthday. I wasn’t going to say no to a slice of birthday cake for my best friend’s birthday, so I took a big slice thinking nothing of the potential consequences of eating dairy for the first time in two years.

That night, Laura’s toilet and I spent a long night together. I’ll spare you the gruesome details. I will never put any blame on my mother for my epilepsy, however, I will credit her for the role that she played in my lactose intolerance. Remedy #4: Holistic Electro-Treatment

I’ve scoured the web and I don’t even know what to call this treatment because I can’t find any evidence of it existing, but I know it exists because it’s yet another thing my mom thought would cure me of epilepsy. So I will call it Holistic Electro-Treatment.

I started suffering from hay fever and migraines the spring before I turned seventeen. At this point I was taking medication for my seizures and had been seizure-free for almost three years. I didn’t like mixing drugs so I generally avoided taking antihistamines and pain relievers and I was open to any forms of treatment that would make the itching inside my face go away.

My mom had a friend at work who suggested this treatment that consisted of strategically placed electric currents running through your body that would treat allergies and epilepsy and various other ailments, including my newfound lactose intolerance. This treatment also sounded incredible because it was kind of an all-in-one type deal, but it didn’t work.

My first appointment was with this lady in the basement of an office complex. My mom came with me and sat as I sat on a table and the therapist-lady showed me the pen-shaped device that would omit the slightest current of electricity. She ran through a series of basic questions about my medical history, and then asked if I had any body piercings, as the metal could interfere with the electric currents.

My mom was old-fashioned, and that's why I hadn’t told her about the time I got my navel pierced. She was so incredibly against any body modifications. When I was fifteen I dragged Genn to some sketchy basement apartment where a little non-English speaking woman did tattoos and piercings. I was on a mission to get my nose pierced. Now, the legal age to get such a piercing without parental permission was sixteen, so I was under age, but I was referred there by an acquaintance from school who said that this place doesn’t ID kids who come through there. I was nervous as I was filling out the form with a fake name and age, but I was determined. She pulled a tiny needle out of a sterile package and  pushed it through my nose, and with that I had my first facial piercing. I showed up back at home around 7pm that night and did everything I could to avoid my parents, but they had to see me eventually, right? I eventually ventured upstairs, holding my head down until they eventually noticed the sparkly rhinestone stud sticking out of my face. They were - within their rights - pissed about it. To my surprise, my dad was more pissed than my mom, who later approached me and told me she liked the facial piercing, saying that it was “cute”. My dad hated it and I think he was more pissed that I went out of my way to go somewhere that was probably unsafe to get a foreign lady who ran an illegal operation in her basement to “hole punch my face”, as he so lovingly put it. Not even twenty four hours later he paid me double the cost of the piercing itself to take it out (I was a relentlessly stubborn kid), followed by him driving me to our local LifeLabs to get my blood and urine tested for diseases. Everything came back negative, for the record.

My next piercing after that was a navel piercing that I had done (when I was legal to) at a local tattoo/piercing shop. That was easier to hide, so when my mom took me to this electro-therapy session and the therapist asked me about any piercings I was nervous. I told her no, thinking “why the hell would this woman want to see my belly button,” when she pulled out the electric-pen-type device and tried to start the session. It turns out that (and I could be wrong because I don’t know the specifics of the treatment), when you stimulate certain points on the body with slight electric currents you can normalize the functions that those nerve endings control and the belly button is one of those points that would help with either my allergies, seizures or lactose intolerance. Before she could even touch me with her electric pen, I told her I had to pee and I went to the bathroom to take out the belly ring.  I hoped to God that the appointment would be short enough for me to shove it back in without it closing over or scabbing up. I went back to the table and laid down so the therapist could work her magic with her electric pen. She eventually got to my belly button and saw the very obvious hole in my abdomen and asked me about it. My heart was pounding because I didn’t want my mother hearing about this but I think she was on her phone and fortunately didn’t hear. I told the therapist I had the piercing done recently but took it out soon after. She shrugged it off and continued working. When it was over I went to the bathroom again to put it back in. It slid in without a problem and I left her office after a consultation about my dietary habits and little changes I could make to help with hay fever.

I went back several times because I noticed that the hay fever slowly went away and my digestive system could tolerate moderate amounts of lactose again, which I was happy about. I was able to rediscover my love for half and half in coffee and cheese on sandwiches. I eventually stopped going around August because it got expensive and it got hard to make appointments that I could keep. I was a busy sixteen year old, I guess.

My digestive system’s aversion to lactose eventually came back and I found that my hay fever also came back the following September when the ragweed came out. I can’t say with any level of certainty that it helped with my seizures because I hadn’t had any when this treatment started but I had a couple in January following the treatment’s end in August.

Remedy #5 Ancient Chinese Medicine

In 2009, my parents took me to see a Traditional Chinese Herbalist. I was probably thirteen at the time and we packed up the car and drove up town to North York. I was mad that I was missing the first half of a get-together Genn was hosting for what would turn out to be another disappointing attempt to stop my seizures. I wasn’t on my meds at this point so my mom was adamant that we give this doctor a shot.

I don’t remember much about the appointment itself except for the doctor asking us about my medical history and concluding that I was to be given a potent concoction of various herbs once a week, many of which looked like bark pulled fresh from a tree. The doctor gave us five individually packaged baggies of dried herbs and plants and whatnot and explained to my mom that each package was to be put into a big pot and covered with six cups of boiling water and simmered until only one cup of liquid remained.

I was to drink this potion once a week. So every Saturday morning for five weeks straight I awoke to the smell of what can only be described as the damp remnants of a cedar tree forest fire, charcoal, gasoline and sadness.

Now, like I mentioned before, I’m not a picky eater. I never have been. When I was fifteen I ate a nice, warm spoonful of unseasoned lamb brain and washed it down with tepid beer. However, this traditional herbal medicine-based liquid was something I couldn’t stomach. The fact that I had doubts about it working didn’t help it go down either. Every gulp felt like a hopeless effort into stopping something in my brain that was virtually uncontrollable. However I carried on. At the very least, I told myself I would try.

I got through five weeks of treatment before deciding I had enough. I had a seizure on May 22nd of that year after five rounds of this traditional Chinese medicine and declined another appointment with the herbalist. Actually, thirteen year old me threw a fit and my parents didn’t bother fighting back.

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I think my mom thought she was doing more good than harm, and realistically there was no harm done, but the more “remedies” for my seizures that my mother tried, the more exhausted I felt. Over time I started resenting her for putting me through the wringer: I felt smothered and tired and I wanted all of her tactics to stop. I was at peace with the idea of dealing with infrequent seizures without the aid of medical intervention.

Eventually she toned it down. When I got headaches or had seizures she was loving and attentive and as I got older I felt less smothered and suppressed by her constant worrying. I’ve since moved out and I only see my parents every other weekend, but I still get a text at 7:30 in the morning and in the evening every day reminding me about my meds. For that I’m thankful: I would forget most days because I’m a little absent-minded in the morning and usually just shut my alarm off and immediately forget about taking my meds.

I always made it clear to her, though, that I love her and I never blamed her for my epilepsy at all. I never understood the guilt she carried until I got older. I don’t currently have kids but I can’t imagine watching your child suffer and not be able to fight the battle for them. She still comes to appointments with me, and it hurts my heart to still see the guilt in her eyes, even though she isn’t as expressive about it anymore. These days, she just looks tired.

#actually epileptic #life with epilepsy #personal