#the music rules and when you kick the ball to make a goal sometimes an animation plays out

[brainfondue]

I hate football videogames but i gotta admit captain tsubasa for the ps is the coolest shit ever

[holylulusworld]

The B*tch

Title: The b*tch

Summary: It’s a game for you and Bucky. Sometimes you even burn a whole town down if you must.

Square Filled ‘Second Chances’ for: @buckybingo​​

Rating: Explicit 18+

Pairing: Mobster!Bucky Barnes x fem!Reader

Characters: Steve Rogers, Dot, Sam Wilson, Wanda Maximoff

Warnings: angst, language, love-hate relationship (toxic relationship), public blowjob (light), light fingering, mentions of anal sex (nothing happens, no description), mentions of infidelity/break-up, implied/mentions of threesome/foursome, smut, unprotected sex, public sex, forced voyeurism, possessive Bucky, hair pulling, roughness, implied character’s death, therapy, roleplay

Words: 5,3k

2021 BUCKY BINGO masterlist

Divider by @firefly-graphics​

A/N: Please head the warnings. The reader and Bucky have a toxic relationship in this. Both are awful people.

“Steve, tell your boss to keep his bitch in line,” you growl, tapping your glass to order another drink. The bartender smirks, watching Steve Rogers, the right-hand man of the most feared man in Brooklyn cower in front of you. “This is my club, and I don’t like hussies at my club, nor whores.”

“Doll, don’t make a fuss,” Steve tries. “I know you and Buck got a war of roses going on, but he didn’t think much of bringing that girl here.”

“I said, I don’t want his whores at my club,” you whip your head to meet Steve’s eyes, narrowing your eyes. “And I don’t mean girls making money with riding dick. I like prostitutes, Stevie. They are always polite and know how to dress. Suzie over there works here every night.”

“Y/N, stop right now. You know every club pays Bucky good money. Every club except for you,” Steve warns.

“I don’t give two shits on Barnes. I make the rules here,” Steve doesn’t like you slide your hand over your thigh, patting the hidden knife. He knows you love to wear a knife strapped against your thigh beneath your crimson silky robe. 

He follows the motion, eyes glued to the slit in your dress, revealing your thigh and the tattoo on it. The one you will remove soon enough.

“Still got the tattoo, doll? I knew you can’t get rid of me completely,” a smug grin on his lips, and a dopily smiling Dot on his arm Bucky waltz toward you as if he owns the club.

“Oh, the trash made it out of the house,” you batt your eyelashes, chuckling lightly. “Didn’t think she can walk on her own.” turning around to face the bartender you give her a sweet smile. “What do you think, Wanda, doll. Does that woman look like she should be at my club?”

“I don’t know, boss,” Wanda smirks. While refilling your drink, she looks at Dot, shrugging as she doesn’t want to get in trouble with Bucky. “I’m not into cheap chicks.”

“Give me two cherries,” you coo, ignoring Bucky fumes right next to you. “Maybe give Steve water to make sure he doesn’t dehydrate. He looks so pale tonight. We don’t want him to get sick.”

“On its way, boss,” snickering Wanda pours Steve water, relieved she doesn’t have to talk about Bucky’s latest arm candy.

“Steve, tell my ex to shut her nasty mouth before I stuff it,” Bucky barks orders at Steve before he sits next to you on his favorite barstool, the one he used to occupy when you still were a thing.

“You wish,” you sip at your martini, looking anywhere but at Bucky. “Why do you come back here? There are other clubs in Brooklyn, with owners liking you, Barnes.”

“I like the atmosphere and the drinks are good,” he smirks, placing his favorite knife onto the bar top. A silent warning for you to watch your tongue. “What can you recommend?”

“To leave,” you quip, sipping at your drink.

“You know, it’s a crime to put cherries into a martini,” Bucky mutters, watching you place one of the cherries on your tongue, moaning at the taste.

“I give a shit on your opinion, Barnes. If you would excuse me now, there are tables, a dancefloor, and restrooms you can use,” you jerk your head toward Dot stand next to Steve, still grinning at you. “Take your bitch and leave me to my drink and the music.”

���Ya know,” Bucky leans closer to breathe in your neck, “you should fuck more often to get the stick out of your ass, my love.” his fingertips ghost over your back, draw circles in your skin.

“Ya know,” you get your knife out to press the tip into Bucky’s crotch before Steve can even flinch, “men like you should watch their tongue and balls. One day someone will break into your house and cut them off. Now go.”

“Little bitch.”

“I used to be your doll,” you say, a little too bitter. “Sadly, you couldn’t keep it in your pants,” you chuckle. 

“Bitch,”

“Cheating bastard,” you dip your head to glance at Dot. “You should hurry to disappoint the next woman. Maybe you will keep your promises this time – huh? Or maybe she’ll get empty promises too.”

“One day someone will cut your sharp tongue off,” you press the tip harder into his crotch, smirking when a hint of pain flashes across Bucky’s features. “Maybe I’ll be the one to do so.”

“Aw, you can’t take the pleasure away from all men in Brooklyn who want a blowjob from me. You know,” leaning closer you brush your lips over Bucky’s ear, “men love it when I use my tongue.”

Bucky shudders, remembering the way you went down on him. Teeth, lips, and tongue. “You weren’t that good.”

“What a pity,” you smirk, hiding the knife in your garter. “I just wanted to remind you how good I can blow you off.”

“You sure?” Steve chokes on his water when you slide off the barstool to pat his cock, right in front of his boss.

“What the fuck, doll?”

“Oh, you believed I wanted to suck your dick?” you chuckle. “No, I wanted to go down on your tall blonde piece of meat and show him a good time.”

“Go ahead and show Steve a good time,” Bucky challenges, watching you slowly unbuckle Steve’s belt.

You don’t care the club is crowded or that Bucky is right next to you and Steve. 

“Y/N, doll,” Steve mumbles when you slide your hand over his chest down to his abs. “Stop, you don’t want to do this.”

“Stevie,” you coo, giving his lips a peck, “you should know I do what I want, and right now,” you tug harshly at his pants, shove them down his legs, “I wanna suck your dick and show you a good time.”

Steve swallows thickly, but what can man do when a woman like you shoves her hand down his boxers to run it up and down his swelling length. 

“Oh, you are packing, sweet Steve,” you moan, hand leaving his boxers too soon to shove the fabric down his thighs.

No one at the club dares to watch you. You’re at the VIP section, the one reserved for and your friends. This part of the club only belongs to you, and you can do whatever you want without anyone spying on you.

“Doll,” Steve’s breathing quickens when you ever so slowly sink to your knees to cup his balls. “You shouldn’t.”

“Don’t tell me what I can do, Stevie,” you smirk, hand fisting his cock harshly. “That’s a nice cock, a big one and I’ll worship it. Don’t you want my lips around your dick?”

“Y-yeah-“ Steve chokes out. “But B-Bucky is right next to us, doll. Can we go somewhere private?”

“No, baby,” chuckling you roughly grip Steve’s cock. “I want to prove a point, Steve, and want to choke on your cock right here and now.”

You lick over the wide head, smiling to yourself when you hear Bucky bark your name. He dangerously growls it, wants you to stop but you relax your jaw and go for the goal.

“If you dare to suck his dick, I’ll end your life,” he growls. “Y/N, I’m warning you, doll. Don’t you-“

It’s too late, you suckle at the tip of Steve’s cock, ignoring Bucky throws a tantrum.

“What, James? You told me I’m boring and you want to move on with a hotter chick. Obviously, Stevie has a different opinion and is hard as a rock for me. Now lemme get him off, he’s so hard it would be a waste to not suck his dick.”

“Stop being a brat,” fisting your hair Bucky drags you off Steve, leaves his friend panting and unsatisfied behind.

“Let go of me Barnes,” you try to swat Bucky’s hands away, but he pushes you onto the couch at the VIP section, growling low in his throat. “I wanna suck Stevie’s dick, James. Let me suck his fucking cock!”

“Be good now,” panting heavily Bucky pins your hands above your head, to hold you down. “You will not suck Steve’s cock, not before you did so with mine.”

“I won’t suck your pitiful dick,” you spit into Bucky’s face, grinning viciously when he growls low in his throat. “Now get off me! This is still my club.”

Bucky’s eyes drift toward your legs, especially the tattoo on your thigh, the one with his name on it. 

“This is still all mine, doll. Forget about Steve’s cock, mine is all you’ll get. No one in this town will ever touch you.”

“You fucker!” you try to kick Bucky but he takes the opportunity to settle between your thighs, smirks as you can feel his erection press against your thigh. “Get off me! You made sure no guy I hit on fucked me?”

“It’s the law,” Bucky breathes against your lips, “Y/N, Y/L/N is Bucky Barnes property. I laid claim on you years ago, my beloved wife.”

“The fuck! I’m not some fucking property, you dickhead,” you cry, fighting Bucky with all your strength. “I will kill you the moment you get off me. I will start with cutting your balls off and end it with carving your heart out of your chest!”

“Damn, you really want to suck Steve’s dick,” Bucky grins. He pecks your nose, snickering when you try to bite him. “Did ya hear, Stevie? Y/N wants to suck your cock so badly.”

“Barnes, get off me,” you mutter, tilting your hips to rub your core against Bucky’s erection. “Or get me off.”

“Interesting,” he smirks, eyes drifting toward your chest. “But I don’t fuck bitches,” you huff at Bucky’s words, wiggle harder in his hold.

Your stiff nipples strain against the thin fabric of your silky dress, force Bucky to remember how it felt when you pressed your sweaty body against his chest, nipples scraping his skin. 

“Then get off me, Barnes, and leave my club. Take your sweet puppy with you,” you growl. “I’m gonna find another dick to suck tonight.”

“You had to fuck with her again, didn’t you, Buck?” Steve sighs, tugging his cock back into his pants. “Damn, why didn’t you let her finish me? She’s so good at sucking dick.”

“That was a one-time thing, and we were all drunk,” Bucky growls. “And it was one of her fantasies. Y/N is not for you to touch.”

“Didn’t look like it when you encouraged her to give me a blowjob,” cursing under his breath, Steve stomps toward the car. “I had a raging hard dick.”

“Do you think I give a shit! She’s still my wife, Steve,” Bucky sneers. “If not for our friendship, you would lie six feet under right now.”

“Bastard!” tossing the divorce papers onto Bucky's desk, you scowl at him. “James, you told me you’ll sign the papers weeks ago. Now you sent them to me, unsigned and a picture of your dick glued to it.”

“I’m not going to sign that crap, kitten. And I know you loved the picture. I bet you got off looking at my dick,” leaning back in his chair Bucky roams your body with his eyes. “You look ready to get eaten in that black pencil skirt, baby doll. Why don’t you come over here and let me shove my hand down your panties?”

“Everything is a joke to you,” you roll your eyes, not in the mood for one of Bucky’s games. “You wanted out of this marriage, you got out. You can’t suddenly change your mind.”

“I can and did,” he shrugs, eying you shamelessly when you cross your legs. “What happened last night will never happen again, doll. If you ever try to let another man touch you, he’ll die. Everyone in town knows you are mine.”

“You can’t-“ you growl, hands balling into fists. “What do you want for letting me go? I don’t want to fight anymore. I’m tired of your games. Do you want my club? You can have it! Just sign the papers and I’m out of town for good.”

“You would give ‘Artemis’, the club you built out of nothing, up to be free of me?” you shrug. Nothing you can’t accomplish. When you are free of Bucky you will start anew.

“New town. New club,” Bucky huffs at your words. “It’s nothing special. People want to dance, drink, and fuck everywhere. The only difference is, there will be no James Buchanan Barnes fucking me over.”

“I did not fuck you over but fucked you thoroughly,” you scream in frustration, grasp the first thing on Bucky’s desk to throw it at him. “I even let you fuck Stevie.”

“That was a birthday gift, and you had your turn too,” getting up you want to attack Bucky, but you don’t get far. 

“Come here doll and get some,” he already grasps for your arm, moves faster than you can blink to push you onto the couch at his office.

“Get off me,” you fight with Bucky. Slap his face, tug harshly at his hair, fist his clothes before you end up on top of him. 

He has you on his lap, your legs on each side of his thighs moments later to shove your panties aside, fingers pushing inside your dripping core. “Fuck, you’re dripping for me, doll.”

“I’m just needy thanks to you, Barnes,” you growl, hands pawing at his jacket, tugging harshly. “Give me something, anything…”

“My dick?” he cocks a brow, groaning when you nod eagerly. “Just a minute baby doll,” husking the words Bucky rips your panties apart. “Lemme call Steve to join us.” He grins, revealing he tricked you again.

“Fucking asshole,” you slap his cheek harshly, growling his name. “There I believe you can act like an adult.”

“Just let me call him and he can watch me fuck you like a man,” Bucky grips your waistline, fingers digging in your flesh to hold you on top of him. “I want him to see how good I can make you feel.”

“I wanted to get off, not give your best buddy something to jerk off,” you growl, pushing against Bucky’s shoulders. “Jesus, we are a mess, Barnes.”

“I know, but I love you,” you sigh, forehead pressing against Bucky’s. “Can we not try again? I know that I fucked up, but give me another chance, doll.”

Your hands cup his face, and you breathe against him. Your forehead still touches Bucky’s heated one, and you just take a moment to feel him against you.

“I want Dot gone, not just out of your life but out of town. I don’t care if you send her to hell or Timbuktu. Just get rid of that grinning bitch,” you mutter. “If you get rid of her, we can talk again.”

“Uh-erm,” Bucky tilts his hips to press his erection into your core. “Can we still fuck? I didn’t touch Dot, I swear. Yes, I had a few flings here and there, but I know you were riding Steve’s dick over the last months.”

“What can I say – he has a nice dick,” you smirk, hands kneading the knots out of Bucky’s shoulders. “Maybe we can invite him once in a while?”

“What will I get in return?” Bucky husks, searching your eyes. “Doll?”

“You can do that thing with your thing,” a deep guttural growl leaves Bucky’s chest before you find yourself underneath the mobster, pinned to the couch.

“Give me five and I’ll get her out of town. And then, I want to do the thing with my thing in your ass.”

“Not today,” you grumble. “Get me off first and show me you’ll not stray again. If you can prove you are worth my time, you can conquer my ass.”

“I wanna-“ Bucky whines. “You better let me fuck that tight ass, doll. If not, I’ll not let you cum for months…”

“Promises…promises…”

“Bye, bye, Dottie,” you coo, waving at Steve. The tall blonde drags said woman out of her apartment, not caring Dot screams, fighting Steve with tooth and nails. “Have a nice trip!”

“Bitch!” Dot growls, screaming on the top of her lungs. “You can have that bastard back. He barely made me cum.”

“Did you fuck her?” growling the words you glare at Bucky. “James Buchanan Barnes! Did you fuck that woman?”

“Maybe a little?” Bucky shrugs, rubbing his hands over your arms, grinning sheepishly. “I was barely inside, ya know.”

“What the fuck! There is no ‘I was barely inside’, James. You were inside and fucked her or you weren’t,” you punch his chest harshly. “There is no halfway!”

“Fine, I fucked her ass,” your husband grumbles. “What can I say? We were on a break, and I was lonely.”

“Don’t you fucking dare to tell me you were lonely, Barnes,” pushing against his shoulders you ignore Steve tries to drag you off his friend. “Good thing I rode Steve’s dick excessively. Damn, he was so good!”

“If you don’t stop talking about Steve’s dick I’ll let him fuck you right here, in front of all my men! Maybe I’ll let them have a turn too – huh? All of them!” Bucky threatens, not liking the grin on your lips.

“Oh, please! As if I didn’t already fuck all of your men! Sam was the first I blew off in your car! He tasted like a goddamn popsicle!”

“Lying bitch!” Bucky is in your face, breathes heavily when you exclaim Thor had you on your husband’s desk, followed by his raven-haired brother. “You didn’t fuck my men!”

“I did and if I want to, I’ll do it again. Right here. Right now. All of them in all my holes,” you jab your finger into Bucky’s chest, snickering when he wraps his metal hand around your throat.

“You better think before you speak to me again,” he growls. “Get in my car and shut your mouth.”

“Aw, don’t you want one of your men to shut my mouth with his dick?” you retort, laughing when Bucky roughly shoves you toward his car to bend you over the hood.

“You want to act like a whore, I’ll show you what you’ll get,” Steve tries to stop his friend when Bucky rips your dress down your body, followed by your panties.

“Oh, do you want to fuck me, or will you ask a real man to do so?” laughing manically you spread your legs. “I’m ready for all of them, James.”

“Fucking bitch,” he unzips his pants, impatiently getting his dick out. “I’m gonna fuck you right here for all my men to see.”

“Promises again-“ you giggle, not missing Steve tries to stop his friend. “Will ya fuck me now or shall I ask one of your men?”

“Shut up,” his cock slaps against your ass, and his men turn around, not wanting to peak on you getting fucked. “If anyone takes his eyes off my wife, he’ll fuck her after me!”

“Did you just offer my pussy to all of your men? Naughty, James,” you grin, imagining getting filled by all of Bucky’s men. “Damn, yes.”

“I might add, anyone putting their hands on my wife will die, slow and painful!” you whine, disappointed you’ll only get Bucky’s dick. “Now shut the fuck up and just take my dick like a good girl.”

“Aw, you still think I’m a good girl, Bucky. That’s so sweet of you,” giggling you tap your fingers onto the hood. “Will I get your dick now or do you have performance issues in front of your men?”

“Fucking bitch,” his metal hand roughly fists your hair, presses your face into the cool surface of his car, gives you a stark contrast to his hot cock that nudges at your slit. “I hope you are wet because I don’t care if it hurts for you.”

“Bastard,” filled to the brim seconds later you struggle to breathe. Bucky is not gentle by all means, he roughly grips your shoulders, holds you down like you are nothing but a hole to fill. “Fuck me like a man, if you can.”

“Buck, can we not leave,” Steve grumbles, eyes glued to your body pressed to the car. He would never tell anyone so, but Steve loves to fuck a girl on a car. 

“Watch and maybe, you’ll get a turn too. Sloppy seconds and all,” Sam tries to not look, knowing Bucky is too engrossed in starting to fuck into you. Brock on the other hand rubs his hand over his dick, listening to all the noises you make for your husband.

“Buck, this goes too far,” you moan loudly, feeling Bucky speed up. He doesn’t care if you get off or enjoy the ride; he simply wants to lay claim on your body again. “Bucky!”

“You’ll watch me fuck my wife, Sam,” Bucky moves his hands to your hips, holds your body in a tight grip. “I dare you to look away.”

“Bucky likes to have an audience while we fuck,” you quip, pushing yourself up onto your elbows to meet Steve’s darkened eyes. “Look at you Steve, so hard while your best buddy fucks his wife.

“Can you stop flirting with Steve?” Bucky starts to drag you onto his length, groans with every harsh thrust. “If you don’t stop, I’m going to not let you cum.”

“Don’t challenge me, Barnes!” while you bicker with your husband, his men silently sneak toward their cars, leave you to your coupling. “You better make me cum!”

“Little bitch wants to dictate my life,” he ruts into you, hands pawing at your flesh. “My doll wanted to fuck Stevie, and I let her. But then I want to fuck Natasha and she freaks out.”

“As you didn’t ask me to do so! You fucked her in our bed, and she wore one of my dresses,” you growl, pushing back onto Bucky’s length. “All those bitches, you fucked them on our bed. I would’ve never fucked Steve on our bed!”

“Hypocrite!”

“Cheater!”

“Fucking cum.”

“I’m trying but you lost your mojo,” you pant, smirking at Steve. He’s the last man standing – or rather the only guy watching you and Bucky fuck. 

“Steve, make a mental note. We will put my wife in the dungeon and play with her all night long,” whimpering you look at Steve, imagining all the cruel things both men will do to you. 

“Please.”

“Cum and I’ll hurt you so good…”

“I forgot we got a freaking sex dungeon,” you roll on your back, stretching your sore body. “So, who’s going to get me food?”

“Steve?”

“I don’t feel my legs, Buck,” Steve groans. “How about you go, and I’ll just lie here, ignoring my sore dick.”

“Don’t be such a baby,” you tut. “I only tried to show you a good time. How should I know you can’t take it?”

“Stevie, if you want to keep up with my wife, you must train your dick,” Bucky snickers, looking around the room to find his pants. “Sam, why are you still on the floor?”

“I need a break,” Sam pants, glancing at Bucky who ushers toward the door to unlock it. “I never thought I will ever not want sex.”

“Aw, my sexy soft bear can’t get up from the floor, Bucky,” you sigh deeply, closing your eyes for a moment. 

“Did you hear me?” the female asks, disturbing your moment of silence. “Mrs. Barnes, did you hear me?”

Your eyes snap open and you feel the heat creep into your cheeks. Your therapist looks at you, expectantly, waiting for you to answer her question. “What did you imagine?”

“I-I,” you sigh, realizing you daydreamed once again. “To pay him back and, have some fun,” you sniff now. 

“How did you do it? Who are you when you pay him back?” she asks. “Describe the person you are in your dreams.”

“When I imagine paying my husband back, I’m sexy and wild. Not meek and boring. If only I was a little more like that woman, he would’ve never found someone better, sexier, and more interesting.”

“Mrs. Barnes, you are not boring nor unsexy. Men cheat on their women for other reasons,” she tuts. “We talked about your low self-esteem.”

“Doesn’t change the fact she’s a ten and I’m a two, maybe even a one,” you sniffle. “I guess he will file for divorce soon enough to marry that woman. I can’t do anything and feel so helpless. What can I do? Bucky doesn’t love me anymore, maybe he never did.”

There is a knock on your therapists’ door, causing her to frown. “Just a minute, Mrs. Barnes. I wonder who dares to disturb our session.”

“It’s okay,” you give her a soft smile. “I can open it for you, and you can make some more notes.”

“We need to talk,” when you open the door, Bucky stands in front of you, panting heavily, an envelope with papers in his hands. You assume he wants to deliver the divorce papers today, so you nod silently.

“Okay, come in,” defeated you open the door a bit wider to let Bucky inside. “Let’s get this over with.”

You walk toward the couch, holding back the tears while Bucky strips his coat off, tossing it onto the couch, ignoring your therapist completely.

“You need to stop talking to your therapist about me,” he begins. “Y/N, what will happen when she tells anyone about the stuff you told her.”

“I only told her about my doubts, that I feel like a grey mouse,” you sniffle. “There is nothing wrong with it. I try to feel better and get over the fact that I never was pretty or sexy to you.”

Tears run down your face, and you choke out a sob, hating yourself for it. “What the fuck, doll. I gave you time and space, but you’ll not talk about shit with a stranger. I want you to talk to me!”

“About what, Bucky? There is nothing left to say. You want that sexy woman, and I’m going to fade in grey again,” you shrug. “It is what it is.”

“Fade to what?” running one hand down his face Bucky sighs. “Y/N, doll. I was drunk and Natasha asked me if she can stay in the guest room. When I walked into our bedroom she was there, wearing little to nothing.”

“How could you resist a woman like her while having someone like me at home. I’m not-“ your voice cracks when you look down your body. 

“I-I’m sorry that I almost had sex with her. I was stupid. We had this fight, and I was weak that night, baby doll,” he crouches down next to you, gently touches your foot. “Look at me, doll. Natasha can’t compare to you.”

“’s okay, Bucky,” you shrug. “Men like you shouldn’t go for girls like me. You belong to Natasha or anyone else but me.”

“Fucking shit, Y/N! Yell at me. Scream. Throw things. Do anything but blame yourself for my infidelity. I was drunk and made out with Natasha. This was not your fault, it was mine, doll,” he runs his hand up and down your leg, tries to make you talk to him.

“I will sign the papers, no problem.” 

“Papers? What papers? I got you the photos you wanted of the puppy,” Bucky opens the envelope to place the pictures of one of the puppies you liked onto your lap. “I-you see.”

“Puppies? I don’t understand, Bucky,” sniff, wiping your eyes with the sleeve of your shirt. 

“Y/N, can we not talk about what happened?”

“Mr. Barnes, I’m glad you made it to one of our sessions,” your therapist clears her throat, watches you make space on the couch for your husband. “Why don’t we talk about your problems? Maybe I can help you?”

“OHMYGOD, Bucky,” you giggle, slapping his bare chest while he tries to slip inside of you. “Hey, shouldn’t we do one of those pair therapy exercises?”

“I’m on it, beautiful,” your husband slams into you, ignores you are still sore from your last encounter. Well, you barely made it out of your therapist’s office without fucking the life out of each other. “Aw, you were such a cute shy girl, and I, the big bad mobster just came to the session to help you cope.”

“You’re an asshole,” you pant, cunt already soaked again. “But fuck me, baby. My therapist will be so fucking proud of me for taking the next step.”

“Next step, huh? You went straight to fucking me, Steve, and Sam. That’s not the next step, it’s the ultimate.”

“Yeah, and it was great,” your nails bite into Bucky’s back, leave angry red lines but you don’t care. “I’m gonna lay claim on you again Barnes.”

He growls, hips crashing into yours. “This cunt is mine. No more Sam or Steve,” you hum to yourself, lean back, and decide to just enjoy the ride. “What? Don’t just lie there, doll.”

“I’m tired but want an orgasm. Come on, Buck, work that body,” you grin, watching Bucky move on top of you. “That’s what you wanted. Right? A girl like Dot, who just lies there and takes it.”

“Damnit, doll. Move your body,” he groans when you decide to buck your hips. “More, Y/N. I wanna feel you move your body…”

“So, a second chance?” your therapist asks when you shyly sit on the couch next to Bucky. Oh, how you love to pretend you are not the devil in disguise.

Your red lips curve into a smirk and you wonder if that smart woman will ever find out the truth about you and Bucky.

“Yes, we will go for more sex and fewer puppies,” Bucky grunts, patting your thigh, squeezing it roughly with his metal hand. “Truth is doc; my girl needs a cock more than anything. Sometimes I’ll bring Steve in, to help me fuck her.”

“What?” your therapist stutters, looking at you with wide eyes. “Mr. Barnes!”

“Oh, she loves it, doc. Last time it was an orgy. I watched Steve, Sam and Thor take turns. She was covered in cum and screamed only my name,” Bucky grins like the devil, already patting his hidden gun.

“I-I,” unsure what to say or how to react to such a confession your therapist slowly gets up from your chair. “I think I’ll need fresh air.”

“Sit, doc,” his voice dangerously low now Bucky dips his head to look her straight in the eyes. “Did you think I don’t know you were selling all those nice information my wife gave you to my enemies?”

“Buck,” you sigh. “Don’t kill another therapist. I liked that one—”

“Great, now I must find a new therapist thanks to you,” watching Bucky parade around your bedroom, a smirk plastered all over his face you roll your eyes. “Seriously, Barnes. You killed three of my therapists in not eight years.”

“The first dared to say we should file for divorce. I know he only wanted to get a taste of your pussy,” your husband mutters.

“Yeah, but what about therapist number two? He didn’t do anything wrong, still, the cops knocked on my door not days after his disappearance.”

“Hey, it wasn’t me!” Bucky snickers. “Maybe Steve didn’t like your therapist blamed him for our failed marriage.” The bastard shrugs. “Or I had to show him no one touches my wife.”

“He didn’t touch shit, Barnes,” you growl, watching Bucky open the door to the bathroom to reveal his next gift to you. “What?”

“May I present to you—” he smirks when a black cat waltzes into the room, “that’s Hades, its soul is as black as yours.”

“Don’t say shit about black cats,” patting the mattress you watch Hades jump onto the bed, purring. “I love black cats.”

“I know, doll,” laughing Bucky sits on the bed to watch you pat the cat.

“This is your last second chance, Barnes. Next time I’ll just kill you...”

Tags in reblog.

[ringmyheart]

Dating Johan headcanons? Your Vinjin one was literal ✨gold✨ and yk so now i'm super curious about how you'd think dating Johan would be like.

Thank you!! 😭 I hope I did this well <33 also a warning, skip to where I wrote [HERE] if you’re uncomfortable w reading anything ab religion. Also I didn’t mean to offend any religion I am religious myself and didn’t specify any to avoid saying something incorrectly !

If you’re religious, he’s very VERY wary and cautious. Not of you but of the people you’re with, and it worries him a LOT

If u tell him ur hanging out with church friends he’s either insisting he comes too or asking a suspicious amount of questions of ur whereabouts and watching u from afar. He’ll probably step in on accident cuz he saw them like reach for ur shoulder or smmn and intervene cuz he thought like u were ab to get kidnapped but they were just gonna bring ur awareness to the food store around u, he’d be so on edge

He doesn’t like entering churches but if u go and u won’t negotiate on wether u can or can’t go, he’ll risk it all and come too

He’ll rough up the preacher after the service tho like “what’s your thing ???? Like what do you do.” And ask them questions completely unrelated and honestly kind of confusing to intimidate them

Like, “oh so this is all u do? U just preach?”

“Uh, yeah I love my job and am devoted. :) 👍”

“u have no other job? Nothing?”

“No...”

“R u married?”

“Yep!”

“Yeah, that’s what I thought.”

“What??”

And he meant like yeah good keep ur eyes off of u his s/o or SMM but it came out off putting and frankly indiscernible 😭

While in the service he might even start to shake cuz he’s so worried if he sees AC or hears it running he’ll grab ur hand and book it cuz he thinks ur being poisoned 😭

[HERE]

Likes to share things with you, like clothes and all. U know that black jacket he always wears it’s also ALWAYS on u too

Half of it is cuz he’s stingy w money naturally so it’s like less money spent if u guys r sharing ur food and clothes and all

So ur always wearing his stuff but in return he’s always wearing urs and like even shoes. If ur taller than him and have clothes that were his size he has ur old wardrobe in his closet now as hand me downs

HE PROBABLY wraps ur shirt around his wrist as a good luck charm before fights. Before he gets into a showdown he’ll wrap it around like his arm and kiss it and say ur name or whatever and he swears if he does this tradition he cannot lose he won’t let himself

Because u don’t spend much money, u have wired earphones (nothing wrong w that ofc) HOWEVER if ur listening to music together and he runs into someone he has beef with he’ll start swinging and ur just there like 🧍🏽‍♀️ cuz the earphones r still connected and he’s fighting to the death w like sweet but psycho playing in the background

He loves physical activities to do together. If ur not active u probably will be now forcefully bc he’ll be like please and u can’t say no so now ur hiking every day

Forgets to wait up for u bc he gets rlly ahead of himself the amount of times u get lost on the trail is unbelievable and he eventually establishes the “if u lose me, HUG A TREE AND I WILL FIND YOU” rule w u and now three times a week ur hugging a tree and waiting for him to come pick u up in the middle of the woods

He’ll apologize and tries to teach u the layout but u don’t memorize it ever

Also loves biking and gets u matching bikes, likes walking the dogs w u, going on runs etc. if u cannot run he grabs ur hand and is all its okay u got this :)) like thanks for the sentiment but it doesn't help💀

DO NOT DO HOBBIES W THIS MF!!!!!!!!! If u like to dance and tell him he’ll do it with you and within two days he leagues better than you it would suck

He is so good at picking things up if u play just dance for fun he will kick ur ass and ur like bro I thought we were just playing having fun wtf 😕 and he genuinely wasn’t even trying

So if ur competitive don’t put him on the hobbies ur into cuz he will start it a beginner and be better than u within three days

He’ll feel so bad tho if he finds out u don’t like it. Like when u drew stuff he’d sit by u and draw too and when u saw he was advancing to surpass u u stopped. He thought u just grew out of it but finds u in like a closet drawing to hide from him

But he loves doing stuff ur interested in w u even if it’s something he was never into. If u like it he likes it by association

The type of boyfriend to buy you ten fruits if you say you like one.

In passing you mention liking watermelon the next day you come home there are ten on your counter and he’s like hey :DD!

Gets you a matching dog god jacket like him so u two and ur dogs r matching always

He doesn’t care if you’re wrong, he will die defending you!!! U r always in the right what do u mean the total cost is 10.00$?? What do u mean it says 10$ on the register?? They said it was 8$ u heard them

He’s pretty reserved when it comes to personal stuff and just everything in general. U will be three years into the relationship and realize u don’t know what his last name is??!!!

He’s a “I didn’t see why it was so important” mf... if u ask ab his past or occupation he’ll tell you but in a way that underplays it extremely. Because he isn’t that ready to be vulnerable and open up as well as thinking u might not care or you’ll leave him

He’s a pretty jump-y person because he had to be alert and on his toes most of the time. If you surprise him by accident by being too quiet then appearing right by him he’ll jump three feet up like a cat or sock you in the face then apologize profusely and tear up feeling horrible

He’s pretty perceptive but when caught off gaurd he gets very nervous, can’t help it

While watching tv shows or bingeing a series he will narrate everytning to u. Because he really enjoys the show and wants to make sure u understand in the fullest too and enjoy it. If he didn’t understand sometning in the beginning but then understands you HAVE to know too

“Oh my god he just shot him....”

“The dog RUNS AWAY!?”

“She said she loves him oh my gosh...”

“They’re kissing?”

Like yes Johan.... we know.... if you tell him he’ll stop but it’s like programmed in his DNA to not shut up while watching tv he can’t help it

He’ll also pause the show to turn to u and go “I KNOW HIM!!”

And ur like “rlly?? OMGG”

And he’ll go “YEAH he’s also in that other show remember :O” and u realize he does not know him recognizes him

😑😔 .

He’s not that updated on internet and how humor has progressed over the past few years so if u send him any meme over 2015 he will be so confused

Send this and he’ll text back “😅 why did you send me this?”

“Is that sonic?”

“Are these your texts with someone?”

Otherwise he’s a pretty normal texted. He uses punctuation sometimes which will throw u off gaurd cuz it will be like “I love you.” And it’s like sweet but why did he add the period?? But he doesn’t always so it’s regular

If playing sports or doing something competitive he threatens everyone in the beginning to let you win and always lets u get the score/goal/net, whatever. He pulls everyone into him prengame by their collar and is like “listen ur letting them win got that. If I see u take that ball from them....”

He’s a helicopter boyfriend he is always seeing what ur doing what ur up to how u are, etc. protective to a fault basically

Holds u back when crossing the street as if ur seven years old

I have more I could say, but I’ll inevitable write another johan relationship hcs some day again so I’ll save it for then 😅 I hope this was what I wanted! Thank you for requesting ❤️❤️

[redhawtriot]

Operation Unvirgin (Bakugou x Reader)

Tip Jar ☕- Not expected but always appreciated💞

I had this idea the other day that Bakugou probably would be super celibate. Like he is very goal oriented and doesn't like to attach himself to others, so I feel like he wouldn't have ever bothered with girls or even beat his meat or anything (the shit’s fucking perverted okay?! how could any decent person touch themselves?)

But he hears that Deku is boutta get laid and he gets pissed bc WHAT? That loser is gonna beat him in something?! So he goes on a mission to loose his virginity before Deku. 

So I wrote the NSFW piece of this and it was UTTER GARBAGE, but I know that many of you guys are writers so think of this as a very informal request: Anyone can write the second half of this and tag me and I will repost it (except no non-con plz). It doesn’t matter how long it is.

If this completely flops I will ... sigh... post my shitty NSFW next week... (But please spare me and yourselves from that outcome) 

HnM💕

Bakugou never could understand all the hype surrounding the opposite sex.

The blond man would wrack his brain as he tried to remember the exact moment where his fellow peers stopped looking at girls like the enemy and started looking at them like walking deities, mindlessly floating behind them as if an invisible scent enchanted their spirits. Sometimes he felt like a lone soldier in sustaining self-respect.

In his isolated state, he only watched in disgust as freaks like Mineta and Kaminari drooled over women and reduced themselves into warm bodied zombies in the presence of a vagina. Pathetic.

He would never in a million years let a woman rule over him. He had seen how his hag of a mother treated his father, and he would rather stick his face in a vat of acid than have his soul belong to someone like that.

His stupid mom always told him that he would probably meet someone in high school that would change his mind, but there he was, the night after graduation, victorious in his pursuit of staying the fuck away from crazy broads like her.

In fact, this ridiculous graduation party that Kirishima had dragged him to was probably the last time he would see most of these extras, since he doubted many of them would make it past being D-listers or side-kicks—and that was him being generous.

The colorful beams of light took turns fading in and out of the dark room as the heavy bass of multiple speakers pounded into his body, sending a flurry of vibrations in his abdomen. Although, Bakugou would never admit this out loud, he actually enjoyed this scenery. The stomping of the music reminded him a lot of his own quirk and the lights weren’t completely hideous.

Yeah, as long as no one at this shitty party tried to talk to him or get on his nerves he would be just fine—

“Baku-brooooo!”

God Dammit.

“Hey, dude!” Kaminari threw a sloppy arm over the angrier blond’s shoulders as Kirshima, Deku and Mina all followed behind him through the dense party crowd. Now, if this had been two years ago, Kaminari just might have found himself short an appendage through an explosive altercation; however, throughout his high school career, Bakugou found that simply ignoring the idiots was usually enough to deter them from trying to converse with him.

So Bakugou swallowed the increasing rage that was bubbling in his throat and simply scoffed instead, swatting the man’s arm away from him and turning his back on him and his incoming entourage. Kaminari only laughed in response, “C’mon bro we are officially graduates! Ditch the bad boy act and loosen up a little—we are men now! Just ask Midoriya!” he slyly suggested.

The sound of his rival’s name piqued his interest, yet the stubborn man still refused to give the short-circuited idiot the satisfaction of knowing such a thing, so he continued to glare away from him as Izuku spoke up, “N-no it’s nothing really… Uraraka and I have just been together for a while. Honestly, I don’t even know if I will go for it. I don’t wanna be a jerk or anything bringing it up to her! Forget I said anything at all, actually!” the young man frantically waved his hands as his face became obviously red even in the dimly lit atmosphere.

Mina snickered as her hands found their way to her hips “The shy guy act is cute and all Midoriya, but every girl wants confidence in bed! I am sure she wouldn’t mind if the two of you at least talked about it,” she bumped the green haired boy with her hips as Bakugo furrowed his eyebrows even deeper.

Kirishima was the next to speak up “GO for it, man! There worst that can happen is that she’ll say no!” he heavily patted the concerned Izuku’s back, “But the manliest thing for you to do is respect her boundaries,” he quickly added in.

The green haired man shook his head at the ground, “I should have just kept my big mouth shut...”

“She won’t say no,” Mina sang with a mischievous expression drawn across her face.

The three boys turned their attention to her with confused glances before Kaminari spoke up, “C’mon Mina! You know something don’t you? Spill it!” he begged.

Mina looked as if she were contemplating for only a moment before he gestured for the men to come closer, “Don’t tell her I told you, but…” she trailed off for dramatic effect, “She was totally gonna try to seduce you tonight, Midoriya!!” She winked. Bakugou’s ears perked up at this statement,

“WhAT?” both him and Izuku cried out.

Kaminari and Kirishima laughed at the blond’s outburst, “So you were listening after all, huh Bakugou?” the latter questioned.

“What do you think of the situation, buddy?” Kaminari leaned into the explosive man with a smirk.

“I’m not your damn buddy,” Bakugou bumped the electrical dumbass away from him, “I think you idiot perverts need to stop worrying about whose panties you’re gonna fail getting into and worry about not being able to keep food on your fucking plates when your careers flop!” he barked as the four blinked in surprise at his sudden outburst.

Kaminari saw this as the perfect opportunity to mess with him, “Bakugou are you… a virgin?” He wiggled his eyebrows.

“MIND YOUR OWN DAMN BUSINESS, PIKACHU,” the man under interrogation screeched.

“He totally is!” Kaminari threw his hands up in feign shock, causing Mina to giggle.

Izuku awkwardly shifted on the balls of his feet as Kiri loudly spoke up, “Hey guys, it’s not manly to butt into another man’s personal life like that.”

Bakugou ignored his defender and continued screaming at dumb and dumber through the loud music, “S-Shut the hell up!” his face was dusted in a light shade of red as he spoke. He tried to shake these foreign feelings of embarrassment away. So fucking what if he was a virgin?

“Deku still ain’t shit! Who fucking cares if he’s gonna get his dick dirty?! I could fuck any of these bimbos!” he loudly called out, causing a few girls crowding the area to throw him wary glances before they cautiously moved away. The group of friends noticed this and Kamari and Mina failed miserably at stifling their laughs at the scene.

“It’s ‘make love to’, dude…” Kirishima quietly correct his angry friend in a feeble attempt to save his future endeavors with women.

“NO. FUCK! I said what I meant dammit!” he yelled as he once again fought away the redness on his face, “I could fuck any one of these bitches within an inch of their life!” he furiously vowed.

“Any, huh?” Mina questioned with a raised eyebrow.

“That’s what I fucking said, Raccoon eyes!”

“Then how about…” the yellow irises scanned the dense room for a moment before a smile split her face. She happily pointed a finger, “that one!”

Bakugou followed her finger through the crowd and found you on the other side of the room. The fading lights intermittently illuminated your features, but he knew exactly who you were— Y/N L/N.  The only other person at U.A. known for being just as proud as himself if not more. Also known for having a slough of men on your heels at any given moment, but not giving a single one of them any significant time of day.

Mina snickered at Bakugou’s sudden silence, causing him to throw a glare at her. He fought of any creeping feeling of disheartened as he began a march toward your dancing figure, “Fucking easy” he roughly hyped himself up before approaching you.

“Hey,” he barked roughly. It didn’t really come off as much of a greeting and had more of a threatening tone to it, but in your shocked state you could only offer a half-hearted smile at the daunting man before returning to the conversation that you were having with your friends.

However, after a while, you noticed that your friends were distracted as their scared eyes kept darting behind you. He was still there wasn’t he?

You rolled your eyes before throwing a glare in his direction, “Do you fucking want something, dickhead?” you snapped.

“I SHOULD—” he began to threaten but he clamped his mouth shut and bottled up his feelings of rage from being disrespected before he continued, “You…” he barked, an unfamiliar feeling of uncertainty gripping at his chest, “I want you,” he said sternly. He had heard Kaminari say some stupid shit like this before and it worked. If it worked for an idiot like him then surely—

Bakugou’s thoughts were cut off as you simply threw your head back in a fit of laughter before turning your back to him to converse with your friends again, “Anyway,” you loudly began before beginning to talk to you friends again.

Bakugou’s face contorted in aghast uncertainty before he looked back to his classmates. Kaminari was giving him a thumbs down, Mina was giggling like crazy, Kirishima was beaming him a reassuring smile and Deku was no where to be found. Fuck! he probably went off to find Uraraka!

The thought set a competitive fire in his chest as he looked back toward you, “Let’s--“ he stopped himself to re-frame his approach. He thought of the words of encouragement that shitty hair might give him in this moment,

‘Treat her like a queen!’ ‘Ladies love a man with a code! Don’t tell her what to do, ask her!’

“Do... you want to dance,” he forced himself to ask through slightly gritted teeth. This was utterly humiliating.

“You think you can handle it?” you joked through a small smirk before eyeing him up and down. The man only averted his glare from you in response as he scowled at a nearby wall. You gave a small laugh at the display. It was almost childish how he was acting.

You suddenly noticed the red tint that was adorning his cheeks, sending a wave of excitement throughout your body. A sudden predacious urge clutched your abdomen at the sight.

“Okay,” you smiled after wetting your lips. You leaned into him before grabbing his forearm and leading him deep into the hot pool of dancing bodies. He stiffly followed after you.

If he thinks he can handle it then you’ll just have to show him how wrong he is...

[dcforts]

[foosball]

They’ve got a foosball table now.

Dean spots it by the side of the road, one leg bent, a little rusty, the glass smashed in and a couple of men’s heads cut off. He goes back to load it on a truck and bring it home and Sam’s bewildered face when he unloads is enough to pay off for the extra journey, even if his “Ta-da” has no effect whatsoever not on him, nor on Jack who clearly has no idea what that thing is.

Dean doesn’t care, he’s too excited.

It’s not like he’s ever been a champion at it, but if someone asks him that’s Sam’s fault: he’s always been too young and not enough competitive and Dean just didn’t have anyone else to play with and never enough time at the arcade to practice.

But now, he’s got one all for himself. He cleans it up and fixes it up the best he can and his excitement grows and grows.

And then it plummets like a sinking ship when he finally gets his chance to play and Jack kicks his ass ten times in a row.

Sam is no help: one, the more Dean gets frustrated the more he laughs at him, and two, he’s now too big to fit on the same side as Dean so he can’t even team up with him. And no, winning with Jack against Sam doesn’t count.

“He’s just a kid,” Sam laughs when Dean voices his suspicious on Jack using his powers to beat him.

“That’s not the point!” he retorts and then retires to his room to grumpily listen to music for the rest of the night.

Hope comes back full force the next afternoon in the shape of two familiar shoulders covered by a trenchcoat. He finds them in the library, sitting at one of the tables. Cas has a laptop open in front of him and he is intent on consulting a news website, one index finger moving slowly on the touch pad.

Dean circles the table to stand in his field of vision and points one finger at him. “Foosball,” he says, serious.

Cas looks up at him and his expression stays neutral. “It’s a table top game.”

“I kn- ,” Dean rolls his eyes. “What do you know about it? How good are you at it?”

“I never played.”

A wicked grin stretches on Dean’s face. He puts both palms on the surface of the table and leans in.

“I propose an alliance. You, me, against the giant and the kid. What you say?”

Now Castiel seems confused and slightly alarmed, not exactly enthusiastic at the idea of being dragged in a situation that would likely make him uncomfortable. He gapes at him like a fish.

Dean keeps going. “I secretly train you to be the best foosball player on Earth and then we crush them”, he says it closing a fist in mid-air.

“I don’t know -”

“Hell, maybe you’re a natural, just like Jack. And I’m not above using a little bit of angelic powers to cheat. I’m pretty sure he’s not playing clean either.”

“Dean -,” he starts, but Dean takes hold of his trechcoat sleeve and tugs at it. “Come on, before they see us.”

*

Cas is definitely not a natural. Which doesn’t turn out to be such a bad thing after all because that means that Dean gets to win a match for the first time since he got the table.

And it’s a good thing also because, unlike Sam, Cas is competitive, and the fact that he seems unable to properly coordinate to move a few rods and excel at a stupid human game bothers him greatly, so he focuses like his life depends on it until he finally wins a match. After the shot that seals the match, he looks up at Dean, genuinely pleased, “I won,” he states, almost incredulous.  

Dean feels giddy. He smiles back at him.

*

So now with a fourth guy, Dean can finally have his long sought balanced match.

Sam and Jack make fun of him for how badly he wants a rematch, but after they lose two matches in a row against Dean and Cas, a thick silence falls into the room, broken only by rare grunts and the sound of the ball rolling around on the table.

In only a day, Cas’s got incredibly good. He has the great ability to always anticipate Dean’s intentions, and moves his bars to accommodate his strategy. It’s like, in addition to learning the rules of the game, he learned how Dean plays and that makes him the best teammate Dean could ask for.

They only share a satisfied smile the first times they close a match. Dean is too busy shoving it in Sam and Jack’s face, really. But on the third match, they’re head to head and the adrenaline’s pumping and on the last ball, Cas’ goalie blocks Sam’s shot with a swift and clean movement and sends the ball flying back quick like a rocket on the other side of the field and into their goal with a clunk, and Dean is so surprised and amazed that he lets out a shout and raises his fists in the air.

Jack and Sam are groaning and calling for a time out and Cas is smiling at him, his hands still on the rods, content to just stand there and watch him bouncing on his feet like a child. Dean is so euphoric that he shouts, “That was awesome,” and cups Cas’ face in his hands and leans in to smack a loud kiss on his cheek, only Cas startles at the unexpected contact and Dean’s lips end up pressing dangerously close to his mouth.

So if they lose the next two matches it’s entirely his fault.

As soon as he realizes what’s happened, he drops Cas’ face like it’s a hot potato and they look at each other alarmed. That kind of unbalances the whole thing; Dean’s ears keep ringing and Cas keeps messing up too, unable to focus.

They lose the third match in a row and Dean doesn’t even make fun of Sam and Jack when high-five three times with both hands as if they’re five years olds because he’s busy being too aware of the tension on his side of their table.

With three matches each, they decide, whoever wins the next one, is gonna win it all. Dean calls a time out and pushes Cas to the side.

“We need to get it together.”

“Dean -”

“Cas, let’s just focus on the match. No distractions, okay?”

Cas nods reluctantly. “No distractions.”

And so they play, slightly better, but still struggling.

And then there’s one ball left.

Jack and Dean do a little bit of a silly ritual, taking turns blowing on it and then Jack presses it against his chest, closes his eyes and says, “If you make me win, this will be one of the best days of my life.”

“Yeah, alright, just play,” Dean mocks him, but when he looks towards Cas and Sam they both look like they fell for his little act.

So Dean is not exactly surprised when Jack gets a chance for a clear shot and Cas just – doesn’t catch it.

Dean sees clearly the way he pulls his rod ever so slightly to allow the ball to go in. He sees the way he looks immediately up to Jack not to miss his face light up. The way he smiles fully, with crinkles on the corner of his eyes and all, as Jack laughs and cheers with Sam, and then Jack is pointing at him and Dean has to take his eyes off of Cas and deal with the obnoxious truth that they lost. He lost. Again.

But Cas is pleased, and Jack has stars in his eyes and Sam is having fun - although at his expenses - so Dean doesn’t even think about complaining, or calling bullshit, or asking for a rematch.

*

After dinner he says he’s going to bed but quietly sneaks into Dean Cave once again to watch tv. Cas finds him anyway, even if the lights are off and the volume is set very low.

He comes in like he knew exactly that he was going to be in there. “You alright?” he asks.

Dean says, “Yeah.”

Cas doesn’t occupy the other empty chair, but comes to hover next to Dean’s until he moves his left arm and he can perch on the armrest. It’s an usual position but not an unusual closeness and Dean feels warmed by the familiarity of it.

“Sorry about earlier. I know you wanted to win.”

Dean shrugs. “It’s okay. It was fun, wasn’t it?”

“Yes,” Under the light coming from the tv screen, Cas presses his lips together, looking troubled. Dean knows he’s about to confess, so with a small smile he anticipates him: “I know what you did. There was no way you couldn’t have caught that shot.”

Cas lowers his head, showing guilt.

“It’s fine.” he reassures him before he can say anything. “It was nice seeing him happy.”

Cas nods and his leg bumps against Dean’s knee and that prompts a quirk of lips. Dean feels the need add something about earlier.

“And – I guess I-, sometimes I get a little too excited over stupid stuff. Sorry for throwing off your game. T’was an accident.”

Cas is silent for a long moment and Dean can’t guess what he’s thinking from his expression cause he’s very intent on looking at a randomly selected spot on Cas’ dress pants.

Then Cas says, “No need to apologize,” and there is a warm hand on his shoulder and Dean finally looks up. Cas has a smile stretching his lips and Dean can’t believe that just hours before his mouth was so close to them it almost touched them. “Do you want to play now? I can let you win,” he teases.

“Hey!” he protests, but with no real heat in it, “I don’t need you to let me win.”

Cas raises his eyebrows and tilts his head as if he’s sorry for him, “You sure?”

“Oh, that’s how you wanna – okay, smartass, you’re on. But -” Cas is about to stand up and Dean stops him with a hand on his tight. Cas stares at the hand and then up at Dean. “- not now? Let’s play another day.”

“Okay,” says Cas and sounds a little breathless. Dean smiles bravely, hoping he doesn’t look too scared. He doesn’t remove his hand.

“Wanna stay here? Catch a movie?”

Cas nods and as Dean presses play on the remote he shifts on the armrest to get comfortable and moves his hand to entwine his fingers with Dean’s.

A long time passes before either of them says anything. They stay absolutely still, watching straight ahead the one minute fifty-six seconds of opening credits as if it’s the most interesting thing they’ve ever seen.

And only when Dean is sure he’ll be able to hear his voice above his own heartbeat again, and the world didn’t end and nothing terrible happened and Cas didn’t just suddenly change just because their hands touched, he casually calls: “Hey Cas?”

Cas seems to relax as well when he hears his voice. He looks back at him, “Yeah?”

“Jack cheats, right?”

Cas huffs a laugh, “No.”

Dean slides down in his chair and pouts, “Damn it.”

[alphabees-writes]

Glee - S1 E4 (Preggers)

And from this moment onwards, Kurt Hummel proceeded to steal every single damn scene he was in. I’m actually unironically excited for this one. I didn’t think that could still happen! Here goes!

I will always love this Single Ladies scene. I will always love season 1′s Tina/Kurt friendship. Also, Brittany’s here, inexplicably. Did he pay her for this? In Pixie sticks, perhaps? Or Monopoly money?

“Kurt’s Superstar Playlist” is the most adorable name his playlist could possibly have. All we get to see on it are 4 Beyonce songs, and 1 Gwen Stefani - but it’s a cute little insight.

God sometimes I forget how cute Jenna Ushkowitz is and then this scene really slaps me round the face with it huh!!!

WHY are you filming this, Kurt? What are you using this for? I’d love to know. I’d say it’s just to check out his own dancing technique but it’s in black and white… Where are you posting this!!!

I want that swingy-suspended chair thing he has in his room sooooo bad

Ok now the fact that this is being filmed is giving me fic ideas…

BURT HUMMEL!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! BURT F U C K I N G HUMMEL BABIE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

God the look of fear on all three of their faces when they see Burt??? Don’t you worry kids he’ll come around real soon…

Burt’s approving nod when he yanks on Kurt’s unitard… God I love this man.

The LOOK on Kurt’s FACE when Brittany says he’s on the football team… I can hear his inner monologue like “bitch we may be in the basement but I will make a window to throw you out of”

Kurt just wants to relate to his old man so bad :( Baby boy he’s already so damn proud of you!!! Also that LAUGH.

He really just slapped Tina’s ass! And she completely rolls with it, the absolute champion. Also, the subtitles Netflix provided me with were (smacks bottom) and I just love that.

Oh god it immediately cuts to the WORST scene. Terri learning to give birth. William Schuester trying to help. Just let me perish, RIB?

Shout out to Kendra’s actress for somehow managing to make her character even more despicable than Terri!

Actually the shit she says to Will here is almost valid… All three of them are fucking awful huh!

Seriously why are Kendra and Terri the best actresses on this whole show? It’s the only reason I care about this fake pregnancy arc anymore…

The teacher’s lounge is always either an arid, desolate wasteland, or the only watering hole within 100 miles where all the thirsty ass teachers congregate. Take your pick.

Why does Will pretend to hesitate before going to sit with Ken and Emma? They’re the only people we ever see you talk to dude!!!

Ken with the psychoanalysis, wow. Just hit her right there buddy!

THAT’S HOW SUE C’s IT!!!

Rachel really just EXPECTS every solo… I almost forgot how bad she was when she started. “Maria is MY part!” Not anymore!! Kudos to Lea Michele for managing to make Rachel really sound like she thinks she’s the victim when she really isn’t.

Tina’s face… She was seriously happy. Season 1 Rachel SUCKS for even trying to take this from her. She IS talented. She IS ready!

Everybody else knows it’s a fat load of BS… Kurt lowers his sunglasses to look at her like she’s a bug beneath his shoe. Also, Kurt, why sunglasses? You don’t start getting hangovers ‘til next episode, sweetie!!

“You’re trying to punish me” I think being a total martyr might be one of Rachel’s worst traits early on in the series. I get that performing is her deal, but she can’t even take a second to at least fake being happy for Tina? Unreal.

Everybody else just moving straight on with it is hilarious. They’re all so happy for Tina and don’t give a shit about Rachel’s melodrama, which I’m living for!

I wanna be all “Finn’s an arrogant bastard for assuming Kurt wanted to ask him to prom, grr!!” But then I remember Kurt’s canonically in love with him at this point, so I’ll let him off this time

Kurt’s devious little smile when he asks Finn for a favour… I love one (1) boy!

AHHH THE TRYOUT SCENE. INCREDIBLE. This might honestly be my favourite scene from season 1. It’s definitely up there, anyway.

Cute brotherly Furt moments. Finn putting that helmet on for him. “Red’s your colour!” And they DON’T make Kurt get all giggly about Finn just being nice to him? Kurt just telling him he’s really cool? Pure.

“Rehearsing–” “PRACTICING!”

Finn tells Kurt he’ll be murdered if he uses his music and Kurt comes straight back with that rum chocolate souffle line. This show would be NOTHING without Kurt.

And THIS is what I mean when I say Kurt was a Gryffindor from the get-go. Even now he’s refusing to be anything less than himself for anybody, even the jackasses that harass him every day when he’s on their pitch.

Shut the fuuuuuuuck up, Puck!

“Hi, I’m Kurt Hummel and I’ll be auditioning for the role of kicker.” What did we do to deserve him?

His starting pose… His hips… The footwork… “That was good, right?” His whole ATTITUDE. THE ROYAL WAVE.

As if the TV network would cancel Sue’s news segment for having a few Cheerios in the glee club?

Oh god. Quinn telling Finn she’s pregnant. The fucking cinematography here… The camera work, the audio mixing…

“Think of the mail… Think of the MAIL…”

Did Quinn seriously just say “Ask Jeeves” told her the hot tub could knock her up? I mean, I know she’s lying, but ASK JEEVES? That should’ve tipped Finn off more than anything else…

Damn. Season 1 really had the power to get me shook, laughing, and then crying in the span of 30 seconds? Or maybe it’s just because I can’t stand seeing Diana cry…  

Sandy lets his kettle whistle for far too long, it stresses me out

Sue just… Offers this fired man a job? I know she’s got Figgins by the balls over the stockings commercial, but come on, surely the council would get involved or whatever???

Rachel sucks right now but god damn it Taking Chances gives me chills every time I hear her sing it… And she’s so cute when they tell her she got the lead!!!

If musical stuff is so frowned upon socially here, how are they expecting to get a full cast for Cabaret? Especially if NONE of the other glee kids are interested?

And there’s no funding for the arts but they have a whole ballet studio on school property…?

Sign #12 That Mr Schuester Is An Asshole: He just straight up tells Rachel that he’s the only person that likes her, which is wrong for so many reasons

He does have a point about Rachel needing to take a step back sometimes though. I hate that she’s so awful sometimes that I have to agree with Schuester.

He’s not HURTING you Rachel, he’s giving a chance to grow to somebody else!

Jenna did a beautiful job with this solo… Tina’s so cute too! I love her singing this sweet song with her goth aesthetic

This scene between Mr Schue and Tina was almost sweet BUT:

Sign #13 That Mr Schuester Is An Asshole: He did NOT need to touch Tina’s shoulders, or get that close, or whisper to comfort her.

Don’t take one for the team, Tina! Take one for YOURSELF!

I’ll let him hugging Finn slide because, wow, Finn’s breaking my heart right now…

However I will not let it slide that he’s seemingly taken him off campus for lunch…???? Dude, take him to your office. This is creepy as all hell even if he has good intentions…

“I got this at the school library. Did you know that you can just… Borrow books from there?” Protect him. Protect him at ALL costs. He was so genuinely inspired by watching Kurt make those goals that he went to a library for the first time in his LIFE oh my goodness

Oh god. The camera panning from a random father and his young son, over to Mr Schue looking at Finn? HE’S NOT YOUR SON MY GUY, HE IS YOUR PUPIL. PROFESSIONAL BOUNDARIES!!!

Terri and Will are both brushing their teeth with no toothpaste… Freaks…

Have I mentioned how much I adore those little background choir soundbites between scenes? They did so much for this show…

SHUT! UP! PUCK! Drink your fucking character development juice already!!!

Kurt just casually dropping in Sun Tzu’s Art of War… He just knows that. He’s prepared to just drop that in conversation. Son, why are you so ready for combat,

Also the way Kurt commands their attention? They can rag on him all they want but they all know he’s legit…

Look at all these doofuses in their football gear busting a move. Look at Kurt sat at the front just watching, judging, as he was born to do

MIKE! KILLING! IT! I love that they let us see a sneak peek of his moves… Serious HC that Kurt making the football team dance is the first time that Mike really got to show off his skills

Kurt shooing Mr Schue away like that gives me life!!! Sit down old man

“All right boys…”  And they all look so concerned behind him lmao… “Oh– SNEAK ATTACK back to the ring…” Mike’s trying so hard to keep in time. I love him. OH and there’s Matt! Most valid glee club member simply because he never says anything.

“Comb through the hair… SLAP THE BUTT!” And they’re all trying so hard… 10/10

“I’m your best friend,” says Puck, to the boy he has been consistently fucking over for four (4) episodes, and presumably many years prior…

I really do hate Puck for the first part of this season but god damn does he have some lines. “’Sup, MILF?” “Well, CALL the Vatican! We got ourselves another ImMaCuLaTe CoNcEpTiOn!”

I remember the first time I heard the term “Lima Loser” but I didn’t know the show was set in a place called Lima (I would’ve been, like, 9) and I thought it was lime-a-loser. Like he was going to have limes thrown at him. And it was this big, serious threat…

How the FUCK did Terri get into Quinn’s car? Why is that never addressed? Like, ever? Quinn doesn’t even ASK?

Do this many people turn up to American high school sports events irl??? And do they really play the national anthem? That must get old

Why are all these football players 30… I’m so thirsty for realistic casting…

BURT’S HERE TO SEE HIS SON!!! We love a proud dad.

“I TOLD YOU! I TOLD YOU!!!” And now he’s doing high kicks. Kurt’s doing the absolute MOST.

I will never understand the rules of American football… And I mean NEVER.

“Ring on it on three” I love that it has a code name. And they were all too busy being dudebros to call it Single Ladies…

The one dude on the opposite team who starts boogying along is the real MVP

NEVERMIND. BURT BOPPING IN THE STANDS IS THE MVP!!!

“Can I pee first?” Legendary

Burt just going “he’s so little…” In the middle of the silent crowd…

MY BOY NEEDS HIS MUSIC!

BURT’S SO FUCKING PROUD I’M ACTUALLY CRYING??? YOU CAN HEAR HIM SHOUTING “THAT IS MY BOY!!! THAT IS MY SON!!!” THROUGH THE WHOLE CROWD!!!!

I feel like Puck seeing Finn and Quinn kiss and then the crowd going silent as he walks away is meant to make me feel… Bad for him…? But we’ve only ever seen him be mean to Quinn, really. You’ve got to earn those moments!

Ah… The skincare routine. He’s thriving.

Burt! Hummel! Is! Proud! Of! His! Son!

Burt… I’m pretty sure he assumed you wished his mother was alive. As opposed to her corpse being at the big game.

Oh boy here it comes…… Chris looks SO young here. So scared. So vulnerable. The way he slightly stutters… He nailed this scene. So much.

He’s gay!

He knows.

Do they make sensible heels in sizes for three year olds…? Asking for a dad

The raw EMOTION on Kurt’s face. It’s killing me.

This is the starting point… “I’m not in love with the idea, but I love you.” And it only gets better from there…

And he THANKS his SON. He’s sure. He’s so sure, Burt, and you are going to be so proud of him forever.

Finn gives Quinn that blanket his dad gave him when he was a baby… Did she give it back? I fucking hope so…

You tell him, Finn! Puck IS an asshole!

MIKE’S IN GLEE!!! SO IS MATT!!! And Puck’s here I guess, yay… He’s got a season or so of sucking to go before I can get excited about that.

“Regionals” here we come? My guy, let’s get through sectionals first…

Rachel’s big, cruel smile when she thinks she’s going to be handed Tina’s solo. Why would she presume that it’d just get handed to her??? I mean, I know why, but like, why… And she has the audacity to look like she’s been betrayed. Not even slightly, hon! You deserve nothing if not getting one solo is all it takes for you to quit!

This Sue’s corner genuinely gets me through some shit. “There’s not much of a difference between a stadium full of cheering fans and an angry crowd screaming abuse at you - they’re both just making a lot of noise. How you take it is up to you. Convince yourself they’re cheering for you. You do that, and someday, they will.” Hits me hard!

This one was longer. Primarily because of Burt, I will admit, but it can’t be helped. Perhaps it’s the best episode of season 1 because of Burt! Now that’s a break through…

[rewrite-the-wrongs]

introductions / howdy, pardner

My first short story was about a fishboy and his human best friend. They battled a mutant piranha (whose name I think may have been Mutant Piranha, such was the monumental daring of my creative endeavor) and his army, who were out to destroy a mountain that held a whole planet together. The boys won singlehandedly, because scale was apparently a bit of a mystery to me.

This was the second grade. My teacher--who held me every day as I cried for weeks, confused and miserable and stranded in the throes of my parents’ divorce--understood before I did that I create to a ploddingly slow and steady drumbeat. A sentence is always so much more in my head than I’m able to let out, at first; I have to pore over it again and again, fleshing and flourishing (and often correcting) it, the same way I often have to reread paragraphs or pages or whole books to truly capture their meaning. In a word processor, this back-and-forth is as easily said as it is done; on double-wide ruled paper with dashed-line handwriting guides, the task is magnitudes more time-consuming, especially for somebody as messy as I am. So, while nearly everybody else played at recess on the sandlot and the jungle gym around us, a select few stragglers laid our reading folders on our laps and finished our stories.

My villain, that dastardly Mutant Piranha, found himself in prison at the story’s close. Awaiting trial, I guess; I never ventured that far ahead, seeing the big fishy bastard for a coward. “When no one was looking, he stabbed himself.” That’s the last line, stuck in my memory, not for its own sake, but for my poor teacher’s horrified face as she read my final draft there on the playground.

A mom volunteered to type up the class’ stories and get them printed and bound. For years afterward I reread that collection, always proud to have written the second-longest piece therein. I felt the weight of the pages, inhaled the tiny but acrid breeze that came from rapidly leafing through them. Knew it was a whole smattering of worlds inside, that one of those worlds was wholly mine, and I had the power to show it to people however I wished. Yes, I thought, I want this.

*

I’ve been introduced to writing many times over, by many people. Don’t get me wrong--I nightowled the first several chapters to many half-baked novel concepts all through my youth. But teachers have a way of showing a thing to you from new angles.

The first person to impact me as such was a high school teacher who was essentially given carte-blanche to construct a creative writing workshop in the English curriculum. The first semester was structured--you practiced poems, short fiction, humor and essay writing, drama, the gamut. Every semester after, the carte-blanche was passed on: A single assignment due a week, each a single draft of a poem or a minimum of two pages’ worth of prose. Forty-five minutes a day to work, and of course free time at home. By the time I graduated, I’d finagled my schedule such that I was spending two periods a day in the computer lab, and several hours after school every day working the literary arts magazine before I went home to get the rest of my homework out of the way and write some more..

My next big influence came in the form of  a pair of writers who taught fiction at my university, a married couple. One had me print stories and literally, physically cut them up section-by-section as a method of reworking chronologies. Told me stories happened like engines or clocks or programs--pieces that meshed differently depending on how they were put together, rules that held each other in place. The other showed boundless confidence in me, listened happily to some older students who recommended I be brought on board for a national arts mag. They both encouraged me toward grad school, but toward the end of my junior year I began to stumble, and by senior year I was, to be frank, a drunken asshole. Time I could be bothered to set aside for writing began to dwindle. I limped through the editorship with the help of my extremely talented, utterly more-than-worthy successor--and come to think of it, I’ve never truly thanked her. Maybe I’ll send her that message, now that I’m feeling more myself.

*

On feeling more myself:

That drunken rage was brought on by a myriad list of factors, the primary ones being 1) I am the child of recovering alcoholics, and our inherited family trauma runs deep, 2) An assault that will likely be mentioned no further from hereon in, as I have reached a solid level of catharsis about it, 3) Some toxic-ass relationship issues, and 4) I was a massive egg and had no idea (or, really, I had some idea, just not the language or understanding or even the proper empathy to eloquently and effectively explore it).

I had a recent relapse with drinking, technically--a mimosa at Christmas breakfast at my partner’s parents’ home--but I’m not honestly sure I can call it a legitimate relapse. I’m not in any official self-help group, I’ve never engaged in the twelve steps or a professional rehabilitation. I had a very wonderful therapist for a few years but reached a point at which I could not pay her any longer and we parted ways--I miss her dearly, as she truly became my friend and confidante; she was the first person I came out to, and very well-equipped to handle it, lucky for me--but I’m still on behavioral medication. That tiny smidgen of alcohol pushed my antidepressants right out of my brain, and I became terribly anxious and angry and sad all at once, and briefly lashed out during a conversation with my partner behind closed doors. Not nearly the lashing out I’ve released in the now-distant past--more on that maybe-never, but who knows, as I am obviously a chronic over-sharer.

Frankly, I don’t deserve my partner. She endured my past abuses, told me to my face I had to be better, and found it in herself to wait for me to grow. She’s endlessly and tirelessly supportive of me. She sat with me to help me maintain the nerve to start this blog tonight. I came out to her as a trans woman just under a year ago, now, and I’m happier than ever, and we communicate better than ever. Our relationship is, bar-none, the healthiest and stablest and happiest I’ve ever been in.

So, naturally, I apologized fairly quickly at Christmas, and continuing where I’d left off at two and a half years, decided I’m still solid without booze.

If we’re all being honest, though (and I’m doing my best to be one hundred percent honest, here, though I will absolutely be censoring names because no shit), I still smoke way too much fuckin’ weed. High as balls, right now. 420 blaze it, all day erryday, bruh. That self-medicated ADHD life. I should be on Adderall and not antidepressants, probably, but it’s been a while since an appointment and psychiatrists are expensive, so I’m at where I’m at for now. Sativas help a lot. It helps with the dysphoria, too.

I don’t have a legal diagnosis for gender dysphoria, but tell that to my extreme urge to both be in and have a vagina. I’m making little changes--my hair, an outfit at a time, no longer policing how I walk or run or how much emphasis I put on S sounds. If I manage to come out to my parents sometime soon--and it feels like that moment is closer every day--maybe I’ll tell y’all my real, full chosen name. For right now, call me Easy.

*

Anyhow. My goals here are pretty simple:

1) Share words, both those by people I like/admire/sometimes know! and occasionally words I’ve made that I like. See the above screenshot from my notes app. Steal some words if you want, but if you manage to make money off some of mine, holler at ya gurl’s Venmo, yeah?

2) Discuss words, how they work, and how we create them, use them, engage with them, and ultimately make art of them. I am not a professional linguist, but I went to undergrad for creative writing, so, hey, I’ll have opinions and do my best to back them up with ideas from people smarter than I am.

3) Books! Read them, revisit them, quote them, talk about them, sometimes maybe even review them, if I’m feeling particularly bold. No writer can exist in a vacuum, and any writer who insists they don’t like to read is either a) dyslexic and prefers audiobooks or b) in serious need of switching to a communications major (no shade, but also definitely a little shade @corporate journalism).

5) I added this last, but I feel it’s less important than 4 and does not deserve bookend status, and I am verbose but incredibly lazy, so here I am, fucking with the system. Anyway: Art! Music! Video games! I fucking love them. I’ll talk about them, sometimes, too. Maybe I’ll finally do some of the ekphrastic work I’ve felt rattling around in my brain for a while now. Jade Cocoon 2′s Water Wormhole Forest, looking right the fuck at you.

6) Ah, shit, I did it again. Oh well. Last-but-not-last: This is obviously, in some ways, a diary, or a massive personal essay. I will sometimes discuss people, places, or experiences that have informed my work just the same as other people’s art has.

4) Be an unabashed and open Trans woman. TERFs, transphobes, ill-informed biological essentialists not permitted. Come at me and my girldick and prepare to be dunked on and subsequently shown the door via a swift and painful steel-toed kick in the ass. Everybody who doesn’t suck, if I screw up on any matter of socio-ethics or respect for diversity, please feel free to correct me.

*

Punk’s dead, but we’re a generation of motherfucking necromancers. Be gay, do crime, fight the patriarchy, and fart when you gotta. May the Great Old Ones select you to ascend to a higher plane and learn the terrible truths of existence.

Much love--

Easy

[yhmusicteacher]

How long have you been teaching? Any advice for the dreaded 1st year?

Than you for your ask!  I have been at teacher for 14 years now!  Sometimes I think “Wow! I beat the national average! How did I do that?!” The National Average is about 5 years before burn-out.  Sorry my reply took so long. I kept thinking of things to add! 

1st Year advice:  This could go on for a bit, so kick back in a comfy chair, get a beverage and here you/we go...

1. Stay Hydrated!  Have a water bottle/teacher cup/mug with you on your desk at all times.  Fill it often.  You will be talking/moving/concentrating so much.  You will forget to drink any sort of liquid. Have fresh water near you at all times. There are actual studies that show drinking water will help reset your stress/upset levels.  Students that were in the midst of or on the brink of a melt down that had the opportunity to go pace and get a long drink from the water fountain  usually come back to their center quickly and can rejoin a student population. Something about diluting the cortisol levels I think.  Teachers need the hydration also.

2. Don’t forget to eat. I can’t tell you how many times in my first year or so that I skipped a meal. I was just so busy and worried about EVERYTHING that I forgot to eat or fell into bed or on the couch exhausted that I just didn’t bother.  One time I got woozy and teacher in the school started checking on me daily...dragging me to eat lunch with the teachers. 

3. Get a Mentor Teacher, Get Several Mentor Teachers.  You school district or school should assign you a mentor at the same grade-level, building site you are in/at. Mentors can help answer little questions like: “Where do I find Form X” or “How do I ask for a day off?” to big questions like: “Student Z is troubling me in class, can you tell me about them what may help me help them be successful?”  If you are a specific content like Music or Art or PE which has only ONE of you in the building ask for a Mentor in the same content from around the district.  ALSO tap your State Education Association for a mentor too!  

4. Understand your limitations.  You are not experienced. You know educational theory, but practical application has been limited.  You will have bad days, you will feel like you failed or are failing, you will feel like you are not making a difference.  You. are. human.  No 1st year teacher is perfect.  I have been in the field for 14 years and I still feel like I make mistakes. Minimize what mistakes you can, understand what can be done to fix the mistake, fix, move on.  DO NOT DWELL ON WHAT YOU DID WRONG....Move Forward. 

5. Reflect.  Keep a blog, journal, notebook, best friend...WHATEVER to talk to and reflect about your experience.  Think back, think through, evolve.  Take time to understand. My brain was so “Wired” my first years that I would crash mid-year. I would literally sleep a whole weekend away because my brain and body said “OK ENOUGH!  POWER OFF!” I think that if I had a blog back then to express myself, communicate with other educators, and fuel my soul, I would have been way healthier. 

6. Be active in your school community.  I love going to sports ball events of my students.  If you want to “meet your students where they are” as quick as possible and earn their respect and trust, so an interest in them outside the classroom.  Go to sports ball, band and vocal concerts, volunteer to judge forensics, be active in the community in which you serve. It is hard to go to events when you are just exhausted, but the payout in the long run is very worth the endeavors. 

7. Buy-into whatever discipline policies there are school-wide. One of my schools uses a ticket-reward-reedem-tickets-for-prizes system and although I think kids shouldn’t be rewarded with a ticket for standing quietly in line, the system is school wide because the goal is to encourage/instill the correct behaviors. Do no reinvent the wheel when it comes to discipline in your classroom. Use what already works and the students know.  

8. Discipline:  This one was hard for me my first year as I taught K-12. The seniors were only 5 years younger than me and we knew and liked a lot of the same things about music, movies, sports etc.  It was hard to stay “teacher” and not become “Friend” that first year.  You are not their friend. They are your students.  Professionalism is crucial as a young teacher, especially if you look young.  Depending on what levels you teach, discipline looks different for each. How I talk to Kindergartners is completely different than my 5th graders.  If I interact with my former students who are in Middle or High School that is a completely different type of conversational style.  I would advise you to seek out articles, books, youtube videos on ways to interact with whatever level you will be teaching.  Building relationships are so important too.  If kids trust you, they will work for you.  You staying calm in the face of discipline issues can make a huge difference on the outcome of the issue.  AND REMEMBER:  You will screw up discipline in your first years.  You. are. human.  Learn, Move Forward! 

9. Classroom:  In any of my teaching jobs, I have always given myself a two week window before school starts.  It takes that long to set up/clean out/throw away/re-organize a classroom.  Some teachers are so streamlined that when they leave a position the room is pristine and a new teacher can slide right in....but this is rare.  I have come into a new school and been said: “Here’s your room!  Enjoy...!”  One principal even said to me “Good Luck!”  *eyeroll*  It will take about 3 years to get a classroom the way you want not because every classroom is a pack-ratty-trash-hole, but because you will change the way you teach.  You will assess, re-assess, and evolve your style of teaching and classroom set-up a lot within the first 5 years. Sometimes it takes 2/3 years to go through and trash/keep/burn/organize/cry about the mountains of stuff left behind!  

10: Organization: Oh my, if you are not organized your first year you will be a hot mess!  Binders, folders, turn-in baskets, desk caddy’s, procedures, rules, book shelves, desk organizers...WHATEVER helps you keep your self organized just DO!  I cannot stress this enough especially if you teach high school where grades mean scholarships for students or essays mean National Honor Society Inductions....WHATEVER!  Keep your papers/assignments/plans/calendar(s) all organized!  It is so much more helpful to be organized especially during Parent Teacher Conferences, or if a student asks you about a grade or if some dumbass helicopter parent harasses you about a B- instead of a B or some dumb thing. 

11. Mental and Physical Help: You will break down your first year, you will feel miserable, you will feel like you are making no difference in the lives of your kids at all, you will feel overwhelmed, you will feel like a failure, you will get sick (alot), you will be exhausted....you will be, will be, will be....Don’t keep things bottled up!  Talk to someone to feel all the feels.  DON’T HIDE YOUR SELF!   Also: Wash your hands a lot, exercise, if you feel like you're getting sick start taking preventative measures like more Vit C and Zinc. If you have a fever, STAY HOME! Get as much sleep as you can! Self care is so important and teachers give so much of “self” to others that we forget to “Care” about our own selves. 

12.  Take time.   At the end of a day, or semester or before a holiday break, take a moment and look around your room when it is quiet or when the students are working well and it is a good day. Look at what you have accomplished! Look at all the hard work, soul, and love you have put into your teaching life. Remember to cherish it. Remember that you may not think that you are making a difference, but even if one student comes back and says “Thank you” or “Remember when?” or “Miss/Mrs/Mr. You were my favorite” or “ You were so hard, thank you for believing in me” you. have. made. a. difference. 

13. Never stop learning. Never stop asking questions, Never stop “being curious” as one of my favorite YouTuber’s puts it.  Always endeavor to keep current in your field of teaching.  Always ask about workshops and trainings you can attend.  Always keep being inquisitive!  If you show the same love for learning that you want your students to show, then they may realize that learning doesn’t stop after high School or college. That learning is life-long! 

14. Realize: You. are. not. alone.  It may feel that way at times.  But you are not. There are people out there who are willing and ready to help!  Both IRL and Online.  Veteran Teachers are here for you!  Ask us how, what, why, where for art thou, when...ASK and you shall receive!  

Enjoy your 1st year!  And as my Favorite YouTuber’s Hank and John say: “Don’t Forget to be Awesome!” 

[carryonmywaywardcaptain]

A New Life: Part Two

Series Masterlist

Summary: Your family is killed while you are out celebrating Fall Break with some friends from college. You’re about to take your own life when the Winchester boys come rolling in. They turn your world completely inside out, but along the way you discover a new purpose in hunting and a love you never even dreamed could exist.

WC: 1,888

A/N: Thank you all so much for the kind words from my first ever fic! (Check out Part One here…if I figured out how to include the link. lol)

No warnings this time. It’s pretty vanilla. This next part is more just character development since Y/N has to build bonds with the boys. Hopefully you still enjoy it, because I enjoyed writing it. Stay tuned for Part Three soon-ish, and let me know what you think! :)

.

.

It had been a few weeks since the boys gave you “the talk” in that motel room. You knew they were serious, and they had no reason to pull your leg, but you still hadn’t quite wrapped your head around the fact that monsters exist. And that the boys hunted  these things for a living.

The boys had been gracious enough to take you under their wing and let you live at the bunker with them. You still tried to avoid facing what happened to your family when it crept up in the back of your mind, and you felt like Sam picked up on that. He kept a close eye on you. You figured he wanted to make sure you didn’t try to go find another bridge.

You still spent a lot of time in bed isolating yourself, but the boys were easy to get along with and you appreciated that they would check in and make time for you every day.  You were slowly getting comfortable enough to open up to Sam; you both talked about your experiences with depression and loss, and the lives you were forced to leave behind. He was a good listener, and you quickly became friends.

Dean took a different approach, and made it his personal goal to make you laugh every single day. You both had a similar sense of humor, and there were a few days he refused to leave your room until you had at least cracked a smile. His smile alone was infectious, and laughing with him soon became your favorite thing to do.

For the most part, you were doing much better. You were grateful the boys had saved you and that you had a little hope again, but today you were having trouble keeping your mind at bay. You needed a change of scenery. You needed to get of your room and do something.

You made your way out to the library where the boys had been spending most of their time. Dean was cleaning one of his guns, while Sam was intent on his laptop.

“Dean, I’m telling you. It’s too quiet. I mean, it’s been weeks since we’ve caught a case.”

“C’mon, Sammy. Learn to take a break! You know I’ll always be the first to get out there and kick the crap out of some evil sons of bitches, but we deserve some time off.”

You take a deep breath, and do your best to put a brave face. “Well I don’t know about you, boys, but I could use a night out on the town.” They both looked up as you walked in.

“Heyyy, that’s my girl!” Dean’s face lit up and he slapped Sam on the shoulder. “What d’ya say, Sammy? I could go for a few rounds of pool.”

Sam was silent for a moment before shooting you a concerned look. “Y/N… Are you sure you’re up for that? I mean…you’ve still kind of been having a rough time lately.”

You tried to give him a reassuring smile. He did have a point, but you felt like what you really needed was to have a fun night out. You hadn’t spent much time outside the bunker or really even tried to have fun since… You shook your head and hoped Sam hadn’t noticed. “Are there any good bars around here?”

“I can think of a couple places. When can you be ready?” Dean grinned.

“Give me an hour,” you said with a smile. You turned to head back to you room, contemplating what to wear.

You decided quickly on jeans and a flannel. They were staples to your closet even before you joined up with the boys, but you were especially fond of the layers now that you had noticed it was all the boys really wore. You had planned on spending more time trying on outfits, so you turned on some music and sang as you curled your hair.

An hour later, the three of you piled into the impala and made your way to the next town over. Dean turned out onto the main road, and you caught a few notes of the song on the radio.

“Hey, Metallica! Can you turn it up a little?” You asked, buzzing with excitement.

Dean’s eyebrows shot up as he glanced at you in the rearview mirror. “Good ear. You know Metallica?”

“To be fair, who doesn’t know this one?” You grin and settle back into the seat to look out the window at the fields racing by. You hum and bob your head along with the music. It was the first night you had really put effort into your appearance for months, and you were convinced the whole look good, feel good mantra really worked sometimes.

You felt Dean’s eyes still looking at you curiously in the mirror until Sam brought up something about the lore he’d been pouring over earlier. You tuned him out and focused on drumming your fingers to the beat. You didn’t want to hear any more about monsters that went bump in the night, and you were perfectly happy pretending they still didn’t exist.

Come on, Y/N. You can do this. You give yourself an internal pep talk.

You square up and prepare to take the shot. You draw back, strike the cue ball, and… crap. You end up hitting a ball you weren’t even aiming at, and sink the eight ball. Dean doubles over laughing. You grimace and huff in defeat.

“Y/N. Don’t take this too personal, but I’ve never seen anyone suck so bad at pool in my life. And hey, I’m ready for that next round now!” Dean says with a smirk. You’re not even mad. In fact, you think it’s pretty cute when he gets animated, talking with his hands.

You roll your eyes and turn to head back to the bar. Again. You made a mental note that you’d have to veto this loser buys the next round rule next time. “What’ll it be, boys? Everyone good with beer?”

“Aw, c’mon now, Y/N. Wussin’ out on me already?” He chuckled. “Beer’s fine I guess. Those shots of whiskey’ll probably be kicking in soon anyway. I’ll rack ‘em back up, and we’ll go best 4 out of 7 when you get back.”

“Ohhh, no, honey,” you call back over your shoulder. “I”m good. I’m not about to let my losing streak bring me down tonight. You’re up, Sam!” Despite what’s been going on in your life, you smile a little at how much fun you’re having.

“What’ll it be, sweetheart?” You give a warm smile to the bartender as he slings the rag he was wiping the counter with over his shoulder. You’d guess he’s somewhere in his 60s and, just like you and the boys, he’s wearing a flannel. You assumed he must be a hunter too by the way he was chatting with Dean earlier, but figured it was equally likely that Dean was simply a regular here.

Whatever the case, you liked Joe and the two of you had instantly hit it off. He was the kind of guy who would pour you a drink on the house and genuinely listen if you needed to talk about your problems. But that’s not what tonight was for.

“Three more beers, please. One for me and two for the guys.” You nodded over your shoulder, happy to see the boys racking up a new game.

“No luck again, huh?” He returned your warm smile as he reached behind the bar for the bottle opener.

“Not so much, Joe. Hey, do you mind sending theirs to the table? I need to check out this jukebox Dean has said so much about.” He nods and you make your way across the bar to check out the music selection. You skim through some of the options, and pick a few of your favorites to add to the queue.

Satisfied with your picks, you make your way out to the dancefloor. It feels weird to smile so much, and you realize you’ve been doing it a lot tonight.

You’re a little passed tipsy, and tonight was one of those nights you were really feeling the music. You sway and move your hips, taking full advantage of having the floor to yourself. You look back over at the boys and see that they’re watching you with big smiles…along with half the bar. You’re usually not one to be in the spotlight, but you kept your focus on using tonight to let loose a little.

You don’t let yourself worry about the fact that you might be a terrible dancer, or that you might look crazy out on the floor by yourself. Using your beer as a makeshift microphone, you point at the boys and sing along with Boston in the most exaggerated way possible. Secretly you’re glad the music is loud enough that it drains out your own voice.

Making your way back to the pool table, Sam is still laughing at your performance. You shift your eyes to a still smiling Dean as he takes a long swig from his beer. You see a hint of something flash in his eyes, but it’s gone before you can decipher what it was.

You sing and laugh and whip out your best (if not most embarrassing) dance moves with the boys until last call. Sam downs the rest of his drink as Dean turns his attention to you. “Hate to interrupt your final air drum solo, sweetheart. You about ready to head back to the bunker?”

You blush. Letting your arms return to your sides, you nod. You hadn’t realized how into the music you’d gotten. You can’t imagine what your hair must look like after all the head banging and dancing around you did, but man if tonight wasn’t one of the best nights you’d ever had.

About the time you began to realize how much these strangers had come to mean to you, you began to worry that they might not feel the same. What if you were becoming a burden? What if they were expecting you to leave the bunker soon, and get back out on your own again? It had been a few weeks after all, but you couldn’t bear the thought of leaving. You had nowhere else to go.

Your mind was a million miles away when Dean snapped you out of your anxious thoughts. “Well, Sammy, I think we ought to keep her. It’s not every day someone has almost as good of taste in music as me.”

“Hey, I’m just impressed she holds her own against you. Sometimes your snarky remarks really drive me up the wall. And, I mean, you were pretty cocky with the pool game tonight. I almost had you on that last game.”

They start into their brotherly arguing, and you can’t help but smile again.

Nothing especially memorable happened tonight, but the laughter and comfortability you experienced with the boys made all the difference in the world. Dean slid his arm around your shoulders and guided you to the door. You looked up at him, then turned to look at Sam. In that moment, you knew there was nothing you wouldn’t do for these two. They were your family now.

Part Three

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Tags: @maddieburcham1 @jamrsgang @oswlin29 @amanda-teaches @anotherwaywardsister @growningupgeek @because-imma-lady-assface @obsessivecompulsivespn @imascreamerbabymakemeamute @impala-dreamer @riversong-sam

If I missed anyone or if you want to be taken off the tag for this story, please let me know!

[awkwardplant]

•Title: Grow Towards Light, chapter 1

•Genre: Young Adult/Fantasy (fantasy is later on)

•Summary: When spoiled Albin Lofgren is sent to Italy for his bad behavior, he is cursed by faeries and gains magical powers that he can’t use properly. (This chapter shows what he did to get sent to Italy)

•Words: 2629

•Work: https://docs.google.com/document/d/1Og0Av9Qcc6YfcloU0hn9EdoyFwogmFtKd5WiE5vpZAk/edit?usp=sharing

•Note: this is my first draft, and I haven't written in a while

I’ll put the chapter under a cut in case the link doesn’t work. Please leave some constructive criticism! I’d love to know what you think :)

Grow Towards Light (Chapter 1)

“Hi Youtube, my name is Albin and- Wait, no, no. I can’t start with an introduction. I should play at the beginning, right?” Setting down his violin on a nearby chair, he walked over to the camera. He stopped the video, then started the recording again.

Albin returned to his previous position. He nestled onto the chinboard, hands on the bow and fingerboard, and began to play. Was his timing off? Did it sound right? His mind ran rampant with worries. So much so, that Albin came back to reality with a jolt upon hearing a wince-worthy shriek of notes.

He stared into space and groaned like one does upon waking up far too early. Then played a random selection of notes in quick succession and stopped. Again, he restarted the video.

Albin sighed as he returned to his position. “The world hates me but I hate it more.”

Sometimes you need to power through life with sheer spite. That’s the advice most people would take. For Albin, it was every second of every day. Because teenagers have that much bitterness. And for good reason! He’d been awake since 9am (what an early time) during summer vacation. And now he was attempting to upload another hit single to his Youtube account. If by “hit single” you meant a song with less than 20 views, like his many other videos. One day he’d make it big! But until then…

Beginning his 470th recording of the day, he heard it sounded better than the past attempts. It gave him the confidence to put his soul into the music, sway as he played, and ignore the worries that swept his mind. A warm glow of happiness began to bloom in his chest-

“Albin! You’ve been playing all morning. Dad says it’s MY turn to use the music room!” His older sister barged into the room and he balked. Because sure, that interruption at a crucial time was fine. Totally fine!

Grinding his teeth, Albin once again walked over to the camera and turned it off for the final time that day. Another day of wasted practice. He made sure to glare at his sister. But she was too busy destroying his eardrums with terrible saxophone music. Well, he always thought it was terrible, but her music awards… possibly said otherwise.

“Hm.” Alice paused and tilted her head in thought. “You know, I’d rather play my flute today. Is it here? Have the housekeepers unpacked it yet?”

“I don’t know..? I don’t play flute so generally I don’t keep an eye out for it when I go in here. To practice my violin.” Albin raised his instrument and eyebrow. “Sorry your search has turned out fluteless.”

Alice and the rest of his siblings had recently moved back into the mansion. There were still plenty of boxes that needed unpacked. Alice left the room. (Terrible audience, a waste of a pun.) Albin couldn’t stay in there any longer, so he returned his violin to the instrument shelf and went to the garden.

He passed under the arch of purple clematis and tiptoed over the river stepping stones. When he reached the tiered fountain he noticed: someone was in his gazebo. They were on the bench and reading a book, wearing close-fitting dungarees and a white t-shirt. A gardener? They were on duty and they had the nerve to laze around?! Albin knew his dad didn’t pay his workers cheap, he was a nice guy like that. He was going to confront the stranger! But... his mum called his name from the mansion.

That person could wait to get their scolding until Albin had a full stomach of food. But now was the time he’d been dreading: sitting down at the table for a family dinner.

Albin was not a fan of the recent increase of people at the dinner table. 8 people in total. 5 siblings was far too many. The good thing though, was that Lax med Västerbottensost was on the menu. The chef served the dish with a lemon slice each time. He remembered when it was just him and his dad, and he would eat the lemon with a straight face to shock his dad. He bit into a forkful of salmon, savouring the cheese sauce drizzled on the fish.

Silver cutlery clinked and the others around him made conversation. Albin noticed that his older brother was showing his dad a video on his phone. Tch. What happened to “no phones at the dinner-table”? Worst of all, his dad was… smiling. Quite a lot. He focused his gaze on the table’s decorative topiary tree. In the metal vase his reflection frowned back at him.

“And coach says if we make it to the finals, we’ll get to go to America!” Noel beamed.

His dad clapped Noel on the back and gulped down a spoonful of peas. “That’s great, son! What a super match, so intense. You’ve got to teach me some of those tricks. What’s the one where you kick the ball behind you and get it into the goal?”

“Oh, the Scissor Kick! You’ve got good taste Pa.” they laughed together.

Pa. More like: Pathetic. What a suck up! He couldn’t believe his dad was so easy to impress. Football? Anyone could kick a ball. Albin didn’t know what the Scissor Kick was, but it most likely looked cooler than it actually was. Sneaking a glance at his phone, Albin remembered he hadn’t been able to get a good recording of his violin that day. Damn Alice and her saxophone/flute nonsense.

Now all he had to do was sit there and eat. That was no fun. He could show his dad one of his older videos, one he hadn’t seen... But his dad was listening to Juni talk about some science fair she was going to attend.

Albin shrugged, pulling his iphone out anyway and laid it on the table so it played his song. It was a cover of his favourite TV series’ intro song. You couldn’t tell it was an anime song since it was being played in violin. (And everyone knows that a violin lead makes any song sound socially acceptable.) He continued eating as the song played, glancing at his busy dad every few moments.

But the song played the entire way through, and his dad hadn’t even looked at him, let alone spoken to him about his music. He turned the volume up and skipped to another song.

“Albin,” he perked up at the sound of his name. “What have I said about phones at the table?”

Albin’s eyebrows furrowed in confusion. “But Noel was showing you something on his phone-”

“Don’t give me cheek young man.” His dad chided.

He rolled his eyes. “Fine, fine.”

Turning the music off and slumping in his seat, he put his phone back into his pocket. Half a salmon left on his plate. And two spoonfuls of peas. Eh. Albin wasn’t hungry anymore. He excused himself from the table and slipped outside. Telling off that do-nothing gardener would cheer him up.

The stranger was exactly where Albin had left them. One leg off the bench and swinging it, as if they were in a hammock on a Hawaiian beach. Albin marched closer with a speech about hard work on his tongue. The person slapped their book shut and turned to face Albin: it was a boy who looked a little older than him.

“The youngest one from the mansion, huh?”

His surprise at the voice had Albin stop in his tracks. He slowed to a walk and peered at the boy. The dungarees he was wearing weren’t even dirty, they were a spotless blue denim. This guy hadn’t been working at all today!

“And you’re the lazy gardener, I suppose?” he challenged.

“What? No.” The boy turned away, reopening his book. Black, wavy hair rustled as he moved. “I don’t work here, my mum does. She couldn’t find me a decent ‘babysitter’ so I have to hang out here this summer.”

“You dress like a gardener though.”

The boy smoothed down his front and clicked his tongue. “That’s just my aesthetic. Bohemian, hipster, or something like that.”

“Sure, okay. Anyway. How did you know who I am if you don’t work here? Did your mum tell you about me?” Albin asked.

He felt like he was falling behind with every word the boy said; it was a race to see who was the coolest. Albin didn’t have an aesthetic. A denim hoodie and tan-brown skinny jeans didn’t fit into an aesthetic. His style was preppy or casual at best; and that was terrible.

“Sure did. A right goody two shoes with all the staff, even if you do have an attitude with ‘lazy’ people. You baked them all cookies last Christmas and gave a dreidel to someone, or something.” He clicked his tongue again.

Albin shrugged, not accepting that description of himself. “It’s an act. I can be rebellious when I want to. Like a few minutes ago at dinner, I had my phone out at the table. There’s a no phone rule.”

The boy walked out of the gazebo and stood in front of Albin. His blue eyes bore into Albin’s brown ones. “My name’s Elias. Been kicked out of every high-school in the county. I can teach you how to actually be rebellious. You in?”

Albin glanced away for a few moments. Could he really teach Albin how to be rebellious? Elias sure did seem the type to know. Albin wanted to learn: what was more rebellious than disobeying your dad? So he nodded.

Elias smirked and his eyes gleamed as though ice had glazed them. Albin knew that he had already lost whatever race he’d been imagining.

A few minutes later, Elias was opening the door to the music room and gesturing for Albin to go in. The dim light from beyond the two windows was the only light-source. Guitars lined the walls and the grand piano stood at the far end of the room like a silhouette. Despite everything he could see, the room looked empty.

Albin continued the conversation from their walk to the mansion. “It was so much better when it was me and my dad, you know?”

“Can’t relate.” Elias mumbled.

Then he picked up Alice’s flute, taking it out from its case. “This is your sister’s right? The one you said kicked you out the music room?” Albin nodded.

Elias handed him the instrument. “Break it.” He said.

“... What? Are you insane?”

“Nope, I've seen several psychologists. I’m mentally well, thank you for asking.”

Albin shook his head, running fingers through his hair, and he tripped over his own feet into a music stand. “You can’t be serious.” The stand rattled as he steadied it.

“Trust me. You’ll feel so much better. You won’t get caught, promise. Besides, you’re rich enough to replace a little flute. Right?” He circled around Albin and rested his hands on Albin’s shoulders.

“All those years with your dad, forgotten by him like it was nothing.” Elias whispered down into his ear. “Brothers and sisters, walking around here like they’ve always lived here. Treating you like a nuisance. A mother you can't stand for bringing all this chaos into your life, for turning you into a ghost in your own home.” He stood at full height. “Break the flute.”

The flute seemed to buzz under his fingertips, he was crushing it in his hands. The blood wasn’t reaching his fingers. His heart echoed in his chest.

“What if,” he breathed, “What if they hear it?”

“That’s why-” Elias’s hands left a swish of cold air on his shoulders as he left his side, searching the room. “We use a cushion in these kinds of situations.”

He began to walk, not quite aware of what he was doing. “The chair, at the back of the room. It’s cushioned.”

“Go then.”

“But-”

“Stop making excuses. That’s how you prevent yourself from living.” Elias clicked his tongue. “I’m only telling you to do this because there’s a lot of built up emotions in you. Gotta get them out somehow. And what better way is there than this to also get revenge on your family?”

Albin’s eyes widened.That’s what this is? Revenge... The word repeated itself, cascading down the walls of his mind. He lifted the flute up into the air, no backing out now, it hurtled towards the chair and crashed down with a thwack-

It didn’t break.

“Well, it’s dented, but we want it broken beyond repair.” Elias grabbed the flute from him. “Good try though.” he brought his knee to the instrument and snapped it in half. Just like that.

Then he began to tear off the valves, one by one. Albin could only watch in dull shock. His mind was still surging with the word revenge and a million other thoughts. What would Alice’s reaction be? How would everyone find out? What if someone had heard them? Albin glanced around, no-one but Elias was in the dark music room with him.

“There, that’s it done.” Elias dropped the instrument onto the floor. “Now let’s get out of here, through the window.”

“B-but this is the second floor!”

“I’ll catch you.”

Albin stumbled after Elias as he walked towards the window. “Are you serious?!”

“Always serious, kiddo.” Elias said. “Make sure you roll or you’ll break an arm!”

The next day, everyone in the mansion knew of Alice’s broken flute. She’d been sobbing and wailing through the corridors for hours on end. She refused her dad’s -Albin’s dad- offer to shop for a new flute. She missed every meal. When the butler was bringing her dinner to her room, Albin asked if he could do it instead. He wandered from the kitchen to her room, knocking on her door. His arm twinged in pain from the previous night’s fall.

“Alice? It’s Albin, do you mind if I come in?” He opened the door when there was no reply.

Alice was laying face down on her bed. She looked so small, in comparison to the white walls and high ceiling that made the room feel endless. Everything was displayed on shelves or tucked away in drawers. You could say it was Instagram ready. A small sob teared through her again, greeting him in the saddest way possible. He set her plate of comfort food on the nightstand.

“My instrument… they broke my instrument!” Alice cried into her pillow. “She was my lucky charm, i-if I had her I would always win my competitions...” She sat up to face him, glittering streaks of tears running down reddened cheeks. “There’s no flute that could replace her!”

“...Her?”

“My flute! Georgia!” Albin didn’t understand the point in naming an object, but he didn’t say this out loud. “It’s not fair. Who the hell would do this to her?!”

“I don’t know… I’m so sorry this happened.” Albin coughed away the lump growing in his throat.

Alice began to talk about the awards she’d won, told him stories about the competitions she’d been to. She hugged him, trying to pull him in as tight as possible. But he tapped her back and kindly pushed her away by the shoulders. Yeah, he wasn’t a fan of hugging people he barely knew. Alice returned to hugging her pillow.

But the best part: she had no idea it had been him and Elias. And she’d wallow in sadness long enough for him to catch up, and win some awards of his own!

That night he found Elias in Albin’s gazebo once again. He ran towards him in exhilaration, and shone a troublesome smile when Elias waved at him.

“What’s next?” Albin asked.

[the-eng-circle]

#raglisurf #sex_lies_n_tapes #judges_complaints It's 20.12, 5:th of March 2019 and I have to "go offline" (out of money) - but I will come back and describe what todays hockey-judges CAN'T do in other contestants trousers/cages... see you! (A few minutes later..) I had a donation for yet another hour - so I decided to write an hour on what this picimage (Obelix - in Hockey-EM) will show for/in my own sub-si-diary-supported memory-book/-blog for this Thur's (my own) day/trip in/through Hell... IRA (SWE) - "MON-DAY" It started with "a shake on one of the lower decks" (there'as only the big 'n' balded ones go) and an "intrusion" like Hitchcock show as a grimreaping experience in the old film called "Psycho" (steam-shower-pic-image) that became a "struggle" of ropes, wicks and a matter if you make/swear an oath to the dew (all "e-dew-ca-tors" know what I mean) or NOT... (think "Mountain Dew" here, the pubsong by "The clancy Brothers" - like "Whiskey in The Jar"). It was 'explosive' several times - a "nuclear blast in an aquarium-tank" (or "a tomb that had NOT heared enough sound") can name the "incident" - at nights with more "K" than most american presidents ever seen before in their military riddik-oulus night-vision goggles ("...you know what they awoken"...) . I call it an "IRA-bombing" of something else than a simple garbage-bin... it was a whole room (ga-rage-sized) that exploded when that "terrorist" pushed his button a few times - INSIDE my own hand/skin and with the words "Loves nature is no more!" following the repeated clicks with my shoemaker-thumb... one wrathful reaction of many was started that year with intrusions followed after another. The-y didn't succeeded with their breaking of my mind, but a research of my "brain-pattern" and testing of Love's limits were repeatedly coming back to my mind. You can see it as the X-Men's research-facility in Rivendell, a "Bjorn" were trying to make one of his guys a new skeleton... "baptism in a fiery aquarium-tank" and "hell-raising" with a negative facial-plate is another. "Gay-pigs!" Al Pacino cried to them who invaded his bodybuilding with black arts (or red/yellow "ants"). That period was the first hellraiser-attack, I call it "Mon-day" ("Mo" is a fine sand, heathen or "immoral music"/crickets for a Mose) and a "bath of roses", Rosenbath, the name on the swedish parliament was no garden of roses or "a rosegarden" promised from any lovable creature - it was a "piraya-stew" or fish-rince and gum everywere. Anyone that "entered my domain" was a "Jesus-whore", a "sacrifical-moral victim", a "backstabber" that refused to fight myself like a man. Another Volbeat song - "Pool of Booze, Booze, Booza". In Sweden anti-psychiatry and anti-anti-psychiatry (regular psychiatry) was having a IRA-terror-cell and I accuse Bin-Beaff for the repeated attacks at my homeshelter, bed and showerroom - the steam was sometimes hot and the volume noone can have any complaints about, it should've been heard what that homo-devil was diminished into (a nob must have been evesdropping in my surrounding). "He" wanted me to write that the kingdom of Sweden was in a "psychi-o-cratic coupe de'tat" - but I responded (loudly) with that "he" has to declare that himself... "-"She"'s always a woman to me", as Billy Joel would sing it. After I left my "snowy-mountain nord" I had a terrible Tuesday - I arrived in Spain in May and there ETA did wait, just to eat myself up... I had to change tactics... ...more to come... now this internet-store closes... ETA (ESP) - "TU-ES-DAY" Now, it's the day after the above written... here I can describe what happened in Spain (northern, the Basque-region), during the period of nine months 2017-2018 (May-Feb). The most abstract pattern is that I was drying "pieces of sheets" outdoors, in a "revolving parasollic form" as the "tor(-k)-ken" and it's movements can be called when you hang them in a villa's backyard. For nine months I was moving around in San Sebastian.... for nothing... no law, no protection from UN and it's so called "human rights", living on €3.00 in donations per day. And with all that can be read in what I written about these harrasments towards a Finbull's headoffice... with which at three "winters" the so called "Hell on Earth" are awoken. I write this in my third "winter-time" now. "Political abusement" is another "socialistic term" for the intrusions to a man's mind/home/economy. "Throwing rocks" is yet another to a "Sauna-father" who's done this before - you have to "love yourself" as Justin B sings... don't enter the Bear's domain as a "Bi-bear"... that's NOT enough in the "Holy War" (which of course is FOR love - NOT against it/him...it's always a man...it's all about manhood and it's several generation-shifts). The woman can only become a "pro-miss" in these war-battles out in the world - the war isn't FOR(e) her as a woman at all. I'm now in my wo-mb-fight - and that is the worst of "mothers" and "pro-misses"...it's a catfight, a dragon-ring and a lot of demons "attached" to such a board-game. Being the "B-ord" and turning a 5-masteras you becomes, all by yourself in full storm is a lot of things, ropes, strops, sail-cloths, decks, cargo-chests, keelhauls for self-service to your own fathership and holding on to your reality-conception all the time - needs a few "spanish salutes" from the different "canon-decks"... ...it is "fighting natural attacks" - that doesn't belong to yourself even. You're attacked by a ghostship that belongs to another. To resurrect the fathership when it's no where to be found, is a REAL "Hell on Earth-experience". All there is to offer as your self-help when it's a time of a "regressed reality by fantasies" (science-fiction rules the world-culture) is "self- (or forced-) medication". You need to be able to "create"... ...and to be a "turner of tides" you need alot of "lone-time" in your lifehistory, been recreative and re-schooled yourself into do it again - with words... against your own life-wishes or "free will". You're unvoluntarily put into a hell-mode and under a "scientific experiment" - which is the safest way of killing a rival to a leading "ideology/religion". I went atleast 40 000 steps DOWNWARDS in Donostia/San Sebastian, like in a spiral-staircase - for no use... ...EXCEPT for that of forcing the intruder of my helmet deep down (and out) into a "nether region" where "he" belongs. Like on a gyproc-screw, you then turn around the "wall" and take your household/bags and start walking north/upwards again... hopefully to a more language-friendly region (like british isles for my school english to be more understood) where "rule by law" exists. THAT was on the other hand a BIG/HUGE dissapointment later, in London, Great Britain. ...I come back and write some about my third experience, the NMR (Nordic Resistance Movement) and their "doings" here in Italy later - I have to "earn" some more euros to be able to "write something off my back" - it's rare to be able to write nowadays... it's costly (in comparison to wifi and my ex-mobilephones on cafès for example) - I now pay €1.50/hour just to be able to create some of what happends in the "italian ditch-warfare". It's VERY costly when you need both nurishment to your bodyfunctions and the ability to continously write the sub-si-diary-support online. Bye for now! NMR (ITA) - "WED-NES-DAY" Yet another day, "Giovedi" or "Thursday" as the english language call this week-day. It's 7:th of March and today I tell-us a little bit of the time in the third region of this hell-ride ("down-and-up") on what I also call "my day", Thur's-day - I, who have the "judge's hammer" of my own geographical region... and it's not a carpenting-hammer ("he" always want to remind myself of his personal presence). After the "football-experience" in Lille (before I left it) and the soccer-interests in London I declared myself belong more to the icehockey-region opf the world - something I understand is created after the "ability" or desire to "kick the ball" in "no-man's land", where "freedom of speach" is said t exist, but no laws can protect you instead. On the icehockey-arena I'm a headjudge (with the crystal-bowl-visir, sheriff-jacket/-sweater and the armbands for the experience of a true pinocchio-suit/slaugther-room-experiences). As NMR (Nordic Resistance Movement - the racistic resisitance movement upnorth they say) hit myself I will be the goalkeeper, the one that keep his goals - or "the goal-guard-ner" in my own "pocket" so to say - a region where other demand to become domain-owners. I have my small little garden (not a promised "rosegarden" that either - referring to a song from the past) and my two unique "horns" that I never "let down"... ...they're two "flank-men" that never will be forgotten, the posters that now have expanded to 4 x A3-newsposters. The wind on the other hand, have greater wishes to "overthrow the truth" now and then - but that's a homo-lordship with an addiction to the blue ring of wind (an "insider" without a parenthood projects it towards myself). As a "goalie" you "scratch the surface" on what is needed to say - as a true DJ - and the "barfights" are NOT attached to any elephant-nose (listen to the song attached below) - there's a "knife" to behead intrue-doers in a goal-guard-ner's own goalgarden... a knife in size of a mountain in branded clubs like "Mont-Real" or amed that "hoe" as in the "Ko-Ho"-branded one. Here in Italy, nazis has made their presence as the ones that NOT wish myself re-appear up north (in the "collectively unconscienseness") - they say in their "political pamfletts" they wish to "paternalise and send home" foreigners or those who NOT swear allegience to their "king" in parties like Swedish Democrats (SD) - or something like that. It's a constant struggle to "counter-strike" the negativity in swed-ish, "teleporting" (use of a homo-cahannel somewhere), telepathy and telekinesis - the different ways of make/control one as a "Pinocchio-doll"/"Pajas-suit" or being possessed with a homolord's ("king" Herod's) "royal dress", mentioned in the bible's Newer Testament. It's supposed to redicule you outside... ...I, on the other hand, is the one making the humour in my "given" suit - just to put the dolls inside to sleep... or to "night-quarter" them as I mentioned up in London's "Steward's Consession". I love unconditionally my homo-enemies until Death do us part.... that is my mission/purpose, as being a Charon on Styx over to Death's Hades and being "driven" as/into becoming a "chariot of/in fire" in psychiatry. Added 8 of March 2019: I am ONE with my "cage", the-y have put in an videocamera, exchanged the original headjudge (myself) with a newbie who has to go for the judges-booth and look at that old VHS-hitmovie named Sex, Lies and Videotapes... over and over again. This inlay/post was a part of my "complaints" on/to todays "judges" (or to "headjudge" himself) who these modern days aren't that skilled. Like nightly house-interragations by conquistadors from dark ages (tries to collect "wood" are made as branches in size of Harry P's "witch-finger" is called "kvistar" in swedish) - but this door is pretty stubborn as Burger King called it in a humorous way on their "PULL"-sign on their entrance door. Don't pull "Rope" himself though (like in english rope-pulling in a "pig-ditch" as battersea once were), he is from asia and sumo-wrestling in yet another "ring" isn't new to aesir-divinities from upnorth (N-ord) - they herritage from asia. I will say I "landed" in psychiatry back in old dungeon and dragon-times.... avading slavery in the nether regions - slavery is a temptation the "dragon ring" once have made a trio create, in their "wonderous" mechanical patterns. The western astrology's dragon-lure is the scorpio-weakness - let's take the old Bullfighter (the cowboy starsign) from an "unexpected angle" - why not "over his own head" and that poision a scorpio has go towards your head - and are filled with what is knows as black arts - black illnesses included. It's hell geting out of it - I say "good luck to you", these "injections" is now the new threat to the Earths populations - one pattern is to "run it off"... but that is my "unique horn" fighting Capricorn's "aid" to his "black lamb" in psychiatry - and to force that intru-der ("in-truth-dies" in swe) out of my head, where he definitively is UN-invited... those within UN who are believers of "scientism" or "to cut" or "divide" as an UN-conscious (or broken) conscience is, when "-science" is their only/solely conviction/religion. All these above is my "complaints" to above mentioned "headjudge" - who think he's snable-camera is wanted in every cage/chest everywhere. How (except a depletion of psychiatry as the (soft) gingerbread ringformed sugercake remind myself of - one of grandmother's favourites to serve and protect with at the swedish feeka-table from old times, a "Mount Doom-memory" that it's possible to remake) I would fix this I don't know... ...but some "markings" made by Fraud-O and his ring ("crop-circles" for myself as being on my Viking-sleighride at cold war-times) will be his own fault as Professional or "Specialist-" Doctor in state governmental psychological warfares. Even on old Roman grounds... doing some "final acts" according to "a manual" or "usual routines" when a Rudolf is "going down". And he himself NOT being a "clown-believer" - but the "Incredible Houdini" in his own so rest-raining-jacket... under my ice skating rink level. Then in his "mirror-image-world" of his own man/mouse-af-fair in a "sockel", in a house's ground or under the "stairway/stepstool" from another mother (JK Rowling's "adoptive one" maybe). Over and out! 250 Kg Kaerlek/Love - Naken/Nude https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EHNcK7mglN4 LYRICS ENG I was iceskating beneath The Westbridge in belief that the ice was thick but so wasn't the case so I went down in a hole in the ice when I lay there and cried a dude came I cried to him "-Help me up!" but was not what he did. He undressed himself to nudity and jumped down into my "icy hole" And he said: -Oh, oh, it feels so good to be nude to swing the snable and "wag the dog" ...(more "transference" to come) LYRICS SWE Jag åkte skridskor under västerbron i tron att isen var tjock men det var den inte, så jag plumsa ner i en vak När jag låg där och skrek så kom en man Jag ropa "Hjälp mig opp!" men det gjorde inte han. Han klädde av sig naken och hoppa ner i vaken. Och sa: åh, åh vad det är skönt å va naken Svänga me snabeln och vicka pa baken En sommarkväll hade vårat gäng fest vid stadens simbassäng. Alla var glada, nakna och fulla. En del var faktiskt jättefulla. Men när vi tömde bassängen och fyllde på med isen för att kyla bärsen, ja då kom polisen. Och dom haffa miiig. Dom sa "Dig håller vi kvar, får vi höra ditt försvar?" jag sa: åh, åh vad det är skönt å va naken Svänga me snabeln och vicka på baken Jag åkte till Åland å handla sprit å då åkte jag dit i tullen Dom trodde visst jag var terrorist och letade långt upp i tarmen. Ett finger gick ju bra, men inte hela armen. Å dom hitta lite grann, så dom leta lite mer Så frågar dom varför jag står här och ler? Jag svara: åh, åh vad det är skönt å va naken Svänga me snabeln och vicka på baken åh, åh vad det ar skönt å va naken Svänga me snabeln och vicka på... Åhhh, åhh, åhhhhhh... Åh, åh vad det är skönt å va naken Svänga me snabeln och vicka på baken

[notestonadia]

A Note on Intelligence

Nadia, will you be smart?

As you grow and develop, as your inclinations and interests begin to shine through the clouds of toddlerhood tantrums and cast light and shadows over your everyday actions, this seems like a very natural question to ask. Every parent wants their child to end up being “smart,” right? Even Forrest Gump had a vested interest:

But before we run with Forrest’s question, we should ask—is it even the right question?

When I was a teacher, I presented the idea of multiple-intelligences to my students. The concept behind this is that intelligence is not binary. You’re not either “smart” or “dumb” in an absolute sense. Instead, intelligence exists on a wavelength, with peaks and valleys and no average altitude that defines what you’re capable of.

It’s a nice idea. It’s an elevated concept (HAHA). But teaching it and believing it are two different summits to climb.

And maybe I’m still at base camp, but I really think I’m ready to start the trek. I think we all may need to start gazing upward to a place where we can meet at the top.

With this theory of multiple intelligences, there are still head starts. Some people are still going to be inclined (this metaphor is contrived, I know, but I swear I didn’t try to do this one) towards some areas over others. But the beauty of the multiple intelligences theory is that A) if you have weaknesses in one area, you can make it up with strengths in others, and B) You can always improve in every area.

So how’s it looking so far, Nadia? 

Verbal-Linguistic Intelligence (Word-Smart)

So, Nadia, you don’t really like books. Like, you tolerate them. We’ve made reading books a part of your bedtime routine, so you accept it as a part of life. But if you have free time and a choice about what you want to do, picking up a book and reading it is never one of your choices.

It makes me, as a parent, and as a former English teacher, feel a little self-conscious. After all, I’ve seen so many other parents post pictures of their kids mangling books with the caption, “OMG, SHE LOVES BOOKS SO MUCH!” 

Which can lead to only two conclusions:

1. That kid really likes books. 2. That parent is lying.

Really, the truth of the above is inconsequential. It’s more about the awareness of the parent (Self-Smart reference #1) than it is about the ability of the child.

I want you to love to read...I really do. But it’s not really something that can be forced. Also, Verbal-Linguistic Intelligence is about WAY more than just reading. It’s about vocabulary, memorization, and making up stories. And you can make up a hell of a story with “poop” at every twist and turn. 

Logical-Mathematical Intelligence (Number-Smart)

It’s interesting that this intelligence is associated with “numbers.” It makes you think that an accountant, for example, represents the exemplar of this intelligence.

But really, it’s more than that. Sure, you can count to 30, or maybe even 40 (you skip 15 a lot, for some reason). But this isn’t about knowing your numbers--it’s more about using logic to know how one step leads to another step--and then being able to explain the relation between those steps. 

A kid that can count isn’t “number smart”--that’s just memorization. (Self-Smart reference #2). But a kid that understands what those numbers mean and can apply them to everyday situations IS. At that point, you’re using logic--not memorization. 

You seem to be pretty astute at this, Nadia. You work through little puzzles in your head all the time in order to arrive at the conclusion that it was Daddy’s fault. And you’re usually right.

Spatial Intelligence (Picture-Smart)

I have some high hopes for you here, despite the fact that this may be one of my lowest intelligences.

Of course, there are two sides to the genetic coin--and when you flip it, sometimes you get heads or tails...The coin doesn’t suspend upright on its edge.

I’ll often walk into a room, and your mother will just be staring at nothing. When I ask her what she’s doing, she’ll say: “Visualizing.”

So, this intelligence isn’t necessarily just about being able to draw, paint, sculpt, or whatever--it’s more about being able to picture something that isn’t already there. (Self-Smart reference #3)

When your mom asks me to look at the blank wall that she’s staring at, she’ll say, “What do you see?”

And I’ll say, “I see a fucking wall.”

But to her, she sees frames, and wasted spaces, and opportunities. 

I think your ability as a builder might mean that you have some natural talent here. You love using your blocks to build structures that I wouldn’t have ever dreamed of, constructing patterns that just seem to make sense. 

Your artwork kind of sucks, to be super honest. But your visualization seems to suggest that you’ve hopefully got some of your mother’s abilities.

Bodily-Kinesthetic Intelligence (Sports-Smart)

I remember when you were barely two, we took you to a park with a soccer ball. We couldn’t believe when you just took off running, dribbling the soccer ball with one foot in stride. You didn’t stumble, and you displayed this natural, untaught ability to keep the ball near your foot as you moved exceptionally fast.

So, logically, we signed you up for soccer at your school.

You hated soccer.

Well, that’s not fair. I don’t think you hated soccer. You loved that freedom of just running and dribbling a ball with no intended goal. What you hated was the rules and discipline that came with soccer.

At your school, soccer isn’t about dribbling, or kicking, or really any ball-related skill. It’s about freezing or sitting on your ball when the coach blows a whistle. Sports, at an early age, are about discipline, rather than the body motions that go along with playing that sport.

I think that also relates to the other sports we’ve signed you up for--dance, gymnastics, and even yoga.

I’m not saying that discipline is a bad thing. I’m just saying this is a mix of intelligences. In order to show that you are good at a sport at a young age, you also have to display some ability to follow directions, which is an entirely different type of intelligence. (Self-Smart reference #4)

So the fact that you don’t want to play soccer doesn’t mean that you won’t be good at soccer. We’ll let you decide.

Musical Intelligence (Music-Smart)

You really don’t have a lot to work with, here. Not genetically.

Not long ago, you were staging a fake birthday party for...I think, a toilet...And you sang “Happy Birthday” to that toilet.

After hearing you sing, I remember remarking, “Awww, Nadia, you sing just like your mother!” This is exactly the kind of snarky-ass, passive aggressive “compliment” that adults give to their unknowing kids. Don’t knock it. It really is one of our only guilty, mostly harmless, pleasures.

And me...well, by now, when you’re reading this, hopefully you’ve gotten to enjoy a number of my “birthday songs” that I’ve written and performed for you.

But you should know a few things:

Writing and performing these songs is HARD for me. It is not something that comes natural for me.

Also, I have no problem admitting that these songs are objectively bad. The key is off, the musical pacing is horrendous, and the final result of putting the voice/instruments together has often been laughably terrible.

But this goes back to an earlier point I tried to make: You CAN improve at something if you really have the desire to--even if it’s something you’re not naturally talented at. In the nature-nurture debate, I’ve always tended to side a little more strongly on the nature side--you’re born, genetically, with a certain set of skills, and those may provide the playdough that shapes the person you ultimately become. But that in no way means you can’t get some dough from another can and see what you can make of it. 

Listen--every teenager thinks they’re “music-smart.” We adorn our Myspace accounts (just a super obscure reference for you to look up) with statements like “MUSIC IS LYFE”, as if that means that we could be musicians in a future life.

But liking music and being “good” at it are two different things. Being honest with yourself can lead to how much you decide to pursue something like music (Self-Smart reference #5)

Naturalist Intelligence (Nature-Smart)

This is a fun juxtaposition to the previous section. With music, I made the argument that you can be “bad” at something, but improve at it if you have the interest.

Just know that if you are naturally bad at something, and you also don’t have the interest, it’s okay to just suck at that thing.

That’s where I’m at with this intelligence.

Gardening? Nah. Cooking? That’s what Grubhub was invented for. (Self-Smart reference #6)

But just in case you’re interested in this kind of intelligence, know that your mother is working her ass off to be a guiding example. It’s not something she’s exactly naturally inclined to. I once told your mother that our house is where plants go to die.

And as for something like cooking. You recently told your mother, “Mom, you shouldn’t cook anymore, because you burnt yourself. You should let dad cook.”

But to your mother’s credit, she has continued cooking, and she’s getting a lot better at it, despite some potential genetic deficiencies. I once told her that she had effectively ruined fish for me. But since then, she has made some fish dishes that were absolutely edible. 

Hope abounds. And for you--who knows. Maybe even if you don’t feel like working too hard at this, maybe genetics skips a generation and you’ll get your Grampy’s natural ability. You already seem in tune with nature--whether it’s your love for flowers, caterpillars, or animals. Do what you will, my little nature girl.

Interpersonal Intelligence (People-Smart)

Nadia, you’re awkward af. It’s fine, though. You’re only three. These are skills that you can develop over time.

To be real, developing this intelligence makes me a little nervous.

In its best form, high levels of Interpersonal Intelligence leads to people who are great communicators--leaders who use their affability to create positive change.

In its worst form, high levels of Interpersonal Intelligence leads to being a bully: People who can read others and exploit them. People who use charm and affability for nefarious causes.

You have some interesting examples to deal with: Your mom, who is an introverted extrovert: Someone who isn’t naturally gifted at gab, but who is interested in meeting and conversing with people in order to learn more.

And, your dad: An extroverted introvert: Someone who has the natural ability of public speaking and making personal connections, but who would rather stay home and watch stupid-ass sports on TV instead of interacting with anyone. (Self-Smart reference #7)

I’m interested in seeing what happens to you in regards to this intelligence. Despite my nature-based leanings, this ability does seem to be something that can be taught (or, observed, I guess) as  as opposed to inherited. Let’s check back in 10 years and see how much time you’re spending in your room.

Intrapersonal Intelligence (Self-Smart)

I saved this intelligence for last, because in my mind, it may be the most crucial of all the intelligences. 

As you’ve seen in the references I’ve inserted above, I really feel like this intelligence informs and enables all of the other intelligences.

The other quirky thing about this intelligence is that it presents a paradox:

The more you’re sure you have this intelligence, the less likely that you actually have it.

If you ask people a question like, “How well do you know yourself?”, the people who are quick to yell, “REALLY WELL!” are the people who may not actually be that self-smart.

If you have high levels of Intrapersonal Intelligence, it means that you question yourself daily. You spend a considerable amount of time pondering the decisions that you’ve made and thinking about whether they were the right choices.

It seems like an intelligence that is severely lacking in our world today. And I get it. Constant reflection can be uncomfortable. It’s easier to just move forward and ignore the mirrors, literal and metaphorical, that you inevitably pass in your everyday life.

And the other thing is that of all the intelligences, Intrapersonal Intelligence might be the hardest to measure. You can take IQ tests that measure your Verbal, Logical, and Spatial intelligences. You can be pretty sure whether you’re a good athlete based on the trophies you accumulate, and you can be confident in your musical abilities based on the applause you get after performances. You can judge your natural abilities by the lushness of your garden, or your people abilities by the number of friends you have.

Though the above measures aren’t totally indicative of your ability, they’re at least a glimpse.

But how do you measure whether you’re “Self-Smart?” There isn’t a test for that. There isn’t a reliable metric.

Also, of all the intelligences, it’s unclear how much of a role genetics have in Intrapersonal Intelligence. Is it something you inherit? Or is it something you have to work on?

I’m not sure. I’m really not. But I know that improving how well you know yourself is super important in understanding what you’re capable of--it helps you know what you might want to pursue as you decide to be who you want to be.

So here are some tips:

1. Spend some time reflecting every day. Am I happy with the decisions I made today? Do I regret the way I acted in any moment? 2. Ensure that the ideas and beliefs that you endorse actually conform with your core beliefs as a human. For example, if you support a person that wants to make it harder for disadvantaged people to get ahead in life, does that reflect your core beliefs about helping the poor?  3. If you examine yourself and realize you’ve done something wrong, be willing to address that wrong, OR apologize for your actions. There is no time limit on this...You can apologize days, weeks, or even years later. This is super hard, but it is vital. I had a close friend once apologize for an argument we’d been in years before--he told me he was wrong, and he was sorry. I wasn’t holding this argument against this friend...It had been long forgotten. But the fact that he brought it up said so much about him...It meant he had done some self-reflection, and he wanted to come clean with himself. It wasn’t really so much about our friendship--we would have been friends whether or not he opened up that old, forgotten wound--but it was more about coming to terms with something he regretted. 

So, apologize to people, even long after the event. Not for them--but for you.

Now, you can’t obsess over every wrong thing you’ve done in your life. It would drive you crazy. You can’t hunt down every stranger you may have somehow offended to make things right. But you can come to terms with it in your own mind and send unreceived apologies out into the universe, even if it’s for your own sake.

For example...Manager of the Marco’s Pizza, I’m sorry I chewed you out when my online order had been deleted and my pizza wasn’t ready. I should have handled that situation much more elegantly.

Nadia--I hope you aren’t  too confused by this post somewhat contradictory message. There’s a bit of cognitive dissonance to try and do these two things at once:

1. Evaluate you on your current progress of these different intelligences at only three years old, and 2. Declare that these intelligences are something that can be learned, gained, and improved upon as you progress through your life.

So, yeah...Your daddy is a jackass. (Self-Smart reference #8)

But what I want you to gain most from this post is to look at yourself, and others, as more than “smart” or “dumb.”

We should all endeavor to start looking at intelligence as something that is a sum of all parts--and even the total sum doesn’t decide your worth.

Instead of labeling people as “smart,” consider calling people “thoughtful, logical, creative, reflective, intuitive, bold, resourceful, and engaging.”

And before calling someone “dumb”...well, take a long, deep look at yourself and think about what makes that person different from you. (Self-Smart reference #9)

[anabelle-robinson]

I’ve been tagged <3

Rules: Tag 20 followers you wanna know better.

Tagged by: @moomuffns

Name: Anabelle.

Nicknames: Ana, Ani.

Gender: Female even though I sometimes wish I was a man - not because I identify as one, but because I think they often live an easier life... I’m definitely tired of having terrible cramps every month during and before my period, and being viewed as the ‘weaker’ sex just because- Why again? If I don’t wear makeup, I’m ugly. If I don’t shave my legs, I’m the grossest human being alive. If I’m a virgin, I’m prudish and unattractive. If I sleep around, I’m a whore. People fear women in power. But women are in no way inferior to men and if anyone says so, be sure to kick them in their balls - because that apparently hurts more than pushing a baby out of your body >.>

Star Sign: Capricorn through and through!

Height: About 1,66 m even though I hope to grow a little taller. I love girls who are both tall and skinny! :D

Sexual Orientation: Straight.

Hogwarts House: Sorry, don’t know :D

Favorite Color: Don’t make me decide :(

Favorite Animal: Dogs. But I also love elephants, whales and koalas :3 Every animal is beautiful! ;-; Except like spiders and stuff D:

Time Right Now: 18:15 or 6:15 pm.

Cat or Dog person: Dog all the way!

Favorite Fictional Character: Nefera de Nile :)

Number of blankets I sleep with: One.

Favorite Singer/Band: I love Melanie Martinez’ music and her style, but she’s by far not the only person whose music I enjoy!

Dream Trip: Egypt!!! It’s my life goal to go there at least once in my life and dive into their ancient culture and history! Standing in front of a real pyramid - which was build excatly where I stand thousands of years ago - would be a very emotional moment for me! I would take a boat across the Nile and think about the peasants and nobles who have done so centuries ago! Ancient Egypt fascinates me more than anything in life.

Dream Job: For me personally, journalist. I want to write for the news paper when I’m older. A general dream job is - in my opinion - always doctor. I admire people who are smart and capable enough to be doctors or even surgeons!! It’s something you have to be born for. People who save lives every day deserve so much respect!

When Was Your Blog Created: 2012 or 2013 on a Saturday night.

Current Number of followers: 570, yaay! :)

Why did you make this Tumblr: It’s a long story... I was on Google looking for pictures of Cleo and Deuce when I found a drawing which I clicked on only because I wanted to take a closer look. It brought me on a Tumblr blog which RPed as Cleo and Deuce. As silly and excited as I was, I messaged them immediately and made a blog for the simple reason not to be an anon to them xD I wanted to not post anything on my blog, thinking I wouldn’t get followers anyway (I’m incredibly unpopular in general). But a few days or months later I saw a really relatable post about Cleo and Deuce and just had to reblog it! I scrolled down on my dash and found some nice pictures which I reblogged too now that my blog wasn’t empty anymore. And well... That’s how it all started :D

Why did you pick your url: It’s my name. I’d love to choose a different URL, though. Sdaly, I don’t have an idea :( Someone willing to advise me? :P

Tagging: @golden-boyxx, @juria, @happyunicornperson, @deemingambition :)

[newestbalance]

Raheem Sterling’s Gun Tattoo Fuels U.K. Tabloid Outrage

LONDON — He has said he has the kind of face that people just don’t like — “the ‘I don’t like face’” — and, in the past few days, quite a few people have tried to prove him right in what seems a peculiarly British cocktail of race, envy and, of course, tabloid newspapers.

Raheem Sterling, 23, ranks among the most contentious, skilled and expensive of players in English soccer — a game that conjures a national near-zealotry that other sports can rarely match.

For some he is the perennial bad boy, alternately overpaid and profligate or meanspirited and tightfisted, depending on the story du jour. For others he is a role model for young black Britons of bootstraps-up achievement.

But, this week, when he was photographed in The Sun displaying a new addition to his many tattoos, representing what looked like an American military assault rifle on his right lower leg, the furor kicked into a higher gear.

That was not altogether surprising. The World Cup soccer tournament is set to start in Russia in a few weeks, and Mr. Sterling is a member of the England squad for which expectations run high, even though the country has not won the every-four-years joust since 1966.

“Raheem Shoots Himself in Foot,” a headline in The Sun said, inspiring talk on radio chat shows of whether he should withdraw from the England team.

Over many years, it has been the habit — or the sport — of British coverage to build up star players simply to knock them down again. “Unique to this country to attempt to destroy our players’ morale before a major tournament,” said Gary Lineker, a former soccer player who is now a high-profile television sports anchor, said on Twitter. “It’s weird, unpatriotic and sad.”

In recent times, Mr. Sterling, who plays for the Premier League champions, Manchester City, has featured in tabloid stories criticizing the hours he keeps, the cars he drives and the junk food he has been seen to consume.

He has been criticized for buying his mother a house, for flying on a budget airline when he is paid hundreds of thousands of dollars a month and for chartering a private jet.

Image

Mr. Sterling has explained the tattoo by saying, “My father died from being gunned down to death. I made a promise to myself that I would never touch a gun in my lifetime.”CreditOli Scarff/Agence France-Presse — Getty Images

“I’ve got that face,” he said in an interview with The Guardian newspaper last year. “You know when you see someone on TV and go, ‘I don’t like him?’ Some people have that face and I’ve got it. I can’t do anything about it. I’ve just got face: He looks like a brat. The ‘I don’t like face.’ That’s how I see it. And I’m not a brat. Sometimes I’m watching a movie and you see a character and go, ‘I don’t like him’ — that’s me.”

He has explained the image by saying in a statement that “when I was 2, my father died from being gunned down to death. I made a promise to myself that I would never touch a gun in my lifetime.”

That episode happened when he was growing up in Jamaica before moving to North London. And, he has pointed out, the tattoo is on the same right leg as he uses to kick the ball into the goal with such deftness and regularity as to make him an important part of the England squad. “I shoot with my right foot so it has a deeper meanings,” he said.

But, of course, the latest controversy resonates much further at a time when the United States is seized with controversy over ownership of versions of the weapon Mr. Sterling displays on his leg.

Activists opposed to gun ownership in Britain, which has much stricter rules than the United States and almost no experience with mass killings, have criticized him as glorifying automatic weapons.

The Sun interviewed the father of Damilola Taylor, a 10-year-old boy from Nigeria killed in a stabbing attack in London in 2000, who accused the soccer player of recklessly glamorizing “a gun culture that is claiming the lives of youngsters.”

There have been calls for Mr. Sterling to have the tattoo removed. On Twitter, Piers Morgan, a former tabloid newspaper editor who is now a television host, took issue with “the howling virtue-signalling Twitter PC mob” as being out of touch with popular sentiment about the tattoo.

“You can take the Editor out of the tabloid,” Mr. Lineker, the ex-player, snapped back. “But you can never take the tabloid out of the Editor.”

The sub-theme is, of course, the corrosive issue of race.

“The routes out of poverty are very scarce for the young, working-class black man,” Maurice Mcleod, a columnist, wrote in The Guardian on Wednesday. “Sport, music and entertainment do provide a path for the select few. The narrative reserved for those who make it, though, often sounds a lot like, ‘We have let you in, now don’t do anything that makes us regret it.’”

And on Tuesday, The Manchester Evening News quoted a sports journalist, Paul McCarthy, as saying there “is a section of society that utterly resents a young black kid for being hugely successful and being rewarded for that. Look at all the times there is a reference to ‘bling’ and ‘flash’ when anything is written about Sterling.”

“Then ask yourself whether the same would be written about a white player?” the journalist wrote. “It’s not overtly racist, it’s just that insidious feeling that someone like Sterling is fair game and that he should accept this kind of treatment.”

The post Raheem Sterling’s Gun Tattoo Fuels U.K. Tabloid Outrage appeared first on World The News.

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[dani-qrt]

Raheem Sterling’s Gun Tattoo Fuels U.K. Tabloid Outrage

LONDON — He has said he has the kind of face that people just don’t like — “the ‘I don’t like face’” — and, in the past few days, quite a few people have tried to prove him right in what seems a peculiarly British cocktail of race, envy and, of course, tabloid newspapers.

Raheem Sterling, 23, ranks among the most contentious, skilled and expensive of players in English soccer — a game that conjures a national near-zealotry that other sports can rarely match.

For some he is the perennial bad boy, alternately overpaid and profligate or meanspirited and tightfisted, depending on the story du jour. For others he is a role model for young black Britons of bootstraps-up achievement.

But, this week, when he was photographed in The Sun displaying a new addition to his many tattoos, representing what looked like an American military assault rifle on his right lower leg, the furor kicked into a higher gear.

That was not altogether surprising. The World Cup soccer tournament is set to start in Russia in a few weeks, and Mr. Sterling is a member of the England squad for which expectations run high, even though the country has not won the every-four-years joust since 1966.

“Raheem Shoots Himself in Foot,” a headline in The Sun said, inspiring talk on radio chat shows of whether he should withdraw from the England team.

Over many years, it has been the habit — or the sport — of British coverage to build up star players simply to knock them down again. “Unique to this country to attempt to destroy our players’ morale before a major tournament,” said Gary Lineker, a former soccer player who is now a high-profile television sports anchor, said on Twitter. “It’s weird, unpatriotic and sad.”

In recent times, Mr. Sterling, who plays for the Premier League champions, Manchester City, has featured in tabloid stories criticizing the hours he keeps, the cars he drives and the junk food he has been seen to consume.

He has been criticized for buying his mother a house, for flying on a budget airline when he is paid hundreds of thousands of dollars a month and for chartering a private jet.

Image

Mr. Sterling has explained the tattoo by saying, “My father died from being gunned down to death. I made a promise to myself that I would never touch a gun in my lifetime.”CreditOli Scarff/Agence France-Presse — Getty Images

“I’ve got that face,” he said in an interview with The Guardian newspaper last year. “You know when you see someone on TV and go, ‘I don’t like him?’ Some people have that face and I’ve got it. I can’t do anything about it. I’ve just got face: He looks like a brat. The ‘I don’t like face.’ That’s how I see it. And I’m not a brat. Sometimes I’m watching a movie and you see a character and go, ‘I don’t like him’ — that’s me.”

He has explained the image by saying in a statement that “when I was 2, my father died from being gunned down to death. I made a promise to myself that I would never touch a gun in my lifetime.”

That episode happened when he was growing up in Jamaica before moving to North London. And, he has pointed out, the tattoo is on the same right leg as he uses to kick the ball into the goal with such deftness and regularity as to make him an important part of the England squad. “I shoot with my right foot so it has a deeper meanings,” he said.

But, of course, the latest controversy resonates much further at a time when the United States is seized with controversy over ownership of versions of the weapon Mr. Sterling displays on his leg.

Activists opposed to gun ownership in Britain, which has much stricter rules than the United States and almost no experience with mass killings, have criticized him as glorifying automatic weapons.

The Sun interviewed the father of Damilola Taylor, a 10-year-old boy from Nigeria killed in a stabbing attack in London in 2000, who accused the soccer player of recklessly glamorizing “a gun culture that is claiming the lives of youngsters.”

There have been calls for Mr. Sterling to have the tattoo removed. On Twitter, Piers Morgan, a former tabloid newspaper editor who is now a television host, took issue with “the howling virtue-signalling Twitter PC mob” as being out of touch with popular sentiment about the tattoo.

“You can take the Editor out of the tabloid,” Mr. Lineker, the ex-player, snapped back. “But you can never take the tabloid out of the Editor.”

The sub-theme is, of course, the corrosive issue of race.

“The routes out of poverty are very scarce for the young, working-class black man,” Maurice Mcleod, a columnist, wrote in The Guardian on Wednesday. “Sport, music and entertainment do provide a path for the select few. The narrative reserved for those who make it, though, often sounds a lot like, ‘We have let you in, now don’t do anything that makes us regret it.’”

And on Tuesday, The Manchester Evening News quoted a sports journalist, Paul McCarthy, as saying there “is a section of society that utterly resents a young black kid for being hugely successful and being rewarded for that. Look at all the times there is a reference to ‘bling’ and ‘flash’ when anything is written about Sterling.”

“Then ask yourself whether the same would be written about a white player?” the journalist wrote. “It’s not overtly racist, it’s just that insidious feeling that someone like Sterling is fair game and that he should accept this kind of treatment.”

The post Raheem Sterling’s Gun Tattoo Fuels U.K. Tabloid Outrage appeared first on World The News.

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[party-hard-or-die]

Raheem Sterling’s Gun Tattoo Fuels U.K. Tabloid Outrage

LONDON — He has said he has the kind of face that people just don’t like — “the ‘I don’t like face’” — and, in the past few days, quite a few people have tried to prove him right in what seems a peculiarly British cocktail of race, envy and, of course, tabloid newspapers.

Raheem Sterling, 23, ranks among the most contentious, skilled and expensive of players in English soccer — a game that conjures a national near-zealotry that other sports can rarely match.

For some he is the perennial bad boy, alternately overpaid and profligate or meanspirited and tightfisted, depending on the story du jour. For others he is a role model for young black Britons of bootstraps-up achievement.

But, this week, when he was photographed in The Sun displaying a new addition to his many tattoos, representing what looked like an American military assault rifle on his right lower leg, the furor kicked into a higher gear.

That was not altogether surprising. The World Cup soccer tournament is set to start in Russia in a few weeks, and Mr. Sterling is a member of the England squad for which expectations run high, even though the country has not won the every-four-years joust since 1966.

“Raheem Shoots Himself in Foot,” a headline in The Sun said, inspiring talk on radio chat shows of whether he should withdraw from the England team.

Over many years, it has been the habit — or the sport — of British coverage to build up star players simply to knock them down again. “Unique to this country to attempt to destroy our players’ morale before a major tournament,” said Gary Lineker, a former soccer player who is now a high-profile television sports anchor, said on Twitter. “It’s weird, unpatriotic and sad.”

In recent times, Mr. Sterling, who plays for the Premier League champions, Manchester City, has featured in tabloid stories criticizing the hours he keeps, the cars he drives and the junk food he has been seen to consume.

He has been criticized for buying his mother a house, for flying on a budget airline when he is paid hundreds of thousands of dollars a month and for chartering a private jet.

Image

Mr. Sterling has explained the tattoo by saying, “My father died from being gunned down to death. I made a promise to myself that I would never touch a gun in my lifetime.”CreditOli Scarff/Agence France-Presse — Getty Images

“I’ve got that face,” he said in an interview with The Guardian newspaper last year. “You know when you see someone on TV and go, ‘I don’t like him?’ Some people have that face and I’ve got it. I can’t do anything about it. I’ve just got face: He looks like a brat. The ‘I don’t like face.’ That’s how I see it. And I’m not a brat. Sometimes I’m watching a movie and you see a character and go, ‘I don’t like him’ — that’s me.”

He has explained the image by saying in a statement that “when I was 2, my father died from being gunned down to death. I made a promise to myself that I would never touch a gun in my lifetime.”

That episode happened when he was growing up in Jamaica before moving to North London. And, he has pointed out, the tattoo is on the same right leg as he uses to kick the ball into the goal with such deftness and regularity as to make him an important part of the England squad. “I shoot with my right foot so it has a deeper meanings,” he said.

But, of course, the latest controversy resonates much further at a time when the United States is seized with controversy over ownership of versions of the weapon Mr. Sterling displays on his leg.

Activists opposed to gun ownership in Britain, which has much stricter rules than the United States and almost no experience with mass killings, have criticized him as glorifying automatic weapons.

The Sun interviewed the father of Damilola Taylor, a 10-year-old boy from Nigeria killed in a stabbing attack in London in 2000, who accused the soccer player of recklessly glamorizing “a gun culture that is claiming the lives of youngsters.”

There have been calls for Mr. Sterling to have the tattoo removed. On Twitter, Piers Morgan, a former tabloid newspaper editor who is now a television host, took issue with “the howling virtue-signalling Twitter PC mob” as being out of touch with popular sentiment about the tattoo.

“You can take the Editor out of the tabloid,” Mr. Lineker, the ex-player, snapped back. “But you can never take the tabloid out of the Editor.”

The sub-theme is, of course, the corrosive issue of race.

“The routes out of poverty are very scarce for the young, working-class black man,” Maurice Mcleod, a columnist, wrote in The Guardian on Wednesday. “Sport, music and entertainment do provide a path for the select few. The narrative reserved for those who make it, though, often sounds a lot like, ‘We have let you in, now don’t do anything that makes us regret it.’”

And on Tuesday, The Manchester Evening News quoted a sports journalist, Paul McCarthy, as saying there “is a section of society that utterly resents a young black kid for being hugely successful and being rewarded for that. Look at all the times there is a reference to ‘bling’ and ‘flash’ when anything is written about Sterling.”

“Then ask yourself whether the same would be written about a white player?” the journalist wrote. “It’s not overtly racist, it’s just that insidious feeling that someone like Sterling is fair game and that he should accept this kind of treatment.”

The post Raheem Sterling’s Gun Tattoo Fuels U.K. Tabloid Outrage appeared first on World The News.

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