#POOR

[warrioroflight5000]

[housedellamort]

Hey, I get why some people want Lucanis and Rook to have an easy time after the game's events, however Lucanis' life is, fundamentally, a telenovela.

Anyway what I'm trying to say is: tag all the reasons Caterina Dellamorte doesn't like your Rook and would disapprove of their relationship.

[democracyunderground]

$1 TRILLION LESS FOR THE POOR

$1 TRILLION MORE FOR THE RICH

[life-imitates-art-far-more]

Carl Spitzweg (1808-1885) "The Poor Poet" (1839) Oil on canvas Biedermeier

[miintlxtte]

I don't like to get political but I don't fucking care. get. angry. riot. yell. tell those you know. boycott. la migra. this is INSANE. we are closer and closer to 1940 everyday. we live in an oligarchy. billionaires shouldn't be in politics or EXIST. millionaires are closer to homelessness than becoming a billionaire. it was never, EVER red vs blue it has always and will always be top vs bottom. we are larger than the top 1%. I don't fucking care about your thoughts on trans people or immigrants. the government is actively avoiding raising the minimum wage. trump very clearly pulled a publicity stunt by bringing tiktok back. the ENTIRE tiktok ban was a ploy. stop falling for it.they are trying to take our voice away. don't kiss the boot that kicked you in the first place. I will never stop using my voice. GET ANGRY. billionaires DO NOT care about you. their is no moral billionaire. there is noethical way to get that much fucking money. I am sharing this everywhere I can. I beg you. use your voice.

[yellowsheart]

IT'S NOT PITY, dumbass!

KATSUKI BAKUGOU X POOR FEM! READER

SECOND PARTS

MASTERLIST OF ATHENA

A/C: Hi, this is my new story! When I was young (the first year at high school), my parents have some money issues, and I feel very bad about that situationship. And even today, the money issues of my parents blocks me to live my life! I always imaginated some Katsuki Bakugou (not him, just random people that can help me)! I remember my father couldn't buy me glasses, so for months I had to pretend I could see well and squinted, making my myopia worse!

themes: the Reader is poor, blowjob, fingers, suggestively, Katsuki is very protective. All the characters are at the legal age!

synopsis: YN is very poor. Her father works tirelessly to pay the bills. Lily is ashamed of her situation, especially when the only one who notices her discomfort is her crush, Katsuki Bakugou.

Katsuki Bakugou sat slouched on a bench near the training field, sipping from a water bottle, his eyes scanning the courtyard without really looking — until he caught sight of her again.

YN YL.

She walked with her usual quiet steps, her oversized uniform sleeves falling well past her wrists, the fabric worn thin at the edges. She clutched a worn textbook tightly to her chest like it was the only armor she had. Her hair was tied back loosely, probably rushed that morning. No lunchbox. No snacks. And just like the last few weeks — no stop at the cafeteria.

He frowned, squinting.

She always slipped out during lunch. Always. And today, again, she hadn’t touched anything. He noticed. He wasn’t the only one who did — but unlike the rest, he paid attention for a reason he didn’t fully understand.

She was so damn quiet. Too quiet. And too skinny.

Katsuki stood abruptly, stuffing his water bottle in his bag and walking toward her. He hated this — hated how his feet moved on their own when it came to her.

YN didn’t see him until he was right in front of her.

“Oi.”

She startled slightly and looked up, blinking. -“B-Bakugou…”-

He scowled. “What the hell’s your deal?”

She looked confused. “Huh?”

“You didn’t eat. Again.”

YN froze, clutching her book a little tighter. “I-I’m not hungry.”

“Bullshit.” His voice was sharp but low. “You’ve been ‘not hungry’ for two weeks straight.” She averted her gaze. “I just… don’t like eating with people.”

“Tch. Liar. You think I don’t notice? You think I’m some dumbass stupid?”

There was a pause. She looked like she might cry, and it pissed him off — not because she was weak, but because he didn’t know how to fix the tightness in his chest.

“Look, I’m not judging you,” he muttered, softer this time. “I just… noticed, alright?”

YN took a breath and looked at him. “It’s not something I want to talk about.”

He stared at her — really stared. The way the hem of her skirt was frayed. The loose buttons on her blouse. The way her shoes were more patched than leather. He clenched his jaw.

“You have a job?”

She blinked in surprise. “How did—?”

“You come in every morning tired as shit. Your hands are always dry from soap. Don’t need to be a damn genius to figure it out.”

She looked away, cheeks flushing in shame. “My dad works three jobs. We don’t really have money. I only got into U.A. because of a scholarship. I… I’m trying not to be a burden.”

Bakugou felt something twist in his gut. The way she said it — like she was apologizing for existing.

“Stupid,” he muttered.

“What?”

“You shouldn’t have to do that alone.”

“I don’t want pity—”

“This ain’t pity.”

She fell silent.Bakugou shoved a small wrapped onigiri into her hands. “Eat.”

She looked at it, stunned. “I—what—?”

“I brought extra. So just shut up and eat it before I throw it at you.”

“…Thank you,” she whispered, eyes lowering to the food.

He rubbed the back of his neck, grumbling. “You skip meals again, I’ll find out. And I’m not lettin’ you starve just because everyone else here is too rich and stupid to notice you.”

A tiny smile curved on her lips, the first real one he’d seen on her face in days. And damn it — it made his chest feel tight all over again.

TIMESKIP

Katsuki leaned against the wall, arms crossed, pretending not to watch the way YN limped ever so slightly as she walked past. He’d seen it earlier that morning too — barely noticeable unless you were really paying attention.

Which he was. Again.

Her steps were uneven. Slower. And her left foot kept turning in just a little. He didn’t like it.

“Oi,” he barked.

YN froze mid-step. “Y-Yeah?”

“Come here.”

She hesitated. “I… I have class.”

“You’re limping.”

“I’m not.”

His eyes narrowed. “Don’t lie to me.”

She clutched her books tighter and looked away. “It’s nothing. Just sore from training.”

He stalked toward her, and she instinctively backed up until her back hit the wall. Her eyes widened as he crouched down suddenly and grabbed her ankle.

“K-Katsuki—wait! Don’t—!” she gasped, trying to pull away. “It’s fine, really—!”

“Shut it.”

With a scowl, he tugged her shoe off despite her protests. The sole was barely attached, flapping loosely. But what hit him harder was the sight of her sock — torn at the toe, her skin red and slightly swollen.

“…What the hell?” he muttered under his breath, voice tight.

YN squirmed “Please give it back—”

“You sprained it,” he said flatly. “Didn’t you.”

She didn’t answer. He looked up at her, still crouched. “How long?”

“…Three days,” she mumbled, embarrassed. “I slipped at work. It’s not that bad.”

“Bullshit.” His voice was low, almost dangerous. “It’s swollen.”

“I didn’t have a choice! I can’t afford to get it looked at,” she snapped, the words rushing out like she’d been holding them in for too long. “Recovery Girl’s gone and… and I can’t pay for ointments or wraps, okay? I’ll be fine. I just need to—”

“Shut. Up.”

She blinked, startled.

“You’re not fine,” he growled, standing up again, still holding her ruined shoe in one hand. “You’re limping around this damn school like it’s nothing, with a sprained ankle and socks that look like they’re from five years ago.”

“I am fine!” she snapped back, but her voice cracked, more from shame than anger. “I have to be. I can’t afford to stop. I can’t miss work. I can’t ask for help—!”

“You can ask me.” His voice cracked like thunder.

She stared at him, wide-eyed, breathing hard.

Katsuki’s fists clenched. “You think I’m gonna look down on you for not having money? For trying to survive? You think I don’t know how hard people work just to stay on their damn feet?”

He threw the shoe into the trash can beside them with one smooth, angry toss.

“Katsuki—!”

“You’re not walking another step on that foot,” he muttered. “Not until I fix it.”

“You don’t have to—”

“I want to,” he bit out. “So stop pushing me away like I’m some asshole who doesn’t give a damn.”

She froze, the words hitting her harder than she expected. Her throat tightened. She blinked, once, twice.

“…My sock is torn,” she whispered, cheeks flushed deep red. “It’s gross.” He looked down at her foot again and shrugged.

“Don’t care. You could have holes in both your socks and I’d still carry you if I had to.”

Her breath caught in her chest.

“Now shut up and sit down,” he grumbled. “I’m wrapping your ankle. Then I’m buying you new shoes. And if you say no, I swear I’ll make you wear mine.”

“…You’d really do that?”

He looked at her, eyes sharp but softer than before. “I already am, dumbass.”

TIMESKIP - A WEEK LATER

YN sat under the shade of a tree, reading over her notes on hero ethics. Her hand gripped a pen so tightly it looked like it might snap. The notebook in her lap was one of those cheap ones — recycled, pages thin and slightly yellowed. A corner of the cover had already torn off.

Katsuki approached slowly, hands shoved deep into his pockets, jaw tight.

She looked up and smiled, soft and a little tired. “Hi, Bakugou.”

He clicked his tongue. “Tch. Just Katsuki.”

“Oh… right. Sorry.”

A beat of silence.

“…You busy Saturday?” he asked, voice a little too gruff.

She blinked. “Saturday?”

“Yeah. After your shift.”

She hesitated. “Why?”

He avoided her eyes. “I wanna take you out. Dinner or something.”

Her mouth parted slightly, stunned. “Wait—seriously?” He scowled. “No, I’m joking. Obviously I’m serious, dumbass.”

She smiled, flustered. “I—um—okay. Sure. But… can we maybe do it at my place first? I can’t really afford to go anywhere fancy, and I could cook something—”

“Tch. I didn’t ask for a five-star meal, YN. I just wanna be with you.”

She looked away, face pink. “Still. I’d like you to come over first.” “Fine,” he muttered. “I’ll come by after training.”

Katsuki stood in the narrow hallway of the apartment building, the air thick with must and years of oil from the nearby fried food shop. The building creaked when he walked. Peeling paint. Broken buzzer. No elevator. He climbed four floors.

When YN opened the door, she was in a simple hoodie, still flushed from rushing around. “Hi! Sorry—my dad’s not home, he’s working late again. Come in!”

He stepped inside — and froze.

The living room was more of a single cramped space with a cracked linoleum floor and mismatched furniture. A foldable table served as a dining area. One chair had a taped leg. The curtains were faded, sun-bleached. The air smelled like cheap detergent and something warm — maybe miso soup.

YN rushed toward the bathroom. “I’ll be right back! I just need to change into something nicer.”

He watched her vanish behind the bathroom door. The apartment fell quiet.

His eyes wandered.

The corner that must’ve been her room had no door — just a drawn curtain. He pulled it back slightly.

Her bed was just a mattress with a sheet and a blanket barely thick enough for winter. On one side of the room was a wire rack — with exactly two pairs of pants and two gray shirts, all shapeless and faded. A school uniform hung carefully on a hanger, ironed and mended at the sleeves. He stepped closer.

Threadbare. The UA patch had been stitched back on. Twice.

On the shelf above her bed, there were no books. No makeup. No bags. No jewelry. No old stuffed animals. No framed pictures.

Just a small stack of fraying notebooks, most of them written front-to-back. He clenched his jaw.

His hand hovered over the curtain as he heard the bathroom door creak open.

“Sorry!” YN called, voice flustered. “This is the only nice dress I have—well, had. I bought it years ago for middle school graduation. It’s… a little tight now.”

Katsuki turned.

She stood with a faint, shy smile, adjusting the hem of a pale blue dress that clung too tightly to her chest and barely zipped up at the back. The sleeves looked like they’d been made for a smaller body. The color was faded, but she still wore it like it was something precious.

He didn’t say anything at first.

She mistook his silence for disgust and looked down. “I know it’s stupid. I should’ve just worn the hoodie. Sorry.”

He stepped forward.

“Don’t apologize,” he said roughly. “You look beautiful”

She blinked, surprised. He glanced once more at the little room behind her, then turned back.

“You ready to go?”

She nodded, and they left together.

Later that night, Katsuki return home.

He tossed his bag on the floor, kicked off his shoes, and sat on the edge of his bed.

The room was quiet.

His UA uniform was draped over a chair — perfectly ironed, pristine. A slight stain from today’s training, but nothing major. His closet door hung slightly open.

Inside: dozens of shirts. Jackets. Sweatpants. Shoes. Half of them untouched.

A drawer sat beneath his desk. He opened it.

Video games. Old trading cards. A tiny plush toy he got when he was five. A pile of comics.

On his shelf — untouched fantasy novels. High-end hero magazines.

His gaze lowered.

A weight settled in his chest. Heavy. Hot.

YN had nothing. And yet she treated that threadbare uniform like it was treasure. Like her whole future depended on it.

Because it did.

Katsuki ran a hand through his hair, jaw tight.

“…Damn it,” he muttered to no one.

He didn’t deserve her. But he sure as hell was going to fight like hell to protect her.

[simplynovology]

Help Trans, Poor, and, Disabled Lesbians Win America's Favorite Couple

We are the only couple in the top 10 that is trans and has a non-white contestant!

We would greatly benefit from the prize money! Most of it would be used for obligations and debts, but a portion will be split among our friends!

Below are pictures of us for your consideration!

[zoomar]

Poverty

[political-us]

The rich get richer, the poor get poorer

[donotdestroy]

"The financial media site Investopedia has done the math and calculated that achieving those milestones now costs a staggering $4.4 million—over $1 million more than most Americans will make in their lifetime, according to the researcher."

[ryukisgod]

Visual representation of what happened when Luke Bankole tried to stand up to Gilead:

[rrodney99]

[j-richmond]

I am an artist. I am broke. Every single month.

I love what I do. But as a self published artist and game designer I don't make very much money. Like, almost nothing. I live in a single room I rent from friends. My brother and I have to rent a studio space for our business because neither of us have room to work at home. Every month starts with me paying about half my total monthly income to cover my business expenses. If I'm lucky, over the month we'll sell enough books/PDFs that I can recover that, which then means I can pay rent, groceries, medication and utilities.

Many months we don't sell enough books, so I end up doing commissions or some illustrators to make up the difference. This will add 10 or more hours to my 70 to 80 hour work week.

Most months I walk to work about half the time to save money, instead of taking the bus.

Money is always tight. That's just how it is when you're an artist. I've been making free Modest Medusa comics every week for almost 15 years. I have a Patreon you can support. I have books you can buy. I'd really appreciate it.

My brother Nick and I have been working on our game The Magical Land of Yeld for half a decade. You can buy the book or PDFs. We release new content for the game every month.

I'm used to not having much income. And I'm lucky to have the support I do have! I wish I made more money creating my art, but I'm not going to stop making my art. I cant. There's no version of life where that happens. Sometimes I do have good months! Sometimes I get to take our game or my comic to a convention and make a few hundred extra bucks. When I have a good month, I buy things I need (or want). I pay bills and put money into our business. There's never anything left over. I don't have savings. That's fine! Being poor is part of the whole thing. What I do makes me so happy, and its all I care about. I'm never NOT going to work 70-80 hours every week making art, even if it generates no money at all. But life is SO MUCH EASIER when my art does bring in some money.

If you like what I do, if you've enjoyed my comics and games, I could use your support. I'd really appreciate it. You'd be helping out an artist who spends every day working hard. Sharing this post helps too! - J My Patreon Modest Medusa Store Yeld Store Yeld on Drivethru Yeld on itch Yeld Patreon Ko-fi

[chronicallycouchbound]

Let People On Food Stamps Eat Hot Meals

Particularly on cold, rainy days (like today), while unhoused, sometimes all I want is a hot meal but it’s so difficult (if not impossible) to cook outside in the rain.

On top of this, I’m physically disabled and chronically ill. Medically, I’m supposed to have assistance with making meals as part of in home care. But I can’t get in home care without a home.

I just finished making dinner for my partner and I, it took 2 hours (3 if you include clean up). My knees are burning, my back is aching in it’s core, I feel like I’m about to faint, and all my joints are screaming. But it’s the only way we could have a hot meal today and get some protein, which is vital for our health conditions.

People judge us for using what little funds we have on McDonald’s some days. Because sometimes, it’s the only hot meal we’ve had in days. And sometimes I’m physically unable to stand, move, and do all the actions needed to cook. Or I faint while cooking. Or the rain doesn’t let up. Or we don’t have access to a kitchen for the day. Or the fire danger outside is too high. The list goes on.

Without my own kitchen to use, I don’t get to sit down while I cook (right now, everything is wet from the rain), I can’t meal prep, I can’t stock up on freezer meals, I can’t use an oven or a microwave to reheat leftovers, I can’t just reach across the kitchen for a fridge item (we have a small amount of fridge space friends let us use), everything about cooking is exponentially harder.

And even if I had 24/7 access to an accessible, full kitchen, it’s not even physically safe to cook my own meals. Even then, having a pre-made, hot, ready-to-eat meal could keep me safe and give me independance.

And all the safety needs for hot meals aside, emotionally, hot meals are also life saving and comfort. Meals are a part of community, culture, love and art.

So many gatherings we have as communities center around food. Most people in the United States would think of ones that often hold great value to Western culture. Mother’s Day breakfast. Spaghetti fundraisers. Wedding cakes. Birthday dinners. Bake sales. Carnival treats. BBQs on weekends. Holiday roasts. Lunches with friends. Casseroles brought to grieving neighbors.

Our world revolves around food.

I firmly believe that no poor person could ever “take advantage” of a system designed to feed us by using food stamps on hot food. This restrictive rule serves no purpose but to punish the most vulnerable of poor people— unhoused, disabled, and those of us living in unsafe conditions.

It also serves to restrict our access to joy and comfort. The joy can sometimes come from the food itself, but also the joy from having shared experiences solidified by the sounds of laughter and forks clinking on plates. The comfort can sometimes also be from the food itself, but also the experience of being loved and cared for while your close friend brings you pizza from your favorite restaurant because you lost your drive to eat three weeks ago and they worry about you. They know you. Those slices of pizza bring color back into your world.

Poor people deserve to be able to have the comfort, joy, and care that goes into a hot meal. We deserve the autonomy to choose foods that are best for us ourselves. We deserve to be able to eat in ways that are accessible to us.

Above all, we deserve access to hot meals.

Originally posted to my blog on 6.3.22

[alaa-ala]

A broken arm and a heart that refuses to break

My name is Alaa. I was injured in the war on Gaza, with what was described as a minor injury.

One day during the war, while I was in the place I had fled to for safety, a missile hit the place where we were staying.

Miraculously, we survived, but I didn't, and my right hand was broken as a result.

The broken hand wasn't just a passing pain; it was an agony that permeated every detail of daily life. With every small movement, my body screamed in pain, but it wasn't just the physical pain that exhausted me; it was the lack of medical care, helplessness, and neglect.

The treatment journey was painful in itself. There was no modern equipment, no appropriate medications, and not even enough painkillers to relieve the excruciating pain.

I didn't just suffer from the brokenness; I suffered from the brokenness of the humanity around me, due to my inability to obtain the treatment I needed. This white bandage on my arm is not just a medical bandage; it is a small witness to a much greater tragedy.

This picture... despite all the pain, holds within it a glimmer of hope, because deep down, I believe that even broken bodies are capable of rising again and telling the world my story.

Every act of humanity counts, especially now,Support us, or be our voice.

https://gofund.me/9abb7f09

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