#[ ✧ ] — Hourly Leisures

[the-arbiter-general]

general, would you pat my head, pretty please? :3

He looks at you, down onto your cat-like expression, it's playful air reminding him of the times of his once feline pet, ferocious, yet exuding a fluffy warmth.

Though giving his attention to yours, his expression remains unreadable, yet retaining respect with a polite smile. “If I may,”

He bends down his torso, to level his head to yours, towards your right ear, a hand moving simultaneously, reaching for your shoulder, firming his grasp onto it once placed.

A musing smirk tugs at the corner of his lip. “If this were a ploy to get the Arbiter General's guard down,” his hand on your shoulder shifts, not long after, it slithers, gliding up, up and up towards the side of your hair, then finally claiming victory upon the top of your head.

“I would consider this one of many, many feeble attempts,”

And yet. He pulls back slightly, getting a good look towards you. “Yet it works,” he sighs, completely ignoring and ignorant to the faint feeling of warmth, spreading in his cheeks.

“Reducing the fierce General of the Luofu to this state,” he retracts himself from the close proximity he initiated, standing tall again with command, but it doesn't reach to his face.

He smiles, so very softly, with care. “I'd say,” he says with a chuckle. “This is far more better than the work I am endlessly being provided for. You have my utmost gratitude for it.”

[materialleisure]

The first batch.

[screampied]

✧ ⁺˳ cw. fem! reader, unprotected, size difference, ab riding, dirty talk, squírting, praise, petnames, mdni.

gym rat bf! toji who’s just so fucking big.

you can’t help but openly gawk at him whenever he’s doing his hourly reps and sets. he’s fit, and you’d just do nothing but watch the veins prod within his beefy toned arms all day if you could. “y’er daydreamin’ again,” he’d gruff, watching as you writhe around his heavy length that’s currently nestled between and inside your sapping folds. you were moaning under your breath, desperately trying to get over your most recent orgasm that left your toes curl in. “wonder what’s goin’ on in that pretty mind,” toji murmurs, lying flat back against his weight bench. he’s got nothing on but a sweat drenched tank and black loose shorts—shorts that would always show off the outline of his his raging boner—shorts that were lazily tugged way down the hem of his waist all thanks you. “fuuuckk,” he hisses, feeling you abruptly sit up with his cock loudly exiting out of you. with a squelching ‘pop’, the noise of your cunt rings throughout the thin walls of his gym and he phews. “what’s . . with that look, baby?”

“i wanna try riding these,” you’d breathe through soft breaths, creating a slow trail down his chest with your finger. a bit of sable-dark chest hair sticks against his skin, his pecs specifically. god, he was just mesmerizing to look at. he’s laid underneath you, manspread as your eyes continue to rove further down his perfectly carvened body. streams of perspiring sweat race down his hewed sculptured v-line before you stop at his curly happy trail. “wanna ride your abs, toji.”

with a sly grin, he swipes a thumb over his scarred glossed lips. “do ya now?” and you could almost see the smugness swell up in his chest. toji’s shaggy bangs fully block his vision as he gets a good look at you, making two bandaged hands glued to your waist. “weird girl,” he snickers, and you moan once his emerald eyes flicker towards your drooling wet cunt. “hn. but go ‘head then. knock y’erself out,” he tilts his head back, crossing his arms cockily. “make me proud.”

slowly, you move yourself closer toward the middle part of his body and you moan almost right away. it’s a pretty sound that he’d never get tired of hearing. toji’s perfectly muscle-bound, such swole arms and even more swole calves—so thick, your skin practically sticks against his the longer you spent on his chest.

the second your bare cunt leisurely slides against his abs, you feel a cold shudder creep down your spine.

“f- fuck,” you whimper through gritted teeth, glancing at his face to see him combing a few cramped fingers through his hair. toji’s broad frame underneath you grew idle and still—and he can’t help but snake a big callused hand around your waist, stroking a few weak pumps at his now soft cock that was inside you just milliseconds ago. “toji, your abs feel so good.”

“they better be,” he rasps as one of his forearms pulls away, stretching outward to grab onto the handle bar that’s directly above the two of you.

multiple veins of his bulge through every part of his arms and you felt yourself throbbing just at the sight. he’s so big, and you only craved more by the second. toji grunts, feeling the coolly air waft against his reddened neglected tip as you continue to thrust forward - sloppily, but forward.

your hips were pathetically slow, barely even making haste as you dragged against each flat sleek ab. you were rickety, cutely making a feeble swivel with your waist despite how your knees were on the verge of bucking. toji continues to watch you, studying your lewd facial expressions and all. he noticed how your breathing continued to change, your eyelids would grow heavy, drooping lower and lower as and your mouth hangs itself open—gasp after gasp leaving your spot-slicked lips. tossing his head back, you glance how his adam apple bob’s, and he’s giving your ass a tight squeeze. “yeah, that’s it. ride ‘em good, princess,” and his voice pitches a deep husky low once your cunt squelches right up against tightening midsection. “mhm, use those hips. fuck me good, baby.”

as shallow breaths continue to ruthlessly snatch away from your full lungs, you resume to rock back and forth against him—his sharpened pectorals now being lewdly slathered from top to bottom with your syrupy juices. “hngh, ‘s ripped,” you’d moan out, feeling your tummy heave and curl inward within every few jerk of your deranged hips. you bit the bottom of your lip, pulling skin back whilst his abs continue tighten even more right underneath you. his six pack’s now entirely wet, shining with nothing but your own candied slick and he grunts. toji hears the greedy squelches of your pussy but he only imagined what it looked like down there. as your lips form into a gasping ‘o’, your brows contort into a furrow as you start to whimper out pathetic babbles. “toji, ‘m not gonna last. fuck, fuck.”

“oh, c’mon, don’t say that, princess,” the dark haired man coos, and you then star to feel the fat round tips of his thumbs massage against your active hips. he’s steadying your waist, helping you grind faster and faster despite how your legs were close—so so close to succumbing to defeat. “y’er a big girl, keep goin’ baby, ride ‘em like you ride my cock, mhm.”

your cunt twitches at his words, at his praise and oh it’s so embarrassing. as you continue to move, toji can feel the faint spasming throbs that vibrate on his flat stomach and he snickers. “shit,” you gasp, and your hands continue to feel up inside the thin linen of his tank top. he’s so buff, you couldn’t help but salivate—imagining toji with his big bulky arms slowly wrapping around your throat. your hips start to accelerate at a much briskly pace. as you were trapped in your erotic seven second fantasm, you sob out a whimper once he spanks your ass, bringing you straight back to reality. he’s telling you to keep going, you could tell from the brief priggish look in his eyes. “toji—ngh, ‘m gonna—”

and as your sopping folds continue to move quicker against his chiseled ripped pecs—you let off a soft dramatic gasp as fluttering ripples of waves surge through your core. out of nowhere, you gush right onto his abdomen while you’re still sloppily thrusting your hips onto his tight flexing stomach. “fuck, ohmygooodd,” you’d whimper out in cute elongated mewls, dragging every poor syllable. your squelches were loud—and your eyes widen at the sheer realization that you’re squirting—trickling out lustrous spurts of your own juices. you were holding in a breath you didn’t even know you were holding, and your eyes squeeze shut completely once you fully release.

with weak bucking hips, you let off a shaky sigh and toji’s still got that annoying smug grin plastered across his face. “aw, poor baby,” a hand of his snakes around your waist, dark aroused eyes glancing at your pulsating weeping pussy. you weren’t moving anymore, and yet you were still plopped on his pecs. seconds later, you feel him flex each core muscle against your achy clit and you whimper, geysers of slick dampening his swole abs. “tch. made such a mess, ‘m all soaked,” and you moan, feeling him grab ahold of both of your wobbly unstable hips. you were dumb, dumber than you’ve ever been and all you felt was his tightened abs tensing right underneath your slobbering slick heat.

toji’s entire chiseled midsection of his chest was now sheeny, perfectly coated with your slick that makes his skin glimmer like a jewel and he hums. “my messy girl,” and a thumb of his playfully smears down your cunt, feeling it’s pulse prod against his fingertip. with an amused quirk of his thin black brow, he tastes you by licking his finger slyly. with needy eyes, you’re just blankly staring at him—panting heavily, pawing at his puffed chest for more. “oh, you’re not done?”

“n- no,” you whine, feeling a plethora of electric shockwaves erupt through the undersides of your thighs as you start to pathetically rock against his abs again, rubbing yourself against your own slippery wetness. “fuck, want more. hold still, toji.”

“ ‘m all yours,” he replied in a low mumble, giving your ass one more teasing squeeze. as he grabs a nice chunk of it, he groans throatily before laying his feet flat down against the carpet beside the bench. “good girl, keep ridin’ me,” and his hand tightens against your ass, throwing his head back with his hands covering his face. “fuck, gotta train this sloppy cunt some more anyway, heh.”

[cinnamoodles]

the language of flowers — part one, daises

warnings: angst, of course, and bad writing? ooc anthony bc i suck and thats unwarranted <33

word count: 1.8k (wowza)

author’s note: hello! this is my first published fic, so im pretty sure it’s going to be horrible, but i had this idea after reading Sherlock Holmes, so… im excited, i guess? this is part of a series i will publish, but for now... yay! first fic celebration!

read the other parts! — part two, irises | part three, peonies

i don’t consent for my work to be reposted or copied, translated, or transferred to any other platform, or this one, in part or whole.

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i. 1802, bellis perennis. daisies, platonic love

It was a day in which the sun blazed as though it had a fury against all of England, the sweltering heat resulting in most of the country to stay indoors, and perhaps enjoy a cool glass of lemonade. The unforgiving rays of the sun shone glitteringly on the lake, as if to mock those who stayed inside, flamboyantly displaying its beauty.

Anthony Bridgerton was a boy, (or a man, as he liked to proclaim himself, as he was just a year from being eighteen), who did not like to stay inside, especially on a glorious day like this. He liked to forget the matter that it was well over 35 degrees celsius, but in his words, such a beautiful, sunny day should not go to waste.

“Why have you dragged me out here, Mr. Bridgerton?” You groan against the thick coat of your own horse. As the only daughter of a Duke with three sons, you had to dress up prim and proper, much to your chagrin, before going out, especially with a boy, whether it be one of your closest friends or not. You run your hands through your hair—which you've left open, because, in your words, damn society, no single person should be subject to those horrid pins in their hair on a hot summer's day!, before you stormed out of your estate, to head to the stables to find solace in one of your most trusted companions.

He grins, sending a flutter of butterflies amok in your stomach. Deep inside, you knew that there was no way that he would ever even consider you romantically, as you were exactly the age of his brother, Benedict, who, no doubt, was ever the charmer, but Anthony had a special place in your heart. Your first love, (could one even call it love? You would often dismiss it as infatuation, but when he looked at you like that, how could your youthful little heart disregard it?), and most of all, your first friend. “Well,” he starts, “first of all, you can cease the formalities, or I’ll push you off your horse.” He leisurely rides up next to you, smirking. “And there isn’t any harm in calling on my closest friend for a few hours of her time, is there not?”

“Of course not, but you know how my mother hounds me,” you sigh tiredly, rubbing the nape of your neck. “It is almost as if…” reddening, you bite your lip. You knew that your mother was always on a tirade on how you and Anthony would be perfect together, but you know that he did not feel the same way. You sneak in a gaze at his soft dark hair, and his gorgeous, deep brown eyes, always glimmering with mischief of some sort. 

He turned to you, frowning. “As if? She hasn’t got a problem with me, has she?”

Your eyes widen, and you quickly backtrack on your words. “No! No, of course she hasn’t got a problem with you, she’s just a bit… spirited, that’s all. Just very spirited and a woman very worried about what society has to say about me—not that I care, of course.”

“Just let her know that I’m most definitely not giving up my friendship with you just because of the nonsense the Ton spews on an hourly basis.” You give an extremely unladylike snort at his words, which sends the both of you into a fit of laughter.

The both of you finally reach the site that Anthony must have wanted to show you. It’s a corner beside the lake, with a patch of wildflowers and a small woodland area behind it. The sunlight shines onto the surface of the lake, and small dragonflies lazily float around the flowers. What entrances you most is the flora near the area. While, of course, you've seen flowers before, since your own father boasts one of the most intricate gardens in London, there isn’t any garden that could hold a candle to the natural beauty, the wild, untamed, disorderly allure of this particular strip of land. Fireweed and cattails rub against the agrimonies and bellflowers, and you have to physically stop yourself from letting your jaw drop and stare at the scene in front of you.

The dark-haired boy enthusiastically gets down from his horse, rubbing his eyebrow, and holds his hand out to your stunned self. You bite back a smirk when you notice his actions, and steady yourself against his glove. “I don’t need you to do all this,” you tease. “I can get down from a horse just fine by myself.”

“Really?” He smirks. “Alright then.” Letting go of you abruptly, he wipes off his hands on his breeches, while behind him, you trip to the ground, dust pooling and clouding around you, and you land on your ankle.

“Ow!” You shriek, your hands scratched from the rough, gravelly grass. You examine your ankle, which is slightly swollen and red, along with giving you large, throbbing pains. “Anthony, you’re such a prick!” You steady yourself against a tree trunk when he turns around and sees you, in pain. He quickly rushes to your side, steadying you by placing his hands on your hips, and you try, (and fail), to ignore your heart working on overdrive. “Y/N, I’m so sorry. Really, I didn’t know it would hurt you, I didn't know you were that high up.”

“What do you know, then?” You grumble, trying to hold weight on your foot. When you wince, Anthony immediately carries you in his arms in a bridal hold, and you have to take all the willpower you have to not stare at his biceps, or worse, swoon right there. “Anthony! Put me down!” You cry, halfheartedly, your inner thoughts wishing that he wouldn’t listen to a word you said. “If you drop me, I swear I will hurt you.”

“Y/N,” he smiles at you, “trust me, I know better than to cross you by now.” He readjusts his hands, and one of them, (you’re too frazzled to notice which), lands on the small of your back, and you are sure that you will combust within a second if he keeps this up. “And,” he continues, “I haven’t dragged you all the way here just so you can go home. And trust me, you're not heavy at all.” He smirks, raising one of his hands so that you can see it, and taps your nose.

“Anthony—oh god—what the bloody hell are you doing?”

“Proving you haven't got anything to worry about. Don’t worry, darling.” The word sends a shiver down your spine, and the moment just seems so perfect: you, in his arms, his dark, dreamy eyes gazing into your own, his breath hot on your cheek. He smells of sandalwood and citrus—the same smell that haunts you day and night, in your dreams and nightmares.

You relax into his arms, and are snapped out of your daze only by the soft brush of something against your nose—petals? You open your eyes to a grinning Anthony, tapping your face with a hastily bundled bunch of flowers.

“Anthony,” you frown, “I was relaxing. Do not forget that you caused my devastating injury.” You pout, widening your eyes and biting your lips, trying to play the fact that you’re merely an innocent bystander of his tomfoolery. He sighs, and waves the flowers in front of your face.

“That is precisely what this is for, you hypochondriac—ow! Sorry! I picked you flowers, because you're so microscopic that I can carry you with one hand.” He gently placed you down on a gravelly stone bench, among the wildflowers and its concomitant insects, hurriedly putting a bouquet of flowers in your hand. 

Daises.

The Guide for Flora for Debutantes: Resplendent in its simplicity, the daisy's tender white petals encircle a sunny heart, a poignant reflection of the chaste and enduring affection shared amongst esteemed companions of a non-romantic nature. The suitor that gives this flower to you may not desire to pursue a romantic relation, but shows no ill will towards you, and would in fact like to continue a relationship based purely on friendship. 

Your mind flashes to a paragraph in one of your least-loved books, but one your governess insisted you study. Perhaps he didn’t mean to give you these gut-wrenching, heartbreaking flowers, flowers that left your soul shattered on the ground, due to your dramatics. Men, in particular, were never very observant when it came to flowers. “Well, there might be a privilege to being microscopic then,” you smile, feigning delight. “Say,” you gaze up at Anthony’s eyes, “what made you pick these particular ones? Is there anything special about daises?”

“Er, no…” Anthony frowned. “They were the only ones that looked nice enough to give to you. The others looked like weeds, if I am being completely forthright.” You stifle a laugh, and perhaps there indeed was no symbolism behind the flowers the gave you, nothing other than fate.

As you settle on the stone bench, your ankle throbbing slightly, you peer at the bouquet of daises now cradled in your hand. The delicate blossoms seem to mirror the delicate dance of emotions within your heart, or so your heart believes. Anthony's actions have always been a mixture of exasperating and endearing, and this moment is no different.

"Anthony," you say, suppressing a smile, "your chivalry knows no bounds, it seems." He chuckles, his eyes crinkling at the corners.

"Ah, my dear, a gentleman's duty is to come to the rescue of a damsel in distress, is it not?" You roll your eyes with a playful sigh, though your heart flutters at his words. There's a familiarity between you that goes beyond mere friendship, a connection that has woven itself over years of shared experiences. But society's expectations and the complexities of your own heart keep those feelings hidden beneath the surface. 

"Are you suggesting that I am in distress, Mr. Bridgerton?" you retort, raising an eyebrow. His smile widens, and he takes a seat beside you on the bench. 

"Perhaps not in distress, but certainly in need of a flower-bearing rescuer." He quips, gently nudging your shoulder. You both share a laugh, the tension that briefly hung in the air dissipating like morning mist. There's a sense of ease in his company that you've never found elsewhere, a comfort that stems from him, merely his presence.

A sense of home—of love, and for now, it did not matter if he didn’t feel it, but the warm feeling that enveloped you was merely your own to enjoy.

[raina-at]

Date

There’s a few things in life theoretical knowledge can’t prepare you for. On top of the list, or very near it, is the actual experience of raising a child. The daily, hourly experience of living with a child isn’t comparable to anything else, and it can’t be properly described in words.

Sherlock loves Rosie to distraction. But, it has to be said, if there was a world championship of accidental cockblocking, she would medal without breaking a sweat. 

That adorable, wonderful, funny, smart little girl can ruin the mood so quickly Sherlock would honestly be impressed if he wasn’t simultaneously so frustrated he can barely see straight.

John lovingly calls her the world’s most effective chastity belt, and Sherlock agrees wholeheartedly.

Sherlock thinks this might be the reason most couples wait a few years before having children. 

Unfortunately, he and John never did anything in the right order. They fell in love pretty much on sight, then spent ten years being stupid. In between Sherlock pretend died, then (almost) died for real, John got married, had a kid, the wife died, John moved back in, Sherlock became a second father, and then, finally, they started shagging. 

Only they never had a sex holiday, because they have a Gremlin they can’t inflict on anyone for a week to just bugger off and shag each other’s brains out. Not yet, anyway. Molly’s offered, but their schedules have not aligned yet. Sherlock hopes it will happen soon.

The last few weeks were especially harrowing. Sherlock was in Cardiff for a week for a boring case, and when he came back, he was busily snogging John against the refrigerator when Rosie came down from her room and vomited all over the sitting room carpet. 

If there’s anything that kills the mood faster than a vomiting four-year-old, Sherlock never wants to encounter it.

Of course they both got sick as well, and for the better part of a week, even the thought of anyone touching any part of Sherlock that wasn’t his forehead or his hand was frankly revolting.

Then Rosie dislocated her shoulder and had to stay home from daycare for a solid week. They were both so exhausted every evening that whoever had bedtime duty that night routinely fell asleep in Rosie’s bed before Rosie did. 

But now. 

Now Rosie’s at Molly’s. They had a lovely date night, with dinner at Angelo’s and a walk through Regent’s Park in the moonshine, and Sherlock is a tiny bit tipsy from the wine and from banked arousal. He’s got John backed against the sitting room door, and they’re snogging leisurely. John’s hands have found their way into his clothes, one hand is caressing his arse, the other trailing up his spine. 

“The things I want to do to you,” John mutters, grinning at Sherlock, wicked and full of promise.

“Oh, I have a list as well,” Sherlock replies, biting at John’s throat.

John moans, letting his head fall back against the door, exposing more of his skin to Sherlock’s hungry mouth. “I hope getting me out of my clothes before I go completely crazy is on that list,” he breathes, the hand on Sherlock’s arse pulling their hips together. He’s got a leg slung around Sherlock’s and is dreamily rubbing his erection against Sherlock’s thigh. 

“In a minute,” Sherlock mutters, going back to biting at John’s neck. John smells delicious there, like fresh air and a bit of sweat and his cologne.

The door to 221 opens, closes and someone ascends the stairs.

Sherlock sighs. “Fuck off, Lestrade,” he yells through the closed door.

John giggles a bit, hiding his face in Sherlock’s shirt. Sherlock smiles. That’s his favourite thing in the world, a happy, aroused, giggly John Watson, all his to do with as he pleases. He kisses the laugh from John’s lips.

There’s a knock at the door. Right behind John’s shoulder blades. 

“He said fuck off, Lestrade,” John says, freeing his lips briefly from Sherlock’s before diving right back again for another deep, dirty, single-minded kiss. 

“Listen, chaps, I get it, but the Lambeth strangler’s resurfaced. We need to move on this now.”

Sherlock draws back from the kiss. “How do you know it’s him?” he asks, holding John in place as he makes a move to withdraw his hands from their various places on Sherlock’s person. 

“Red string, candles, the works. It’s the same man, Sherlock. It’s not a copycat, we’re sure.”

Sherlock sighs. They’ve been after the strangler for years. Sherlock has never had the opportunity to see a fresh crime scene. 

“It’s okay,” John says, quietly, so Lestrade won’t hear through the door. “I understand. This is important.”

Sherlock meets John’s eyes. John looks disappointed, but he knows ending a date with chasing a serial killer is as traditional for them as sex is for other couples.

The case is alluring. Surely at least an eight. It’s important.

But so is John.

“Lestrade,” Sherlock says, leaning in and nosing along John’s neck while speaking, “walk away now, no questions asked, and give us one hour, no questions asked, and I’ll take the next five cases you’re offering, no questions asked.”

There’s a noticeable pause, then Lestrade says, quietly, “One hour.”

They hear him walk down the stairs and the door to 221 closes behind him.

“Delaying a serial killer crime scene for a whole hour, for me?” John mutters, grinning at Sherlock, bright and happy. “Now I know you love me.”

“Some people need a lot of convincing,” Sherlock mutters, sinking his teeth into John’s neck.

“Take me to bed,” John says, winding his hands into Sherlock’s hair. “And convince me some more.”

Here. Fluff and sexytimes like I promised!

Thank you so much @calaisreno for the tag and the prompt.

Tagging a few people: @jrow @keirgreeneyes @helloliriels @meetinginsamarra @lisbeth-kk @khorazir @discordantwords @thetimemoves @the-reading-lemon @7-percent and anyone else who wants to play.

Also, I'm collecting all my ficlets on AO3 here.

[dreaminginthedeepsouth]

Horsey

* * * *

LETTERS FROM AN AMERICAN

June 7, 2024

HEATHER COX RICHARDSON

JUN 08, 2024

Two big stories today that together reveal a broader landscape.

The first is that the Bureau of Labor Statistics today released another blockbuster jobs report. The country added 272,000 jobs in May, far higher than the 180,000 jobs economists predicted. A widespread range of sectors added new jobs, including health care, government, leisure and hospitality, and professional, scientific, and technical services. Wages are also up. Over the past year, average hourly earnings have grown 4.1%, higher than the rate of inflation, which was 3.4% over the same period. 

The unemployment rate ticked up from 3.9% to 4%. This is not a significant change, but it does break the 27-month streak of unemployment below that number. 

The second big story is that Justice Clarence Thomas amended a financial filing from 2019, acknowledging that he should have reported two free vacations he accepted from Texas billionaire Harlan Crow. While in the past he said he did not need to disclose such gifts, in today’s filing he claimed he had “inadvertently omitted” the trips on earlier reports. ProPublica broke the story of these and other gifts from Crow, including several more trips than Thomas has so far acknowledged. 

Fix The Court, a nonprofit advocacy group that seeks to reform the federal courts, estimates that Thomas has accepted more than $4 million in gifts over the last 20 years. As economic analyst Steven Rattner pointed out, that’s 5.6 times more than the other 16 justices on the court in those years combined.

These two news items illustrate a larger story about the United States in this moment. 

The Biden administration has quite deliberately overturned the supply-side economics that came into ascendancy in 1981 when President Ronald Reagan took office and that remained dominant until 2021, when Biden entered the White House. Adherents of that ideology rejected the idea that the government should invest in the “demand side” of the economy—workers and other ordinary Americans—to develop the economy, as it had done since 1933. 

Instead, they maintained that the best way to nurture the economy was to support the “supply side”: those at the top. Cutting business regulations and slashing taxes would create prosperity, they said, by concentrating wealth in the hands of individuals who would invest in the economy more efficiently than they could if the government interfered in their choices. That smart investment would dramatically expand the economy, supporters argued, and everyone would do better. 

But supply-side economics never produced the results its supporters promised. What it did do was move money out of the hands of ordinary Americans into the hands of the very wealthy. Economists estimate that between 1981 and 2021, more than $50 trillion dollars moved from the bottom 90% of Americans to the top 1%.

In order to keep that system in place, Republicans worked to make it extraordinarily difficult for Congress to pass laws making the government do anything, even when the vast majority of Americans wanted it to. With the rise of Senator Mitch McConnell (R-KY) to the position of Senate majority leader in 2007, they weaponized the filibuster so any measure that went against their policies would need 60 votes in order to get through the Senate, and in 2010 they worked to take over state legislatures so that they could gerrymander state congressional districts so severely that Republicans would hold far more seats than they had earned from voters. 

With Congress increasingly neutered, the power to make law shifted to the courts, which Republicans since the Reagan administration had been packing with appointees who adhered to their small-government principles. 

Clarence Thomas was a key vote on the Supreme Court. But as ProPublica reported in December 2023, Thomas complained in 2000 to a Republican member of Congress about the low salaries of Supreme Court justices (equivalent to about $300,000 today) and suggested he might resign. The congressman and his friends were desperate to keep Thomas, with his staunchly Republican vote, on the court. In the years after 2000, friends and acquaintances provided Thomas with a steady stream of gifts that supplemented his income, and he stayed in his seat.

But what amounts to bribes has compromised the court. After the news broke that Thomas has now disclosed some of the trips Crow gave him, conservative lawyer George Conway wrote: “It’s long past time for there to be a comprehensive criminal investigation, and congressional investigation, of Justice Thomas and his finances and his taxes. What he has taken, and what he has failed to disclose, is beyond belief, and has been so for quite some time.” A bit less formally, over a chart of the monetary value of the gifts Thomas has accepted, Conway added: “I mean. This. Is. Just. Nuts.”

As the Republican system comes under increasing scrutiny, Biden’s renewal of traditional economic policies is showing those policies to be more successful than the Republicans’ system ever was. If Americans turn against the Republican formula of slashing taxes and deregulating business, those at the top of the economy stand to lose both wealth and control of the nation’s economic system. 

Trump has promised more tax cuts and deregulation if he is reelected, although the nonpartisan Congressional Budget Office recently projected that his plan to extend the 2017 tax cuts that are set to expire in 2025 will add more than $3 trillion to the deficit over the next decade. In April, at a meeting with 20 oil executives, Trump promised to cut regulations on the fossil fuel industry in exchange for $1 billion in donations, assuring them that the tax breaks he would give them once he was in office would pay for the donation many times over (indeed, an analysis quoted in The Guardian showed his proposed tax cuts would save them $110 billion). On May 23, he joined fossil fuel executives for a fundraiser in Houston.

In the same weeks, Biden’s policies have emphasized using the government to help ordinary people rather than to move wealth upward. 

On May 31 the Internal Revenue Service (IRS) announced that it will make its experimental free electronic filing system permanent. It asked all 50 states and the District of Columbia to sign on to the program and to help taxpayers use it. The program’s pilot this year was wildly successful, with more than 140,000 people filing that way. Private tax preparers, whose industry makes billions of dollars a year, oppose the new system. 

The Inflation Reduction Act provided funding for this program and for beefing up the ability of the IRS to audit the wealthiest taxpayers. As Fatima Hussein wrote for the Associated Press, Republicans cut $1.4 billion from these funds last summer and will shift an additional $20 billion from the IRS to other programs over the next two years. 

Today the U.S. Department of Health and Human Services issued five new reports showing that thanks in part to the administration's outreach efforts about the Affordable Care Act, the rate of Black Americans without health insurance dropped from 20.9% in 2010 to 10.8% in 2022. The same rate among Latinos dropped from 32.7% to 18%. For Asian Americans, Native Hawaiians, and Pacific Islanders, the rate of uninsured dropped from 16.6% to 6.2%. And for American Indians and Alaska Natives, the rate dropped from 32.4% to 19.9%. More than 45 million people in total are enrolled in coverage under the Affordable Care Act.

President Biden noted the strength of today’s jobs report in a statement, adding: “I will keep fighting to lower costs for families like the ones I grew up with in Scranton.” Republicans “have a different vision,” he said, “one that puts billionaires and special interests first.” He promised: “I will never stop fighting for Scranton—not Park Avenue.”

LETTERS FROM AN AMERICAN

HEATHER COX RICHARDSON

[terrence-silver]

TERRY SILVER BREEDING KINK HAS ME IN A CHOKEHOLD… PLEASE PLEASE WRITE SOMETHING FOR IT🙏LOVE YOUR BLOG

---

He scheduled this thing by the hourly.

He scheduled it the same way he scheduled business meetings, overseas calls and corporate issues; Neatly, precisely and always on time --- in fact, Terry Silver never believed in half-assing a thing. Not work, not money, not leisure, not vendettas. Not anything. He'd fiercely dedicate himself to a goal and invest weeks, months and even years, if need be, to see tasks come to completion, not intending to stop or leave something half finished until the objective he had in his mind was transferred into reality in its purest form. Some would call him stubbornly and shamelessly ambitious in the pursuit of things he wanted and truth to tell, that wasn't a title he minded having. It was a complement, in fact. With that thought in mind, he swiftly glances at the Rolex hanging off of his wrist as he bursts into the bedroom where you were waiting for him, as agreed, sitting on the mattress, hands in your lap, looking at the antique wall clock yourself, nearly yelping when he practically lounges at you, throwing you back, spine against the bed, legs up.

He was doing this between a conference call from Shanghai waiting for him on line six and his lawyers from upstate visiting him to negotiate their course of action concerning the indictment over the brand new Plutonium deal. Terry had exactly ten minutes wiggle room, give or take. Maybe less.

-"No underwear, huh? Perfect."-

Terry chuckles and remarks in haste, all breath, keeping things brisk and straight to the point as he unzipped his trousers and pulled his cock out through his boxers, giving it a couple of quick yet leisurely strokes, finding that you had no such barriers yourself to make this more complicated than it needed to be. The first several times you did this, he lost precious moments needed to get you out of your knickers, as Margaret called them. So, since then, he decided to make things tactically infinitely easier. Have you wear as little as possible so he'd need to remove as little as possible in a rush. The type of strategy The Art of War would envy. -"Just like we've agreed. Spares me the two seconds needed to rip that crap of you every forty five minutes."- He practically chortles, feeling your engorged, inviting wetness with his fingers, swollen and red from the previous five times you did this only today alone. He was certain that at this point, it was hard to keep your legs closed due to the soreness, but truth to tell, keeping them open would be fantastically practical considering the circumstances. -"I see you kept yourself prepared. Did your warm up. Good."- He coos, grunting as he brings the tip of his cock close to your loose, wet entrance and you nod vigorously as confirmation. He smiles, pleased. You periodically touching yourself throughout the day in his absence, like he instructed, also saved on time needed for foreplay. Like training a muscle before a fight, he needed you ready and he needed you up for the challenge.

-"How are you already hard again? We just did this half an hour ago?"-

You moan as his length slides inside of you and he throws his back, laughing. Sure, his plan to just keep fucking you until he knocks you up, even if that meant fucking you eight times a day, morning, noon and night certainly required a feat of incredible libido and stamina, but he always felt himself to be someone who is an infinite optimist bent on overcoming himself, never accepting limitations or things out to control him. -"Boring topics like the environmental status of Borneo pop up and some people play with pencils and office supplies at the conference table to kill time. Some people smoke. Laugh at the slides."- He explains, building up his pace as he spoke, nearly giggling at the image he was describing, gripping your waist. -"I train my wrist strength under the desk."- He confesses and the absolute shock in your eyes would almost be enough to tip him over the edge, but Terry quickly presses a hand over your mouth, effectively gaging you before you can say anything and interrupt him. -"And yeah, they all know."- He chortles, bluntly. He was pretty certain everyone that was employed for him, both in his household and in the company --- perhaps in the general sense too --- knew that when he rushed back here for a quick break, he rushed back home because he was trying for a baby and made a relentless effort not to keep it discreet. Let them all know. Let them all hear.

-"I sit back, light a cigar and I stroke."-

He adds, shaking his head, painting a pretty picture, rutting into you faster and faster.

-"What's best, they're so well paid they can't even seem to be bothered by it. Isn't that great?"- He laughs, finding it downright hilarious and you moan against the palm of his hand. Chairmen of the Board and all their assistants at Dynatox were shockingly flexible with their tolerance when their salary bonuses were regular and hefty, and in fact, the big Boss getting himself deliberately hard mid-meetings was one of the more mundane and harmless things they'd have to turn a blind eye to, all things considered. -"I could fuck you in front of all of them and they'd probably stand up and cheer like well-trained robots."- Terry saw it all very clearly in his mind, as obscene as it was --- all of his employees together, clapping like it's New Years once he finally spent himself inside you, making bets if this was the fateful moment of your conception and the certainty that decades from now, they'd have a new Boss, feeling jubilant over his legacy. Fuck, the things that made him giddy. Your eyes roll back and your lids close, eyelashes fluttering shut as you sighed deeply. He removes his hand finally and with one last grunt, Terry cums, holding himself in place for a couple moments longer, ensuring not a single drop of him is wasted or leaks out. He looks at his watch, flicking his wrists, adjusting his lapels and the buttons on his sleeve. He had exactly two minutes extra and his team from New York should've been here any second now. A perfect marathon score. With all the supplements, vitamins, your dietary regimen, a positive end result was all but assured. Terry thought of everything, leaving nothing up to chance.

-"We're moving mountains over here!"-

He practically pumps his fist with joy, grabbing his zipper and pulling it up before adjusting himself and getting off of you and the bed, the mattress shifting under his weight, watching you still laying there, legs spread, disheveled and positively post-coital, pumped full of him. He could see you, exactly nine months from now, swollen, in this exact same position, giving birth and the thought has him smiling and gleefully digging the upper row of his teeth into his lower lip. He could see you, next year, repeating the exact same thing. But, Rome wasn't built in a day. -"I'll be back in half an hour. Be ready and stay ready."- He promises and reminds, leaning back down quickly and pressing a kiss on your neck as a temporary goodbye. You groan as you sit back up. He needed to up your physical condition. Introduce you to some stretches. Ensure your stamina is up to par. Practicality and all. So you'd endure this better. -"How long will we be doing this at this place?"- You ask, looking at him hopefully. Wasn't it obvious by now? You'd get creampied until he didn't have to creampie you any longer because you'd be busy popping up his brats. -"For as long as it takes."- He turns to you once he's done affixing his suit and hair in the boudoir bedroom mirror, giving you his best smile of sainthood, wondering if his point, along with his expression, went across. That he wouldn't stop until he got what he wanted. He turns for the door, checking his watch again, ready to leave. Yeah, exactly ten minutes. Perfect. -"Although, I wouldn't mind if we did this forever."- He adds in stride, chuckling, grabbing the door handle, Ms. Spencer and his secretaries waiting in the hallway on the other side, all equipped with files of paperwork on the ready.

Too well paid, professional and loyal to care indeed.

-"Mr. Silver, the guests from New York are in the lobby. They've been told you have undelayable obligations, but that you'll be seeing them promptly."-

She states, giving him a knowing look through her thick-rimmed spectacles.

He rushes past her, already counting down the minutes until he could have you again.

-"Thank you, Margaret. I'll be right with them."-

[bellatrixobsessed1]

Northern Skies & Airport Lights

For the winter prompt of @sokklasaturdays

Summary: Azula and Sokka meet at an airport after their flights get delayed due to winter weather.

Azula watches plane after plane take off through the lightly frosted window. None of them are hers. She groans. Three hours and counting. Three hours and counting when she should have already boarded and been well on her way. Instead she is here with her carry on bags leaning against her chair eating a cup over overpriced, albeit decently tasty, airport yogurt.  

She had plans for the day, a trip to Äkäslompolo Lake and a taste of what it entails; mostly the sauna and a daring dip into one of the ice holes. She has never gone ice swimming, and never wanted to. Not until TyLee had talked her into it. Frankly she had planned on going somewhere warm, somewhere like Dubai or Maui or maybe Toamasina. Some random lake in the Finnish Laplands was not on her list. But TyLee had begged and begged until Azula had caved. And now, several hours into her canceled flight catastrophe, she is desperate to get to Finland. 

The prospect is exciting, an adventure ready to be taken.

 She finds herself mourning the missed opportunities. One look at the clock tells her that she won’t be getting to Rovaniemi with enough time to make the four hour drive to Äkäslompolo. Be it via bus or a rented vehicle, odds are she will only have enough time to unpack and then attempt to sleep in spite of the day’s stressors. 

And that’s if she is able to get there at all. All signs are pointing at a night in this airport in Kazakhstan. 

She should have just went at the same time as TyLee and Mai but she just had to stay back a day and get ahead on her term paper. Not that she really needed to, she could hammer that out with no problem, she just didn’t want to have to worry about that while she was supposed to be enjoying her winter break. 

She sighs and leans her head back, staring at the steady fluorescent lights. Her phone buzzes in her pocket, probably TyLee asking for her hourly update. She fishes around her pocket and finds the phone. Two messages flash across the screen; ‘Did they get you a new flight yet?’ From Tylee. And one from Zuko, ‘I told you to come with us but nOooOoo, you had to get a head start on your head start first.’ 

She rolls her eyes. And informs TyLee that all flights are still suspended until the weather clears. And so she is stranded here listening to crying babies and griping middle aged women that she has half the mind to join in their mission to get compensation from the airlines. 

Instead she gives TyLee her update and fishes around her carry on bag for one of several novels. Zuko can make what he will of her silence. But it is terribly hard to read with that woman with the bob screeching about how, “it’s ChristMAS! How can you keep all of us stranded here on Christmas!?” Nevermind that it is only the 17th of December. The woman is lucky that she gets that gaudy, flashy Christmas tree in the corner. 

She hears the thump of buttcheeks on the seat next to her and suppresses a groan—there are at least twenty other seats that this dolt could occupy and he has decided to place his buttocks here. She should have just put her bags on that seat. She has her sense of politeness to blame.

The young man waves. He looks to be about her age with a scruffy little goatee and a floppy dark blue beanie. Baggy gray pants and a baggier blue hoodie complete an extremely leisurely, comfortable look. One that leaves her jealous considering that she will be spending the night in her somewhat tight dress pants and her red and ruffled satin blouse. She can take her belt and some of the jewelry off and let her hair down but that still wouldn’t be nearly as relaxing as what he is wearing. “Hey so, you were on the delayed flight too?”

It is a stupid question. Everyone waiting in this lobby was on one of the many flights that couldn’t take off. “I was, yes. I would probably be in Finland now if not for this emergency weather related stop.” 

“Where are you coming from?”

“Japan.” She answers plainly before specifying, “Kyoto.” 

“That’s a long flight. Like ten hours right? There would have been a layover anyways.” 

She has to admire his flippant, nonchalance. “Yes, but there wouldn’t have been a wait as long as this.” Azula replies stiffly. “I am going to miss my day trip to Äkäslompolo Lake.” She folds her arms across her chest. “My stupid brother is probably having the time of his life in the sauna right now…”

The man nods. “I’m coming from Deering, Alaska so I’m kinda used to this whole blizzard thing.” He rubs the back of his head. “I was supposed to be heading to Finland as well but there was some type of computer error and the wrong flight was booked. Suddenly I’m on my way to Laos.”

“Laos! That’s not even close to Finland. That is exactly incorrect. Are you certain that it was a computer error and not a moron wasn’t paying attention to what he was clicking error?”

He rubs the back of his head again and gives her a sheepish smile as his cheeks grow pink. “Yeah, it could have been that. My mom or sister usually book the flights.” He laughs but there is a flicker of hurt in his eyes that leads Azula to speculate that there might be some story there. “Imagine my surprise when the pilot announced our destination. I’m kind of glad that we made this stop. I was able to book the right flight this time around.” 

She should just let the conversation conclude right here but some deeper part of her hopes that conversing with this stranger might take the edge out of her agitation. She clears her throat. “So…what part of Finland are you heading to?”

“I’m meeting my dad and sister in Rovaniemi to celebrate what would have been my mom’s 49th birthday. We lost her two years ago. She was fighting lupus and there were some complications at her last hospital stay.” He swallows. “Sorry, that’s a little dark to just unload on a stranger.”

Azula shrugs, “when I was fourteen they put me in an institution. My family was a disaster.” 

“Was? Hopefully that means that things are better now?”

“They’re trying to be.” 

He nods. 

“Why aren’t you with your father and sister?” 

“I’ve been away at college so I didn’t go with my dad and sister when they went to Canada to visit my Gran Gran—I’ll have to pay her a visit too, spring break probably—so I’m meeting them in Finland and then we’re all going to fly back home together.”

“If you booked the right flight, you will.” Azula quirks a brow. To her surprise, the man meets her dry humor with a somewhat booming laugh. “You’re not going to get offended?”

“It was just a joke.” His smile doesn’t fade. “It was a joke right? You’re laughing with me not at me?”

“I could be. Or maybe I’m just a mean person.”

“Hmm, I don’t think so. I like you.”

“You just met me.”

“I make friends easily.” He shrugs. “I mean we’re traveling to the same destination and we’ll be sitting next to each other on the new flight.” She follows his eyes to the new plane ticket that she had forgotten to slip back into her pocket. “That has to be a sign of something, right?”

“Except that you live in Alaska and I live in Kyoto. That’s not exactly within walking distance.”

“We have phones, the internet, video chat!” He declares. “And if you’re old fashioned you can send me a letter.” 

“I suppose that, that can be arranged.” She opens her mouth to speak again but finds herself cut off. 

“Excuse me.” He begins. “As an apology for the inconvenience of the delay, the airport is offering a free meal to all of our stranded passengers. We are offering beshbarmak, syrne, sopra, and koktal.” 

“I will have the syrne, thank you.” Azula replies. 

“I don’t know what any of that is.” the young man confesses. Azula listens to the other man summarize each dish.

“Hmm I think that I’ll try some beshbarmak.” 

The other man jots the order down. “Your order numbers are 32 and 33. We will have them ready shortly.” 

“My name is Sokka by the way.” He introduces himself and holds out his hand. 

Somewhat hesitantly, she takes it. “Azula. 

He grins. “It’s nice to meet you, Azula!” 

She nods. If nothing else, she supposes that she might get a friend out of this. She could use more friends. She supposes that she wouldn’t mind making semi-regular trips to Alaska every now and again if the two of them have a particularly remarkable time together in what little of it that they have. “What hotel are you staying at? Perhaps if you are nice to me I can get you and your family a reservation for one of those glass igloos.” 

Sokka’s face brightens, “for real!?”

Azula nods. “But you have to impress me. You have a few hours to do so.” 

“My family is going to be staying in a little cabin but it would be nice to stay at one of those igloos for at least one night.” He muses to himself. “Alright, deal! You’re going to have the best trapped-at-an-airport of your life.”

“I hope that this will be my only ‘trapped-at-an-airport.’” She rolls her eyes. But she can’t say that she is completely miserable anymore. There’s something about this Sokka. He’s got a good sense of humor and a way of making her goal of being less cynical seem possible to achieve.

[puckgoss]

to the previous anon since when does coming from a middle class family mean you’re wealthy? most of the wags are middle class families. even lauren Kyle. i believe her dad is a doctor. these girls never had careers and are dependent on finding a man to financially support their lifestyle. u don’t have to be poor to be considered a golddigger.

im a nurse myself and not trying to be a wag so its not that im offended ,but “knocking up bartenders” is a weird thing to say seeing how at least a bartender makes her OWN money. even the term Puckbunny is literally a girl going after a successful wealthy hockey player lol if thats not gold digger idk what is lol

mm no i would put most wags in upper-middle class or lower-upper class categories.

i wouldn't call them golddiggers, as they already have family money, and could date some sort of finance bro (for example) who also has family money, if they wanted to

i would classify them more as "status diggers" than anything else, as either way they are going to marry within their social/economic class, but they are choosing to go after someone/be with someone who is within their socioeconomic class + is a public figure due to being a professional athlete

as i said before, most hockey players nowadays come from upper-middle or lower-upper class backgrounds and people within those social classes almost always marry each other (as with most social classes tbh)

back when nhl players came from more varied socioeconomic backgrounds, it was more likely that they could "knock up a bartender" i.e. date/marry a girl from a lower-middle class background

socioeconomic class explanations

this is how i would divide these out (GENERALIZATIONS):

working class aka "lower" class, blue-collar workers

low-paid & "low-skilled" jobs often requiring physical labor, in the services sector, etc

paycheck to paycheck

hourly-wage jobs

vocational training and/or some post-secondary education

likely to rent instead of own

lower-middle class

post-secondary education and/or vocational training

salaried jobs - will have worked hourly-wage jobs at some point

limited savings

some investments (not real estate)

own modest homes, cars

prioritize vacations, entertainment over further investments

middle-middle class

between lower & upper middle class, share traits of both

not quite lower-middle but not wealthy enough for upper-middle

financial stability

upper-middle class

high salary jobs in specialized fields

post-secondary education +++

real estate and other investments

can go on more frequent vacations, own a vacation home, etc

own larger homes in more expensive neighbourhoods

lower-upper class

"nouveau riche" / new money made from investments, business, etc

money in the family less than 3-4 generations

highly successful business owners, entrepreneurs

real estate and other investments / sources of income

freedom to frequently vacation

country club members

influential in politics, etc

upper-upper class

"old money" inherited wealth

WASPs, "high-society"

many investment streams

money has been passed down for 3-4+ generations

almost "unlimited" time & money for leisure, activities, travel

very exclusive country club members

very influential in politics, etc

[hell0mega]

the absolute worst thing is whenever i sit down to try to schedule a typical day, it makes me realize just how much time i waste just trying to wrangle myself into doing Literally Anything day to day. i put down an hourly schedule to block out time to do certain things, and im having trouble filling it out, because i get to "stretch" and it's the only thing i have to do from 12-1. and i think, well, I'm not going to stretch for an entire hour. can i not think of anything else to do? most of these things don't take an hour to do. I'm giving myself 8 hours to do everything i need to do, which includes 2 meal breaks and leisure time, and i STILL have time left over. what the fuck have i been doing the last 4 years???

[the-arbiter-general]

Oh, Jing Yuan! A question: the little finches... sparrows??? Whatever they are... how do you like their company? They seem to like you very much and feel safe enough to shelter in your hair. I don't know what the Xianzhou may think about it but I'd say that a high sign of trust, which if little small creatures like them feel safe with you, I think that is undoubtedly a sign that you are a good person.

(Ooc: HI ERU ALSO SCREAMS BECAUSE OMG BEST JING YUAN AAAAA HE IS MY FAVORITE AND BIG COMFORT CHARACTER AND ALSO MY CHOSEN HUSBANDO SO FINDING BEING DIRECTED TO YOUR ACCOUNT WAS DAY MADE)

“Those little, harmless critters that flock me at specific times of the days?” He finds himself chuckling fondly at the memories of peace, but he finds his gaze towards yours, the softness remaining on his features, but his eyes were calculating to the comment of him being someone of decent, if not, high praise.

A good person, she says. He remains silent, but the corners of his lips rise into an expression of warmth. “You flatter me, you do, however,” his eyes averts from yours, towards the scenery of the Ambrosial Arbor tree, his gaze distant, and reminiscing.

“Had it not for my status as the beholder of the Reignbow Arbiter's wishes, had it not been for my fierceness in strategy that led me to a high position, had it not for this title, this life,”

He pauses, looking over his shoulder, his former expression shifting into a somber smile. “I would've been able to accept your statements to the fullest, with great gratitude,”

“But know,” he turns around to your direction, fully, a calculative and authorative look looms over his features. “That those little, fleeting birds, have no clue as to what I have done, nor they will ever find out what I currently do.”

“Good, you describe me,” his face falls, down to his desk, his expression softening, saddening, casting shadow over the table. “Long overdue, is what I would describe myself.”

His head perks up, in realization to his rambling, and the additional added air of sorrow, thickly unpleasant. “Forgive me and my ramblings,” he sighs, giving you a forced smile, with one hand up and covering half of his face.

“How unsightly of the Arbiter General, truly.”

[materialleisure]

Last batch

[ardri-na-bpiteog]

Whenever I see the 4 day work week brought up it gets derailed by people being like "idk I used to work a 4 day week with ten hour days and..."

Like, you know the whole point of the 4 day work week is to allow more rest and leisure time right? Idk why you automatically assume the week would still be 40 hours. The whole point is 4 days of 8 hours (or less), NOT trying to cram a 40 hour work week into 4 days.

And obviously anyone who advocates for a 4 day work week knows it has to come with hourly wage increases so hourly workers don't get fucked over. Wages are way behind worker productivity as it is so there's no reason why we can't hugely increase wages to allow people to live well on 32 hours a week. Or less!

Once again a lot of people bizarrely assume the 40 hour workweek is somehow set in stone or the ideal standard and any changes we make have to work around that.

[salamanderinspace]

How Many Holes Make a Grave Digger?

short Good Omens season 2 fic. On Ao3 also.

(full disclosure: I didn't watch episodes 5 and 6.)

Elspeth tried to "be good." She went to a more reputable inn for the night, but only ordered corn porridge--that's what a good one does, yeah? Good and virtuous ladies don't make themselves fat on roast in the middle of the week. She only took one pint and turned in early. In the morning, she had a wash--something she never enjoyed, what with the cold and the damp creeping in her ears and making her feel all moldy.

When she went down to pay, she gave the barman a guinnea, and waited for her change at the bar. A lot of sad sacks were strewn around at midday, out of work and out of hope, burying themselves in ale. Some looked at her a little too long. Too too long, in fact, as the barman didn't return. "Oi!" she called. "My change, sir?" He didn't come out. What does a good and virtuous young woman do? she wondered. Certainly not go jumping over bars and making demands. She looked around, and as she did, luck would have it, she saw someone pass out the window. A constable. She ran him down, catching him on the sleeve, at which he drew his baton.

"What's this?" he barked.

"This innkeeper is jacking me for my change, sir," Elspeth explained. "I paid him a guinnea and he went in the back."

"Oh yeah?" He looked her up and down. "And where'd a rat like you get a guinnea? Found it in the gutter, didja? Run off or I'll take you to the station."

He seemed to mean it, so Elspeth did as she was told. She kept the rest of the money close, after that. She thought of going to a lawyer but couldn't be sure he wouldn't do just the same. No--she needed to look like a credible lady, first, so she went to a shop and ordered a dress. "Can't I just wear it out?" she asked.

"I've got to order the fabric," the tailor lady huffed. "And it'll take time to do the adjustments. You never bought a dress before?" She looked suspicious.

"Me mum handled all that," Elspeth lied. "Before she passed." The fib was automatic, and the urchin kicked herself after. Lying wasn't "being good," was it?

The lady said to come back next week, so it was another week sleeping in the gutter. Without Wee Morag to watch over her, Elspeth couldn't rest but in short snips, for the danger of men lurking. She developed a cough. In a week she fetched the dress and paid the hefty price for it, and with a hefty tip, the tailor let her have a wash there. "You're not going to ruin it with your filthy streaks," she said, but she looked sympathetic.

Elspeth went and got a bite to eat. She felt desperately sleepy, after, but still had nowhere to lay her head, and she figured she should go straight to a law office. "I'm here to buy a farm," she announced, after waiting on the hard chairs in the waiting room. Her dress was too warm in some places and too cool in others. She couldn't slouch properly in her chair, either, as that would pull on the laces.

"And your husband?" asked the law man, without looking up from his letters.

"Dead," Elspeth said. Another lie.

"Sorry to hear it," he said, not sounding sorry. "Well, what's the property in question?"

"Was hoping you'd help me find one."

"Were you?" He looked up at that, and raised a brow. "That can be a time-consuming matter," he said. "My hourly rate--"

"Yeah, I can pay," she answered.

"Very well. Come back next week, and we'll look at a few properties."

That bit went as smoothly as one could hope. Most places were out of Elspeth's price range, and she had to settle for a very wee lot with only a few sheep and chickens established. "Will you be needing to hire day labor?" the lawyer asked.

"Ah, no, I've got it," Elspeth said. She signed the papers and the lawyer left her with a bill. The house on the land was small and dark--no windows. The only nice thing about it was that she could hunt and fish at her leisure--though she'd have to teach herself how to do the fishing, as she'd never had a proper pole for it.

The days were long and lonely and hard. The lies came often. Merchants who wouldn't do business with an unwed woman. Merchants who tried to take her for twice the value of their goods. The money ran out before winter and she was forced to creep into the neighboring manor's coal-cellar and take a little, just a little, to get through. She imagined herself as a miner, digging for ores. Sometimes there was pretend and sometimes there were lies and it all ran together.

She'd imagine Wee Morag with her. Would talk to her, make jokes, even share a touch or two. She began to wonder, after all she'd seen with the two strange men in the graveyard and their dark magick, if spirits were a great deal realer than she'd thought when she was hawking corpses. She'd never seen a ghost, after all, not until … whatever those men were. On her market days she dawdled at the occultists' stall, and eventually struck up a conversation.

And her cough never really went away.

The days were a river of sameness. The same chores, the same dark and damp. She planted crops, which got blight and died. Paying the doctor for a bad lambing wiped out her savings. The sun rose and set and she drank and slept and it started to feel like there was very little reason not to go and get another vile of laudanum.

And if there was nothing to lose. What could it hurt to..?

That's how Elspeth found herself under the full moon, with the occultist and his eleven apprentices. The smell of charcoal and goat's blood, of briars and late-season lavender. The crisp air of October. Her heart beat with the chanting, the initiation. She called out to Wee Morag and felt her return. She swore herself to her Dark Master. She was no longer alone. She would never be alone again.

And she would never "be good."

[b-blushes]

yesterday i was talking to my friend about how wild it is to have maybe like an hour of fully lucid brain time per day if you're lucky. it's so hard to express when i'm not there (like now!) because of the nature of it! The contrast between being able to feel your brain working, to feel sharp, to feel coherent, to feel bright, and then to lose that in cycles like, hourly, daily, etc. Having very little control over it. when i've overdone it it's like - trying to have an internal monologue, asking myself questions, there's no 'reply' voice just white blank empty space where my internal words should be - typing nonsense (either substituting letters that don't make sense (autocorrect saving me on every third word in this post) or replacing words with others that i can't fathom how they're linked (like how did that one end up where X word should have been, they don't even sound the same) AND not being aware of it as you're typing. forget how to spell. - takes three hundred years to express a thought. if you were 'with it' you could just think it and say it. now i can't even figure out what i'm thinking without, like, a magnifying glass and the concentration of a giant (big) - has a physical sensation (like my brain is too big for my skull. not extremely painful per se but there's sensations there and it's not pleasant). also my head is swimming <- don't know how to translate that into a relatable concept to all the people that can't imagine that sensation (e.g. all the doctors who tell me they don't know what i'm talking about when i tell them this) - frustrating! i know what the lucidity feels like but cannot access it at my leisure. - 'weird' communication/language skills (autism) makes me sound a lot more idk. fancy and 'with it' than i actually am because i can't think of the most appropriate word and end up using long ones instead of being able to get across what i actually mean. people will be like 'you are so coherent i don't believe you', but can't see the gap between what i feel/am trying to say vs what comes out of my mouth due to the discrepancy between what i feel/am trying to say vs what comes out of my mouth. but i use big words so i must be fine at communicating :P - just have to go about daily life like this, no real confirmation if there's anything that can be done about it because i'm functional 'enough', but watch out! if you don't use all your powers to focus on the task at hand you will do things like injuring yourself in 'silly' (unusual to you) ways (grabbing hot things that you *know* just came out the oven, but you also didn't/couldn't keep that at the front of your mind for whatever reason so grabbed it like you would a regular non-180 degree celsius object)(breaking things because your coordination or something is gone)(hitting your head on things that you never even imagined you could bump into :P)

- the rest of the day feels like I’m just making stuff up to pass the time because I can’t do what I actually want to be doing (both mentally and physically). I put in a lot of effort to appreciate the granular mundane stuff but there’s SO many hours in the day and I can’t use them :P - hello???

Obviously not as bad right now as it is sometimes because I can type at all but :P it's fine this is normal for me. but when i think about it it's like. WHAT?! you know? :P