#and a number of combinations of these things

[sasquatchsightings]

Americans exported shit-tons of ice, moreso than pretty much all of Europe at the time iced drinks became feasible and popular. Like, the two biggest ice exporters were Norway and the US in the 19th and early 20th century. So Big Drink evolved naturally alongside Lots of Ice Available, but the other big contributor is Taco Bell. Two of the largest soft drink producers, Pepsi and Coca-Cola, are US-based. However, Coke has dominated the market for decades, so Pepsi tried to corner part of the fast food business by just owning some of those stores. (This is why you can have a combination Taco Bell-KFC-Pizza hut - all are owned by Pepsi.) One of Taco Bell's gimmicks was the idea of "free refills on Pepsi drinks." And soda is fucking cheap, so they weren't losing much by giving it away since the profit margin on drinks is already high. But it caused an anchoring effect - when you teach a large clientele that "soda can be sold in a way where the customer can get free refills" it quickly becomes "soda SHOULD be sold with free refills." Taco Bell basically found itself in the same boat Subway is in now in that they can't get away from the infamy of $5 Footlongs. The tricky thing was that by now, multiple other stores who sold competing Coke products had caught onto the same gimmick and similarly were stuck with the same problem. So if you can't get rid of the idea of free refills without pissing off your entire customer base, then how do you reduce the number of "free" refills people take? Give them a bigger initial cup. If they can't finish it, then either they will just toss it, or only take one refill rather than multiple. And thus, Americans developed a key part of their culture: Big Drink With Lots Of Ice, presented by the makers of Baja Blast.

truly the most american thing is Big Drink. more than late stage capitalism, more than an unparalleled cultural focus on individualism, more than 9/11 jokes

what binds all americans together culturally is Big Drink

and you might be saying "is this fat shaming" or "but mayor bloomberg outlawed Big Drink in nyc" or "gays are so annoying about their iced coffee" or some other dumb comment but no open your minds, Big Drink isn't just sugary or caffeinated beverages

every day i see one of you hydration bitches (affectionate) on the train with a water bottle so big a toddler could drown in it. that too is Big Drink. we literally invented a bigger beer can (tall boy) in wisconsin in the 60s in the service of Big Drink

anyway i never feel more american then when i have Big Drink in my hands

[nerdycheol]

Love in Half Tones || X.M.H

pairing: artist!minghao x ballerina! reader [afab] wc: 6k genre: angst, fluff, s2l, open ending

(a/n): this is for yuki's (@eclipsaria) 100 followers event. lovely banner by sana ( @sanaxo-o ). i started writing this with the la la land in mind. not beta read, so ignore any little mistakes! :)) banners by @cafekitsune

The first time you saw him, he was sitting on the floor with a pencil in his mouth and charcoal on his fingertips, like someone forgot to tell him the building had chairs.

You were halfway through your warm-up routine in Studio 3—pirouettes, pliés, the usual self-inflicted torment—when you noticed him through the window, seated right outside like a misplaced ghost. He was cross-legged, hunched over a sketchbook that looked older than both of you combined, with strands of blonde hair falling over his brow as he scribbled furiously.

You ignored him at first. Seoul was full of strange men with sketchbooks and too many opinions. But when you took your break and peeked through the glass, he was still there.

Still sketching.

Still watching.

Still completely oblivious to how weird this all looked.

“Are you drawing me?” you asked, cracking the door open.

He blinked, slowly. Then, as if you had just startled a deer in a museum, he clutched the sketchbook to his chest like it was a diary filled with embarrassing secrets.

“…No.”

You raised an eyebrow.

“That wasn’t very convincing.”

He exhaled through his nose—half sigh, half laugh—and stood. Taller than you expected. Wiry, paint-stained hoodie. Kind of beautiful in that accidental, “I haven’t slept in two days but I’m full of creative angst” kind of way.

“I was sketching your movement. Not you.”

“Oh, right. My movement.”

“No, really,” he said, holding out his sketchbook.

You reached for it, curious, and your breath hitched. It wasn’t a portrait. Not really. Just messy lines and smudges, rough outlines of limbs mid-motion. But somehow, it felt more like you than any photo ever had. Not your face. Not your body. But the way you moved. The way you felt when you were dancing. Untethered. Hungry.

It was unnerving how much he’d captured.

“I’m Minghao,” he said after a moment. “I work in the studio across the hall. Room 9.”

You nodded, slowly.

“I’m not hiring an artist,” you said, half-joking. “But… thanks for the free art.”

He grinned then—small, crooked, like he didn’t smile often but kind of liked it when he did.

“I’ll give you the sketch,” he offered, “if you let me sketch you again tomorrow.”

You blinked. “That’s your bargain?”

He shrugged. “It’s fair.”

“What if I ask for 10 sketches?”

“Then I’d say you’re greedy.”

“What if I ask for 100?”

He paused.

Then, softly—like he meant it more than you expected—he said, “Then I’ll draw 100.”

~~~~~~

You found yourself coming back earlier the next day, even though you told yourself it was just habit.

Minghao was already there, of course. He sat in the same spot, sketchbook open, eyes focused, like it was a routine you’d both been doing for years.

This time you let him in. He sat himself in the corner, placing his tote bag beside him—as if he’d already been there a hundred times before.

He didn’t say much, just lifted a hand in lazy acknowledgment and tapped his pencil twice on the paper. His way of saying go ahead.

And so, you danced.

You didn’t try to impress him—not at first. But he watched you like each movement mattered, like every toe-point and turn was worth memorizing. It was infuriating and addictive and flattering in ways you couldn’t articulate.

After an hour, when your muscles ached and your leotard clung to your spine, he finally spoke.

“That was number two.”

“Huh?”

He flipped the page. The next sketch was already forming—your leg mid-air, arm suspended like a question.

“You asked for 100.”

Your lips twitched. “You’re actually doing it?”

He glanced up. “You asked. And you didn’t seem like someone who asked for things lightly.”

The rain had been coming down since afternoon, and by the time your rehearsal ended, the studio windows were fogged and the outside world felt like a painting gone blurry. You linger longer than usual, doing slow stretches on the floor, already sore from the week but too restless to go home.

When the door creaks open, you already know who it is.

“You’re late,” you say, not bothering to look.

“I brought snacks,” Minghao replies, setting a paper bag on the bench near the mirror. “That makes me fashionably late.”

You arch a brow. “Is that a granola bar or something that will ruin my diet and make me spiral into an existential crisis at 2 a.m.?”

He pulls out a small box. “Rice cakes.”

You pause.

“…Okay, you’re forgiven.”

You sit side by side on the cool studio floor, your legs stretched out in front of you, the box of rice cake between you. He peels one open carefully and offers it like a peace treaty.

“You know,” he says after a while, “you don’t have to be here this late.”

“And you don’t have to be here at all.”

He shrugs. “Touché.”

You glance over at him. He’s in that same hoodie again—paint-stained, sleeves pushed up, sketchbook still within reach. He looks tired. The kind of tired that doesn’t come from a lack of sleep, but from chasing something invisible for too long.

You ask before you can stop yourself. “Why painting?”

He looks up at the ceiling. “Why breathing?”

You let out a small whine, nudging his shoulder.

He grins. “I mean it. It’s the only thing that makes me feel like I’m not wasting space.”

There’s a pause.

You nod, slowly. “That’s how dancing feels. When it’s good, I forget everything else.”

“And when it’s not?” You laugh, bitterly. “I remember everything I’m trying to outrun.”

He’s quiet at that. Then, he reaches for his sketchbook, flips it open, and holds it out to you.

Number 27. You’re in mid-leap, but this one’s different— your arms are wild, unbalanced, your expression vulnerable. You remember that day. You messed up your routine and nearly fell. You’d been furious.

“I wasn’t going to include this one,” he murmurs. “But there’s something real about it.”

You stare at the sketch, and for a second, you feel like crying. He sees that, too.

You don’t say thank you.

Instead, you hand him back the book and quietly say, “Draw number 100 like this.”

Minghao tilts his head. “You want the last one to be messy?”

“No,” you say. “I want it to be honest.”

He looks at you like he understands. Not just what you said, but all the things you didn’t.

It starts with a text. Or rather, the first text he ever sends you.

[minghao]: do you know the difference between ‘hot press’ and ‘cold press’ paper or am i going to cry in the aisle alone

You stare at the message, mid-bite of your late lunch, and laugh out loud. It's so aggressively him—blunt, art-related, vaguely poetic. You reply before you can second-guess it.

[you]: hot press is smooth. cold press has texture.

A pause.

[minghao]: you just saved me from an embarrassing breakdown in front of a high schooler with a sketchbook. owe you a coffee.

That’s how you find yourself at an art supply store you’ve never been to before, walking down aisles that smell like paper and graphite and wood shavings. You’re not sure if this counts as a "hangout" or a "favor," but the weird thing is… you kind of like it.

Minghao is in his element here–confident, calm, eyes scanning brushes and inks with something that borders on reverence.

“I could spend all my money in here,” he mutters, picking up a brush pen and squinting at the label.

“You do spend all your money in here,” you remind him.

He shrugs, unbothered. “Better than wasting it on therapy.”

You nudge him with your elbow. “That’s dark.”

“It’s true.”

You pick up a small watercolor palette, the kind you remember using when you were a kid.

“I used to love painting,” you say without thinking. “But I was terrible at it. Like, truly tragic.”

Minghao glances at you, then takes the palette from your hands and drops it into his basket.

“What are you doing?” “Reviving a childhood dream.” “I wasn’t being serious.” “I know.” He smirks. “But you looked happy for a second. You should do that more often.”

You’re not sure what to say to that, so you don’t say anything at all.

~~~~~~~

You end up at a park nearby, sitting cross-legged on the grass with your impromptu art supplies and two iced Americanos between you (ice americano that you bought, you just let it be on his tab—he did buy you watercolors though)

“I haven’t done this since I was ten,” you mutter, dipping the brush into water and making a blotchy flower that looks more like a melting starfish.

“It’s art,” Minghao says, watching you paint with a grin. “There’s no wrong way.”

You raise a brow. “That’s cute. Is that what you tell yourself when your rent’s due?”

He lets out a dry laugh. “That, and ‘starving artist’ is just a cute way of saying ‘life is on fire.’”

You both laugh harder than you probably should. It felt like exhaling after holding your breath all week.

At some point, your shoulder brushed his. Neither of you moved away. At some point, the conversation shifted— small things, old dreams, the kind of people you both used to be before the world became about making it. At some point, the sun began to set. And for a moment, you don’t feel like a ballerina with aching knees and pressure pressing into your spine. You just feel like a person. Sitting next to another person. Painting ugly little stars and sipping iced coffee and forgetting how hard everything usually feels.

Minghao looks over at you.

“You’re different when you’re not dancing,” he says, soft enough to get caught in the wind.

You meet his gaze, surprised. “Is that a good thing?”

He shrugs, but his eyes don’t leave yours. “It’s a real thing.”

You look away first.

But that night, when you go home and see the little paint-stained napkin he left in your bag— a quick doodle of you painting with your tongue sticking out, you smile. And you fold it carefully, like it’s already meant to be kept.

You started staying later after rehearsals. Sometimes he painted while you stretched on the floor, your legs aching in that way that hurt so good. Other times, you danced just for him—no music, no mirrors, just the rhythm of his pencil following the cadence of your breath. He painted you in color then.

“I thought you hated painting with color,” you said one night. “I did,” he said. “Then I met you.” You tried to roll your eyes. You failed.“Do you always flirt through paint?” “It’s cheaper than flowers.” “You’re terrible.” “Maybe. But you keep showing up.”

You didn’t know when it started—this thing between you. Maybe it was the first sketch. Maybe it was the short strolls in the park. Maybe it was the first time he caught you crying quietly in the hallway after a failed audition and said nothing, just handed you his hoodie and walked away.

But when he fell asleep with his head on your shoulder and paint smudged your jacket, you let it happen. When he texted you “walk?” at midnight, you got out of bed and went. And when you caught him staring at you like you were a miracle he didn’t deserve— You didn’t look away.

It happened on the rooftop. It was late, and you were both bundled in mismatched hoodies—his was too big, yours too thin. The city hummed quietly beneath your feet, neon signs flickering like tired fireflies. He had brought up two paper cups of vending machine cocoa. They tasted faintly like metal and childhood.

You were seated side by side, legs dangling off the edge. “I didn’t get the part,” you said. You hadn’t meant to say it out loud. But the words fell out, softer than you thought they’d be. “The solo.”

Minghao stayed quiet for a moment. “They’re idiots.” You let out a small laugh. “Thanks.” He tilted his head, gazing out at the skyline. “It’s their loss. Not yours.” You nodded, unsure of what to say. The wind wrapped around your fingers. He noticed, and without a word, took your hand and tucked it into the pocket of his hoodie.

It was quiet again, but not uncomfortable. You glanced at him. His profile was all soft lines and shadows, like someone had carved him out of a memory. His eyes were half-lidded, thoughtful.

“There’s something I need to tell you,” he said. Your heart tripped a little. “Okay.” “I like you,” he said softly, like the truth had been waiting at the edge of his throat all this time. “I’ve liked you for a while.” You smiled. “I was wondering when you would say that.”

Minghao looked at you—a little in shock. “What…do you mean?” “The sneaky looks at me every time I do a pirouette, the way you leave more than half the food for me even when you haven’t eaten. Sure, those might not be obvious signs, but I… I really did wish you liked me too.” He didn’t say anything—just kept looking at you. “What I’m saying is I like you too, you idiot.” “Ah,” was all he said after your biggest-yet confession.

“Really? That’s all you have to say? Ah? Dude, when a girl says she likes you back, it’s basic manners to—” Your words got cut off by a small peck on your lips.

“Thank you for liking me.” Minghao let out a small smile, intertwined his fingers with yours, and tucked them back into the huge pocket of his hoodie.

And just like that, everything felt a little easier. The cocoa didn’t taste as bad, the wind didn’t feel as cold, and his hoodie pocket was suddenly your favorite place in the world. You leaned your shoulder against his, and he didn’t pull away.

The first time you stayed over, it wasn’t planned. You were meant to drop off his scarf—left behind in the studio, again—but it was freezing outside, and he had just made instant noodles, and somehow one episode turned into three. By the time the credits rolled, it was past 2AM and you were curled up on his futon under a borrowed blanket that smelled like turpentine and dryer sheets.

You woke up first.

It was disorienting at first—your toes were cold, your leg was tangled with his, and Minghao’s arm was flopped over your waist like a sleepy seatbelt. You didn’t move. His apartment was silent, save for the soft hum of the space heater and the occasional traffic from below. Paintings lined the wall like sleepy spectators. One of them was of you—number 62, you thought. Your favorite one.

You finally shifted to sit up, and he grumbled something into the pillow. You glanced down.

“Did you say ‘don’t go’ or ‘don’t touch my toast’?” He peeked at you through one barely-open eye. “Both.” You laughed, real and messy, and his mouth curved even before his eyes fully opened.

Ten minutes later, you were making breakfast together in the world’s smallest kitchen. He claimed he “didn’t cook,” and you quickly realized he was telling the truth. He handed you an onion like it was a foreign object.

“I’m just here for moral support,” he said, sitting on the counter, feet dangling. “Oh, yeah? You’re doing amazing. Great job breathing air and all.” He raised his coffee cup in salute.

You made scrambled eggs with too much pepper and toast that was slightly burnt, and he declared it “honestly not that bad,” which you took as the highest praise. You ate on the floor because there was no table, knees bumping, sunlight warming your legs through the window.

“I could get used to this,” he said suddenly, mid-bite. You glanced up. “What, burnt toast?” He shrugged. “That, and you being here.” You let out a shy smile, bit into the toast, and nudged his knee with yours.

Later, he sat cross-legged on the floor, sketchbook open, and you lay with your head in his lap while he doodled. You asked what he was drawing. He didn’t show you.

“You’ll see when it’s finished,” he said, poking your forehead with the end of his pencil.

“Let me guess—me, looking incredibly majestic, holding a spatula?” “No.” “Me riding a dragon in my leotard?” He laughed. “I’m drawing your hands.”

You paused. “My hands?” “Yeah. You do a lot with them. Point. Gesture. Fix your hair when you’re nervous. Crack your knuckles when you’re pissed.”

You were quiet for a second. “Okay, weirdo specific much?” “It’s not weird. That’s because I watch you too much.”

You moved away from his lap and sat beside him, leaning your back on the sofa as you looked at his sketching. “Oh god, I’ve got a stalker now,” you sighed, locking his arms with yours and resting your head on his shoulder. “Your boyfriend, not a stalker,” he said, poking your head with the back of his pencil and returning to his work.

You looked up at him. He met your eyes, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. There was something unspoken, warm, and steady between you. You closed your eyes and fell asleep in the middle of a sketch, the last thing you heard being his pencil moving—slow, soft, careful.

You fell into something soft with him. Not whirlwind, not obsessive—just everyday steady. Morning texts that said “eat something,” paint smudges on your arms from hugging him mid-work, his thumb brushing your cheek after rehearsals when you were too tired to speak. He came to your late-night showcases, sat on worn chairs with a notebook in his lap. You dragged him to early Sunday markets and pretended to argue over the ripest strawberries. Sometimes, you lay around doing nothing, legs tangled, your laugh echoing into his collarbone like it was made to land there.

That night, you were in his room. His sketchbook lay half-open on the floor, forgotten. The lamp threw warm light across the ceiling. You were curled up beside him, your head on his chest, his fingers absently tracing yours — fingertip to knuckle, again and again. His hand was cold. Yours were nervous.

You inhaled slowly. “Hey,” you said. “Mm?” You bit your cheek. “I got offered a residency. Three years.” His fingers paused. “Where?” “Berlin.” You watched his face, but it stayed unreadable. “Oh.” He nodded. “That’s… cool.” You blinked. “That’s it?” He shrugged. “I mean, you’ve been wanting something like this for ages. It’d be weird if you didn’t.” You sat up slowly, frowning. “What’s that supposed to mean?” “I’m just saying,” he said, still lying down, still too calm, “you’ve been wanting this for ages.” You stared at him. “You sound like I told you I’m going to the store. Not that I’m leaving for three years.” He sat up now too, propping himself on one arm. “What do you want me to say?” “Something!” you snapped. “Anything! I tell you I’m leaving the country, and you barely blink. Is this how little I matter to you?” “That’s not fair,” he muttered. You were already getting to your feet. “No, what’s not fair is me being with someone who won’t even try. Who’s always stuck—always saying ‘someday’ and then getting weird the moment I actually move forward.” His jaw tightened. “Don’t.” “You don’t do anything, Minghao. You stay here and draw and talk about dreams like they’re too delicate to touch. At least I’m trying. At least I’m not scared.”

The silence that followed was instant, and thick.

You hadn’t planned to say that. You didn’t even know you were holding it. But now it was out there, hanging between you, awful and cold.

Minghao didn’t speak. He didn’t even look at you.

You grabbed your bag, chest tight with something worse than anger now. “I’ll let you know when I leave. You can decide if that’s worth reacting to.” And then you left. The door closed harder than you meant it to. Words echoed behind you. Ones you wished you could take back—but didn’t.

You didn’t talk to him for three days. It felt… off. Empty. Like someone had left a window open in your chest and all the warmth had slipped out. Maybe it was because you’d already woven him into the routine of your days. Or maybe it was because you couldn’t stop replaying what you said — the sharp, unkind words you threw at him like weapons when all he did was go quiet. You tried to push it away, but nothing felt right. The silence wasn’t space — it was distance. And you didn’t want to be far from him. Not like that.

So on the third night, after rehearsal, you took the long walk to his place, even though your legs ached and your throat was dry and you still didn’t know what you’d say when you saw him.

You didn’t have to knock. He opened the door before your fist landed, like he knew you’d come. He looked tired. But he stepped aside to let you in. Neither of you spoke at first.

Then you sat on the edge of his bed and said quietly, “I’m sorry.” He stood near the desk, hands in his pockets. His eyes softened, just a little. “I know,” he said. “Me too.” You chewed your lip. “I shouldn’t have said those things. About you. About… not trying. That wasn’t fair.”

Minghao walked over slowly and knelt in front of you. Took your hands. Gently. “You were angry. You wanted me to care.” “I did,” you admitted. “I wanted you to say something, anything. I felt like I was leaping into something huge and you were just... watching me go.” He looked up at you, eyes steady. “That’s not what I was doing.”

Your throat tightened.

“I didn’t want to hold you back,” he said, voice low. “But I never wanted you to think I didn’t care. I just... didn’t know how to show it without making it harder to leave.” You blinked fast. “There’s no problem between us anymore, right?”

He didn’t answer right away. Just rose to sit beside you, his hand still wrapped around yours. “Not if you stay tonight.” You looked at him, then you nodded. “I will.”

You both moved at the same time, like always — into a hug that was more relief than romance, his arms around your waist, your face tucked into the side of his neck. “I missed you,” you whispered. He pressed a kiss into your hair. “I missed you, too.”

You pulled back just enough to see his face, eyes searching his. Then, quietly, without hesitation, you kissed him. His hand came up to your cheek, warm and steady, like he was grounding you—like he was reminding you that you weren’t alone in this. When you pulled back, your foreheads rested together, and for the first time in days, everything felt quiet again— the good kind.

You smiled, just a little. “We’re okay now… right?” He nodded, barely. “Yeah,” he murmured, brushing his nose against yours. “We’re okay.”

Things did not in fact feel okay. Minghao began spending time at his studio more often these days and said he didn’t have time to meet up as he had to submit a piece as soon as possible, which was surprising, really, because even though he used to swamped with work earlier he still made time to atleast see you in your studio or atleast walk home together. You were happy for him, really. But you felt that work had started to come between you. 

You both had started to talk less— have a minute conversation here and there, the kisses and hugs also began to decrease. There became a tension in your routine— conversations felt strained, it felt like walking on eggshells. And you were yet to talk about your offer in berlin. 

Your relationship started bleeding into your work.

You forgot steps more often now — the same routines your body once moved through like second nature now required second guesses. You spaced out mid-plié, gaze unfocused, fingers trembling slightly as you held onto the barre. During warm-ups, your limbs moved, but your mind was elsewhere — somewhere quieter, heavier, where Minghao's name echoed without permission.

Your teammates noticed.

Someone whispered your name during cooldown, concern written all over their face. “Are you okay? You seem... off lately.”

You offered a small smile, the kind meant to dismiss worry. “I’m fine. Just tired.”

They didn’t believe you. You could tell. But they didn’t press either — maybe out of respect, maybe out of fear of pushing too far. You were grateful for that. You didn’t think you could say it out loud yet.

But as you tied your shoes that evening, the laces slipping through your fingers twice, you made up your mind.

You couldn’t keep carrying the weight of what wasn’t being said. Not alone.

You would talk to him. Today.

Even if he was tired. Even if he didn’t want to hear it. Even if it meant finally speaking the thing you’d been swallowing for weeks now.

You needed to know where you stood — whether this was just a phase, or the beginning of the end.

So you packed your bag, heart pounding heavier with each zip, and left the studio, the cold air biting at your cheeks as you walked.

You were going to his apartment. Not to fight or cry. Just to ask — honestly, “Are we still okay?”

But things do not go as you plan, do they? You decided to go to both your favourite burger place and do some take-outs. You thought maybe, if you brought dinner and showed up with something familiar, it might be easier to talk. You wouldn’t sit across from each other like strangers at a table, wouldn’t have to look too directly at the things you were both avoiding.

But when you reach his apartment, you see him, with a woman.

You freeze, instinctively ducking behind the nearest parked car. You don’t know why — there’s no reason to hide. You trust Hao… You do. But your body moves before your thoughts catch up.

She’s standing close to him, a pretty woman with shoulder-length hair and a laugh that rings across the street. She places a hand on his arm, fingers brushing over the curve of his bicep. He doesn’t pull away.

And what’s worse is that he’s laughing too. You don’t remember the last time you saw him this carefree. Not with you.

Your chest tightens, but you can’t tell if it’s from hurt, or shame, or the sharp sting of something that feels a lot like jealousy. The burger bags in your hands feel stupid now, so do you.

You stand up quickly, ducking your head, and walk away.

You don’t call him. Don’t send a message. Don’t even check to see if he’s noticed you. You just walk until the cold settles into your coat and your fingers are numb and the ache in your chest drowns out everything else.

You throw the food away two blocks later.

That night, you lie awake and scroll through your old photos together. You keep telling yourself there’s probably an explanation — maybe she’s a gallery assistant or a client. But even so, that image of them — him smiling, her laughing keeps looping behind your eyelids.

You don’t speak to him for two days. Not out of anger because you’re not even sure what you’d be angry about. 

He texts you once, asking how rehearsal went. You type out “fine” but never send it.

You tell yourself it’s because you’re tired orr busy. But the truth is, you’re scared that if you open your mouth, everything you’ve been holding back will spill out at once and you won’t know how to stop it.

The Berlin offer sits in your bag for days, folded neatly in an envelope, its edges beginning to bend and soften from being carried around like a secret.

You finally bring it up on a Thursday night.

You’re both on his couch — a rare moment where neither of you is running off to something else. He’s sketching absentmindedly in his notebook, head down, brows slightly furrowed, while some documentary murmurs from the TV.

You take a quick breath before saying, “i decided to accept it.”

He shoots you a confused look. “The Berlin offer. I decided to take it.”

That makes him pause. You can see the way his pencil stills in his hand, “That’s great.”

“I’ll be gone forr three years, hao.”

Minghao closes his sketchbook and puts it on the teapoy in front of you. You watch him, your heart pressing against your ribs. He leans forward slightly, resting his elbows on his knees, his fingers laced together like he’s trying to anchor himself.

Finally he speaks, “three years is a long time.”

You nod. Then the silence that follows is thick.

“I want you to come with me.”

He looks at you, waiting for you to continue. “There’s this friend of my friend— he is a curator in a big gallery there. I could ask him to arrange something for you.”

You know he’s not going to accept— hao was a firm believer of reaching the heights on your own. But you still hoped that he’d say yes, say he can’t stay apart from you.

“I… i can’t. They want to give me my own show. and you know how hard i worked for this— i just can’t give up now.”

You knew it already but knowing you can’t stay apart from him and not get hurt. So you say what you think is the best for the both of you.

“I don’t want to hold you in a strained, long-distance relationship. I won’t ask you to wait for me.”

You say it like a truth. Because it is one. And because love, you’ve learned, sometimes looks like letting go before it turns into something you both begin to resent.

His head lifts slightly, and this time, his eyes find yours.

“I wouldn’t want you to,” he says. His voice is even, but not cold. “You’re meant to go.”

You blink hard.

“I still love you,” you whisper. “That hasn’t changed.”

His lips twitch in the faintest smile. “I know. I love you too.”

You reach for his hand, fingers barely brushing against his. And even that small touch feels like something unraveling.

He pulls you into a hug — arms warm and firm, chin resting on your shoulder like always. You close your eyes and try to memorize the feeling of him. His scent, the sound of his heartbeat, the quiet way he holds you like he doesn’t want to let go.

When you’re at the door, you hear him call your name.

When you turn around, Minghao is already reaching for something — a sketchbook on the shelf, one of the older ones with worn edges. He flips through it carefully, until he pulls out a single sheet tucked between the pages. 

A drawing.

You recognize it instantly — it’s you. Caught mid-spin, arms lifted above your head, eyes closed in some distant joy. You don’t remember when he sketched it, but he must’ve been watching. He always watched you like that, like you were something he didn’t want to forget.

He walks over and gently places it in your hands.

“The ninety-ninth,” he says softly.

You blink. “Ninety-ninth?”

A faint smile curves his lips, “this is the last one. Guess we couldn’t make it till the hundredth one.”

You look down at the drawing, trying hard to hold back the tears. Your fingers curl around the page.

“Thank you,” you whisper.

There’s nothing else to say, really. You press the drawing to your chest and step outside.

He doesn’t follow. He just stays by the door, watching you walk away.

You don’t look back, because you know if you do, your knees might give in.

Living in Berlin was nice. The people were kind in a quiet, polite way, and the air always smelled faintly like rain or coffee. Your days blurred between rehearsals, costume fittings, and back-to-back performances. You missed home. More than that, you missed him.

You hadn’t contacted Minghao after leaving. He didn’t come to see you at the airport the day you left. You still thought of him. When you were walking home late after a show, when you saw couples crossing the street — holding hands, when you passed someone sketching on a park bench. You wondered how he was — if he still thought of you.

It was a quiet afternoon. You were curled up on the studio couch, scrolling through your phone, when your friend Clara walked in, excited about some gallery opening she’d been invited to.

“Big deal, apparently,” she said, waving a folded pamphlet in the air. “The artist’s finally doing a public show after years. Really selective. I heard even Vogue Deutschland is covering it.” You barely glanced up, offering a tired smile. “You and your galleries.” Clara laughed and tossed the pamphlet on the cushion beside you. “Just look at it before you judge.”

You picked it up without thinking, thumbing through the folds. And then you saw it.

His name. Xu Minghao. Your heart skipped a beat. The letters blurred for a moment — your eyes trying to catch up with your thoughts. There was no picture, but you knew it was him. The world quieted around you. Even Clara’s excited rambling faded to a hum. You stared at the flyer, frozen, as something you had carefully buried began to rise again.

~~~~

You didn’t tell Clara you were going. She ended up getting sick the night before anyway, so you offered to swing by the exhibit in her place, dropping casual excuses about needing a walk and having nothing else planned. You dressed in something simple — a long coat, clean lines, ballet flats. You pulled your hair back the way he used to like it, but you pretended that wasn’t why.

The gallery was nestled on a quiet street off Kurfürstendamm. Minimalist signage, white brick walls, and warm yellow lights glowing from inside. You stepped inside. It was quiet. Soft jazz filtered through invisible speakers. There was a small crowd, polite murmurs bouncing between the whitewashed walls. People were sipping wine and leaning in to look at sketches — all black-and-white.

You moved slowly, almost afraid to look too closely. And then, near the center, you found the title piece. The 100th.

You stood in front of it for a long time. Your eyes started tearing up before you even knew it. Everything inside you — the years, the distance, the silence — began to collapse inward. There was a murmur behind you. A couple chatting softly. “…that’s the one he finished just a few months ago, right?” “Yeah. Heard he kept it unfinished for years. Said he couldn’t close the series until he was ready.”

You swallowed. Your mouth went dry. You turned your head, slow and cautious, and your heart stumbled. There he was.

Standing just across the room, half turned in conversation with the gallery owner. He hadn’t noticed you yet. His hands were tucked into the pockets of his coat, hair falling slightly into his eyes. He was laughing at something the man said — that quiet, crinkled kind of laugh you remembered too well. He looked… good. Older. Still Minghao. You didn’t know what you were feeling. Grief? Relief?

You didn’t move. Just watched him — a ghost of a thousand memories painted into one man, standing not five steps away. He laughed again, but then… he glanced up. And his eyes found yours.

His words faltered mid-sentence. He stopped. Everything around you seemed to fall silent — the murmurs, the clinking glasses, the velvet footsteps on gallery floors. It was just you, him. And the weight of all the years between. And then, he smiled — warm. Which you couldn’t help but return. And in that quiet moment — with a hundred drawings on the wall and strangers walking between you — that was enough.

join my permanent taglist

[horsefigureoftheday]

Do you have to look up these horses or do you just know them off the top of your head? (Either way is impressive!!)

I don't know the numbers by heart, but I can recognize some brands (like Schleich and Breyer) instantly, and I have a lot of background knowledge to narrow down other brands.

I really don't forget a plastic horse. Even if I can't remember the name of the brand/model, I always remember the model itself, and I can usually track down the post/site/catalog where I saw it.

If I haven't seen a horse before, I can usually narrow it down to a few brands by appearance alone. Like, there's only a few companies that do semi-realistic figures of high-quality plastic with multilayered paint jobs and are prolific enough to show up at regular toy stores. If I figure fits those criteria it's usually either Schleich, Mojo, Papo, CollectA, or Safari. There's other brands that make really high quality figures, like Bullyland and Chap Mei, but you rarely find those at stores - at least not outside of Europe.

All brands also have certain stylistic traits that are hard to put into words. Like, a Chap Mei draft horse just has a different vibe than a Mojo draft horse, even if I can't really put my finger on why.

idk, it's just a skill you pick up gradually, like bird or mushroom identification. My brain latched onto plastic horses instead of something useful, like botany, but it's all the same skill. The human brain has crazy pattern recognition skills (i.e. "I can't tell you why but I just know these things are different/similar") and spatial memory (i.e. "where did I see that thing again?"), and when you combine that with toy collecting and horsetism you get this.

[anon-188]

series: the playboy’s edition 🖤 — ch. 2

pairing: AJ x f!reader | status: ongoing

series masterlist

series summary: you're an editor. he's a headache headline. and for the next two weeks, you're stuck together. what could possibly go wrong?

chapter warnings: strong language, light alcohol consumption.

a/n: AJ West has arrived. is that good or bad??? you tell me… 😉 i rewrote this like twice lmao. i hope you guys like it!! enjoyyy 🖤

⟢ the playboy’s edition: ch. 1 | ch. 3 (coming soon!)

By 11:30, you were seething.

Profiling AJ West meant too many things—all of which spun your head in different directions. It started with your job. Vivienne hadn’t just cleared your schedule for the day. She’d cleared it for the next two weeks. Just wiped it clean like it was nothing. Meetings? Gone. Interviews? Pushed. The projects you were actually invested in? No longer your problem.

And then there was Savannah—reassigned, just like that. “For the duration of your trip,” Vivienne had said, breezily, as if this were some all-expenses-paid getaway. Like spending two weeks tethered to AJ West, of all people, was something you would choose to do.

A fucking trip.

You scoffed just thinking about it.

And AJ himself? Don’t even get started.

There was a reason you’d never mentioned him in your column. Actually, you could probably give ten. But the main one? You didn’t trust anyone without a past. Not publicly. Not privately.

That was your job, wasn’t it? To look closer. To find the slant worth writing about—the angle beneath the gloss. 

So no, you didn’t trust someone who managed to make millions, no, billions, with a name that sounded like he pulled it from some online generator.

This was a man with global partnerships and more influence than half the Forbes list combined—and still, somehow, no traceable origin story that didn’t feel like it had been rewritten a dozen times and run through legal. 

How could someone build an empire without leaving a footprint? Be the face of power with none of the baggage?

Vivienne had looked at you like you were the crazy one when you pointed it out. Like AJ West was some kind of holy grail—too pristine to question.

Which was bullshit.

But what really sent you over the edge?

The car.

More specifically, the car sent to pick you up.

“Good morning. I’m here on behalf of Mr. West,” the driver had said, all polite and well-rehearsed as he stepped around the sleek front of the vehicle to greet you outside of the AURUM building. His name was Easton—first or last, you didn’t know—but what you did know was that he was AJ West’s personal driver.

He had said so. Plain and simple.

AJ West had actually sent his personal driver to pick you up.

And the vehicle? A black Range Rover Autobiography. 

Windows tinted to an almost obsidian opacity. The paint, glossy enough to reflect the entire street like a mirror. Inside, it was all smooth leather, gleaming trim, and silence designed to mute the outside world.

You shifted in the seat as Easton pulled into traffic, your eyes catching on the stitching beneath you. Immaculate, of course. The kind of detail meant to impress people who cared about things like that.

An eye roll came before you could stop it, something you had a feeling would become a regular occurrence over the next two weeks.

You had every intention of driving yourself. Like a normal person. Not being chauffeured around like some pampered accessory in a billionaire’s itinerary. Especially not for a man you already couldn’t stand.

This was supposed to be an opportunity. You knew that. A career-defining assignment, Vivienne had called it. And deep down, you knew she was right. AJ West was, by every professional measure, the kind of feature that turned bylines into brand names. His reach, his image, his name alone could catapult the January issue into record numbers.

But still—the devil wears Prada, right?

Only this time it was Dolce. Rolex. And Tom Ford black ties with matching custom suits.

“Fuck me,” you muttered under your breath, turning your head to look out the window.

“I’m sorry, miss. I didn’t catch that,” Easton said from the front, voice smooth and annoyingly polite.

“Nothing. Sorry,” you replied quickly, forcing the edge from your voice as you sank a little deeper into the seat.

You shook your head and tried to refocus.

Without really thinking, you reached into your work bag and pulled out the thin folder marked West, AJ. You’d already read it—twice, actually—but right now, it was less about the information and more about not unraveling.

So you flipped it open, fingers moving silently through the sparse pages.

The file was practically hollow. No real details, no flaws. Just clean lines and controlled messaging. A PR masterpiece and your worst nightmare.

You exhaled slowly and pushed the thought from your mind.

Not now.

Frustrating as it was, this was still your assignment. Which meant doing the job—even if every part of you wanted to be anywhere else. 

You swallowed your pride—barely—and sat back, letting the silence stretch.

Eventually, the car rolled to a slow stop in front of Lexford Tower.

AJ West’s glass fortress.

It stretched high above the city. Prestigious, formidable, and impossible to miss. The top floors belonged to West & Vale Capital, and somewhere up there—behind one of those pristine panes of glass—was his office. 

Even higher? His penthouse. You weren’t sure which word made your eye twitch more.

Easton stepped around to open your door.

“Thank you,” you said, slipping your bag onto your shoulder before stepping out and heading toward the entrance.

The front doors were massive. A revolving circle of glass and chrome set into the black stone facade. They spun slowly, purposefully, like the building itself had a schedule too important to rush.

Inside, the lobby was dark luxury in every direction—charcoal walls, deep espresso wood accents, a soft undercurrent of musk and tonka in the air. Everything was refined, intentional, and cold in a way that screamed money without trying too hard.

You didn’t make it five steps before a woman greeted you with a bright, practiced smile.

“Welcome, Miss Y/L/N.” Her voice was smooth, professional.

“Hi,” you replied, a little caught off guard that she knew exactly who you were.

“Elena,” she added, stepping to the side as she motioned for you to follow. “Mr. West is expecting you. Right this way.”

And just like that, you were moving again, heels tapping softly across the dark marble floor as you followed Elena toward the far corner of the lobby. The elevator was almost hidden in plain sight—clean lines, so understated it blended into the wall.

Once inside, Elena pulled a slim badge from the lanyard tucked beneath her blazer, scanned it against the panel, and waited for the soft beep that followed. The floor numbers lit up in a pale gold glow, and she pressed the button for the 54th floor. 

The doors slid shut with a quiet hush, and the elevator began to rise in silence. Only a faint hum of classical music filled the space—something delicate and string-heavy, probably chosen to keep tempers low and luxury high.

You shifted your weight slightly, letting your gaze move across the walls. Black lacquer. Brushed gold accents. Everything was streamlined. Elegant without being showy. Cold, but expensive.

The parallel was almost too obvious.

No unnecessary detail. No excess.

Just like him.

When the doors slid open, the 54th floor unfolded like the rest of the building—precise and deliberate. Deep colored walls. Matte black fixtures. The same weightless opulence you’d seen downstairs, only elevated. Literally and otherwise.

You stepped out, posture sharpening instantly—spine straight, shoulders drawn back. 

This was AJ West’s domain. Controlled. Luxurious. Intimidating. Every inch of space was crafted to reflect him without needing to say a word.

Elena led you to the receptionist’s desk, where she exchanged a few hushed words with the woman seated behind it—sleek bun, flawless makeup, not a single thing out of place.

You didn’t mean to eavesdrop. But standing this close, it was impossible not to hear it.

 “…just finishing up with legal,” the receptionist murmured, her voice crisp but quiet. “It’s a standard NDA—nothing to worry about.”

Standard. Right.

More like a morning-after clause dressed in business casual. 

You arched a brow, but kept your mouth shut.

The receptionist offered a placid smile, tapping something into her keyboard. “He’s clear now. You can send her in.”

Elena gave a subtle tilt of her head, then turned to you with a softer tone.

“Would you like me to take your coat?”

There was an ease in her voice, polite in a way that made the transition feel seamless.

You slid the coat from your shoulders and handed it over with a quiet, “Thanks.”

Then you were handed off again. Another woman appeared—equally polished, dressed in soft neutrals that matched the rest of the floor. She turned without a word and started down the hall. You followed, your heels muffled by the thick runner beneath your feet.

Finally, she stopped in front of a set of tall double doors. With one gentle push, she opened them and stepped aside.

“Take a seat. Mr. West will be with you shortly,” she said, offering a soft smile that felt just as rehearsed as everything else.

You gave a small nod, stepping into the office as the doors clicked shut behind you.

The room was draped in dark tones—muted, but rich. A continuation of the building’s aesthetic, but more personal somehow. The only real light came from the wall of windows stretching across the front of the room. Floor-to-ceiling glass pulled in the last of the morning light, casting a cool haze across polished surfaces.

The scent hit you next.

Warm and structured. There was cardamom, maybe, and something fresh. But under it all, it was grounded with a smoky pull. It didn’t match the scent in the lobby—this was different. You figured it was whatever fragrance had been chosen for the space, something intentional to match the rest of it. 

Subtle, but you liked it more than you expected to.

You moved farther in, eyes sweeping the space. Everything was perfectly placed—the desk spotless, the shelves arranged with just the right number of books and curated objects. Not a thing out of line.

If he actually did business in here, it sure as hell didn’t look like it.

Finally, you moved to one of the leather chairs across from his desk. You slipped your bag from your shoulder and placed it on the floor beside you, letting your hands rest lightly on your knees.

And in the same breath, the door opened behind you.

Reflex pulled you to your feet, hands smoothing over your clothes as you turned.

Then you saw him.

AJ West walked in like the air shifted to make room for him. Not dramatically. Not loudly. Just enough for the energy to tilt, the room recognizing its owner the moment he stepped inside. His suit was black, perfectly cut, and tailored so precisely it looked like it had been sculpted straight onto him.

His hair—light brown, thick—was styled back with a lift that bordered on effortless. The warm, golden undertones caught the light when he moved, highlighting the angles of his cheekbones and the sharp line of his jaw.

He tilted his head slightly, as if responding to a thought only he could hear, then lifted a hand to adjust the collar of his shirt with a quick flick of his fingers.

And there, just barely visible, you caught it: a flash of ink beneath the collar. A tattoo. Faint, but defined. It disappeared just as fast, the collar falling back into place like it had never happened.

His expression gave nothing away. No emotion. No acknowledgment. Just the same composed stillness you’d seen in every headline photo and profile. 

But his jaw told a different story—it was locked tight. Set like control was something he wore just as deliberately as his suit.

He crossed the room without pause, every step fluid and assured, like even the floor had been built to match his pace. Not once did he look your way. He just kept moving, straight toward the corner bar by the window. 

There, he poured a two-finger measure of whiskey into a crystal glass, the liquid catching in the light as it splashed softly against the sides.

Then he turned—his back to you, gaze fixed on the skyline. One hand wrapped around the glass, the other tucked neatly into his pocket. Like the view outside deserved more attention than the person standing in his office.

You watched him. Watched the way he sipped so casually, so unaffected, and something in you tightened.

Your tongue pressed against your cheek, a dry, humorless laugh slipping out as you lowered yourself back into the chair. You crossed your legs, reached into your bag, and pulled out your notepad, setting it on your lap. The click of your pen followed—precise, pointed, just loud enough to make a statement.

And then the real one broke through—

“Whiskey before noon. Bold choice. I’ll be sure to list that under ‘eccentric habits,’” you said, not bothering to hide the sarcasm as your pen moved against the page.

The comeback came instantly, like he’d been waiting for it.

“That’s interesting,” he said, voice steady and unimpressed. “Commenting on bold choices while wearing Louboutins to a meeting.”

The glass rose to his lips again, his posture unchanged. Still facing the window. Still completely unbothered.

You let the words sink in, your mouth pressing into a flatter line as you inhaled slowly. Your eyes narrowed at his back before you let out the softest scoff.

Asshole.

The word burned quietly in the back of your mind. No less sharp just because it went unspoken.

“I wore them to work,” you snapped, the bite slipping back into your voice. “Then ended up in this meeting with you.” 

Your fingers tightened around your pen, but you didn’t look away. “You walk around in pressed Armani suits, but what—draw the line at red soles?”

That made him chuckle—quiet, brief, and completely devoid of warmth.

“No,” he said, setting the glass down on the bar with a clink that somehow sounded final. “I draw the line at people who think fashion statements mean substance.”

Then he turned.

No longer just a figure in the room, he faced you fully now, stepping away from the bar with the ease of someone who never second-guessed their own presence. His eyes—blue and unflinching—locked onto yours as he moved toward you like the rest of the room didn’t exist.

You reached down, placing your notebook onto the leather chair beside you, and rose. Not out of politeness. Not out of professionalism. You stood because something in you refused to be looked down on. Especially by him.

“Funny,” you said, voice cool but edged in disdain. You met his stare. “I was thinking the same thing about you.”

He stopped just a few feet away, his eyes dragging over you in a glide that was too practiced to be casual, too unhurried to ignore. A flicker passed through them—calculated, exact, and gone before you could place it.

“This isn’t going to work,” he said, flat and certain. But his voice had shifted. Darker. Slower.

You didn’t step back. “Why?” Your chin lifted. “Afraid I’ll tell the world exactly who you are? Arrogant. High-handed. A fake.”

AJ stepped in without hesitation.

And in that quiet—when the room felt too still and too close—you caught it again. That scent. The one you noticed the second you walked in. 

It wasn’t the room. It was him. 

That warm, smoky sharpness threaded with something smoother. Spice wrapped in earth. Polished wood and expensive heat. It settled into your senses before you could stop it.

Undeniable. Unavoidable. Like everything else about him.

Then, his voice pulled you back.

It came low and cutting, the kind of tone that didn’t rise to meet the moment—it made the moment come to him. 

“What makes you think I care what you have to say about me?” 

You raised a brow. “You hired me.”

“No.” He corrected you without blinking. “My team hired you. Publicity, PR, whatever bullshit justification they made up.”

His tone didn’t waver.

“Don’t confuse that with me wanting you here.”

You held your ground, a slow burn building in your chest.

“You act like you’re so above it all,” you said, leaning in, your voice dropping just enough.

“But doesn’t your whole empire hinge on how the world sees you?”

His jaw ticked again. The same way it had when he walked in. A small tell, but a tell all the same.

Then—

“I don’t give a shit what people think.”

The words didn’t lift, didn’t snap. But there was weight in them, measured and heavy, like he’d said it a thousand times before but never meant it more than right now.

His next words came slower, each one cutting its way out. “People don’t want real. They want digestible. And I don’t care about either.”

Your gaze held his, taut and unwavering, neither of you willing to yield first. It wasn’t just tension—it was ego against ego. Fire pressed to steel.

“I’ll be sure to quote you on that,” you replied, your voice calm but biting, a perfect mirror to his.

Just then, another voice slipped into the room, breaking the standoff between you two.

“Please don’t,” the voice said, a soft laugh tucked beneath the words—its tone laced with the kind of light charm that made disruption sound like poise.

You turned on instinct, caught off guard—you hadn’t even heard the door open.

A woman was crossing the room, her heels nearly silent against the floor. Dressed in crisp cream and black, hair tucked neatly behind one ear, her smile was polished, knowing.

“Camilla,” she said as she approached, extending a hand. “PR director.”

You reached out slowly to shake it. Her grip was firm but kind. Still, you barely looked at her—you couldn’t. Not with AJ’s gaze anchored to you the way it was.

His eyes hadn’t left you. Not once. 

There was weight in the way he looked at you—as if he were cataloging everything from the way you stood to the curve of your mouth.

And when his eyes met yours again, they stayed.

“Mr. West, your publicist will join us when he’s finished wrapping up a phone call with the venue in New York,” Camilla said, trying to redirect the moment. “Would you like to get started without him?”

He didn’t answer. Just kept his eyes on you.

“Mr. West?” she prompted again, the calm in her voice thinning just slightly.

His response came slow, like he hadn’t even considered giving her the courtesy of a reply until now. But when he spoke, the words weren’t for her. 

They were for you. 

“Print whatever you want. Just don’t expect me to play nice for it.”

You blinked once. Not because his words got to you—but because it gave you the second you needed to lock it all back into place.

Then came your voice: measured and honeyed, weaponized in its politeness.

“With all due respect, Mr. West—which is none—if you were capable of playing nice, I don’t think your team would be this desperate for a feature.”

Your lips curved at the edges, soft and scathing all at once.

AJ didn’t flinch. But that jaw tightened again.

Out of the corner of your eye, you saw Camilla go still. Her lips parted like she meant to intervene, but the moment sealed itself too fast. You caught the faintest trace of dread in her eyes.

Like she finally realized this was a match made in hell.

Because it was.

Camilla cleared her throat—a final attempt to steer the moment back on track. She stepped in closer, her gaze flicking between AJ’s unreadable expression and the sharp edge still lingering behind your own.

Then, gently, with a smile just tight enough to betray the nerves beneath it, she tried again.

“Shall we?”

please do not repost, copy, or claim my work as your own.

• tag list: @alealuvshayden @sythethecarrot @apocalyptichero @ggyuslovie @anak1ns-wife @5secondsofmoxley @f1wh0recom @purplerose291 @i5hyv @endairachristensen26 @mvst4far @viridian-dagger

if you want to be tagged in my future posts, just let me know (comment or message me). i’m happy to do it! :)

• links: masterlist | wattpad

[fischotterkunst]

👆👆👆 well said! I really think OP’s third point is where capitalism really inhibits a lot of people’s ability to put this into action. it’s the boots theory: “people in poverty have to buy cheap and subpar products that need to be replaced repeatedly” ie poor people can’t afford to buy as much reusable stuff, which is objectively higher quality material, and so by necessity instead go for the cheaper disposable plastic, which wears out and will inevitably need to be replaced. Thrifting - and, of utmost importance, ensuring that gentrification doesn’t make that unachievable - is a fantastic bridge to close that price gap between cheap, disposable stuff and expensive but reusable stuff.

Another thing i think is really important is that, while many individuals following the triple-R principles DOES make a difference, it is critical to remember that the majority of waste is perpetuated by corporations. I don’t know the exact numbers but your average fast food restaurant is throwing away more waste than a small neighborhood combined. At this point, there are plenty of sustainable, biodegradable materials readily and cheaply available that are not being utilized by corporations that by nature produce massive amounts of waste. On top of that, i don’t believe i’ve ever seen a recycling bin in a McDonalds. maybe that’s a coincidence and some of them do offer that option (i admittedly don’t go to McDonald’s very often), but i dont think its a stretch to assume they’re not really trying.

How does one put this into action? For my first point, there’s not a lot the individual can do against late-stage capitalism, but thrifting itself is the main action we can take. Additionally, don’t support influencers who buy large amounts of thrifted material to create fads and cause scarcity/price spikes for those who actually need it (remember the fad of influencers buying plus-sized clothes en masse, cutting them up, and calling it “upcycling” even though they absolutely did not need to buy plus-sized in the first place, and created a scarcity of plus-sized clothes in thrift stores for some areas?). Don’t watch their videos, and don’t follow them/subscribe to them. Remember that many platforms offer the option to monetize views/follower count, so it DOES matter.

In regards to corporate waste, the distribution of wealth again is a major part of this problem. Anyone with a single brain cell to their name knows that Americans in poverty eat more fast food not because we’re “lazy” or don’t care about our health, it’s because it’s cheaper and often more accessible (both in terms of location - food deserts are a topic for a different post - and the simple fact that many people in poverty are working multiple jobs and don’t always have time to cook meals) than higher-quality food. Try to put your money into restaurants that offer reusable or biodegradable eating utensils, and consider bringing your own reusable eating utensils so you can skip the plastic/disposable ones when you go to a fast food joint.

I really think that corporate America makes reducing and reusing difficult deliberately because of OP’s point that recycling is beneficial to capitalism. It’s going to take the effort of many individuals coming together to change that. If you feel like just one drop of water in the ocean, don’t forget that a steady drip can wear away stone over time. Make the effort where you can, and encourage people around you to do the same. We’re in this together!

Remember "Reduce, Reuse, Recycle" ? I feel like there's been a distancing from the "reduce" and "reuse" part and a favoritism towards "recycle" by corporate American.

Capitalism can still thrive with recycling in the mix. You buy Plastic Thing 1, throw it away after one use, and they take that and recycle it into Plastic Thing 2 and sell it back to you. All while continuing to harm the environment.

Reusing puts a damper on things. They can't sell you Plastic Thing 2 when you're still using Plastic Thing 1. Plastic forks, for example- there is literally no reason why you can't reuse plastic forks more than once (aside from maybe microplastics, but it's too late for that)

Reducing is the one everyone wants to ignore. Just don't buy Plastic Thing 1. You don't need Plastic Thing 1. Pick up a set of metal forks and use those for years. Convenience is killing the planet

[tabsters]

many important things converging together on this massively important day

NUMBER 1:

MY BIRTHDAY IS TODAY!!!! ANOTHER YEAR CLOSER TO THE SWEET SWEET EMBRACE OF DEATH!!!!!

NUMBER 2:

IT'S MY SON'S BIRTHDAY!!! HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO @probably-a-human-being!!! HOW COOL IT IS THAT WE SHARE A BIRTHDAY!!!

NUMBER 3:

ONE WHOLE YEAR OF ME AND @illumiiiz BEING TUMBLR MUTUALS!!! THAT'S INSANE THAT IT ALL STARTED ON MY BIRTHDAY LAST YEAR!!!

NUMBER 4:

NEW VIVINOS TEASER AND NEW CONFIRMED ALIEN STAGE EPISODE DATE (06/27/25):

I'M NOT READY I'M NOT FUCKING READY AT ALL OH MY FUCKING GOD (also it releases on @one-selective-bitch's birthday!!! happy early birthday to them!!!)

NUMBER 5:

RELEASE OF A NEW NETFLIX MOVIE THAT MY SISTER AND I HAVE BEEN WAITING ON:

SICK ANIMATION AND KPOP, THE PERFECT COMBINATION OF ME AND MY SISTER'S FAVORITE THINGS

NUMBER 6:

NEW AMAZING DIGITAL CIRCUS EPISODE:

YES I WATCH THIS SHOW

NUMBER 7:

IT'S ONE DAY BEFORE MY OTHER SONS' BIRTHDAYS!!!

HAPPY EARLY BIRTHDAY TO MY SONS TILL AND HINATA SHOYO!!!

[gemmafuckingscout]

What is it about Gemma scout that makes wasians gravitate towards her (me included)

oh boy you're opening up a can of worms here, i hope you knew what you were signing up for when you sent this to me...

honestly i think it's a number of things. the first thing that comes to mind is her race, of course. now we don't know if gemma is canonically wasian, but her actress is, and we can safely assume her character is tibetan (just like dichen) based on her usage of "chomolungma" and "chikhai bardo" in 2x07 which are both tibetan terms. the world of severance really only started touching on race this season with milchick's storyline so we haven't seen the ways that gemma's race has affected her life or treatment thus far, but we can make some assumptions.

in my opinion, the two innies that i think have the strongest racial themes (specific to asian women) are ms. casey and gemma's allentown innie.

there is still a lot of speculation on why ms. casey is like that but i personally believe it's a combination of gemma's special chip, social isolation, and a handful of stints in the break room. regardless, lumon turned the resistant, calculated gemma that we know into the meek, resigned ms. casey. the perfect asian woman, by society's standards. she's soft spoken, she does as she's told, she performs emotional labor for almost the entirety of her life, and she never complains. not even when she's sentenced to death.

then with allentown!gemma, i think the juxtaposition of mauer as her "husband" is kind of a caricature of the white man seeking an asian ~waifu~. while allentown!gemma isn't the docile woman that mauer clearly wants her to be (which is also fascinating to watch her flip the script!), there is still a clear air of entitlement that mauer feels towards her. not only does he pressure her into telling him she loves him, his smug ass also sits in his comfortable chair while gemma agonizes over these dozens and dozens of thank you cards that he forces her to write with her non-dominant hand. it's giving "my wife cooks and cleans and takes care of all the house work while i scratch my balls all day." she also wears red and sits on the ground, which are both symbolic in many asian cultures, but i'm not sure if that was intentional.

i also think her situation in general is something that a lot of us can relate to on some level. she's trapped in a space where she has to heavily monitor her own words, behaviors, and body language to survive. she has to be vigilant and smart, but she can't let on too much or else the people around her will use it against her. it might not be to this extent, but a lot of people of color use masking/code switching in a similar manner to survive.

also she's, like, really hot.

[strandnreyes]

Undercover au 🥸

a tiny hint of dubcon in the sense that Carlos is lying about who he is when Things happen

1. Carlos isn’t going to sleep with anyone. That’s his number one rule when he takes this job

2. When they posted a position for a housekeeper, TK thought it would be an older lady who dabbled in this life back in her day, who now turns a blind eye to what they do. Instead, it’s a man with looks that could draw more money than some of them combined

3. It isn’t hard to confirm what’s happening here when men and women are sneaking out late at night with skimpy clothes and coming back hours later with a wad of cash. There’s one particular man, Kennedy, that always seems to be out more than the rest of them. Carlos isn’t surprised that people are tripping over their feet to sleep with him.

4. ‘I don’t have sex for money,’ Tomas tells TK when he suggests Tomas could make a good wage in a different role. He sounds judgmental, and TK hardens before Tomas explains himself. Bravely, or maybe stupidly, TK asks if he has sex for free instead.

5. Carlos knew he’d break his rule the second he laid eyes on this man. He wants Kennedy to moan his real name. Telling him is stupid, but when he learns the man in bed with him is really Tyler, Carlos knows he’s going to do whatever he can to protect him

[frankendykes-monster]

There's a degree to which I look back at this post and want to reassess.

Generally speaking I am fully aware of the fact that Tumblr in general is not all that interested in American comic book history or superheroes, what with the proliferation of the MCU in particular turning people off of most things that feature Marvel characters. But anon's original ask here struck me in a way that makes me realize my emotional investment in the situation was probably curt and irrational of me.

We have to start back at the beginning: does the average Tumblr user know who Stan Lee is? Do they recognize him? What do they know him for? He's cameod in the majority of theatrically released adaptations of Marvel comics. He is commonly regarded as the creator of all those characters.

Before we continue: I do not subscribe to the concept of ontological intelligence, but, if I did, I wouldn't consider myself a smart person. Saying this to say that; if I were a less informed person about how abuse tactics function in cults, I would legitimately say that Stan Lee apologism is a cult, but I do know that, so I won't, but me bringing this up will probably showcase the severity of the problem. I doubt people on here are familiar with Stan Lee's apocryphal claim as to the origins of the Fantastic Four, that he was emotionally drained after working in the industry for decades and when given this assignment he turned around and said he wanted to do a mature book that he himself would read. I'm sure no one on here has heard the term "Marvel method".

Now, that claim is accepted as fact by a worryingly large number of people. A lot of Tumblr users are writers and artists themselves. As such a lot of Tumblr users know you don't just magically get the ability to write complex and compelling fiction at the age of almost 40 after never doing it. And that this need to write magically ceased a decade later.

Conversely: does the average Tumblr user know who Jack Kirby is (or Steve Ditko or Wally Wood but let's focus on Kirby)? Well they've seen his name, the cover to Captain America Comics #1 with Cap' punching Adolf Hitler is everywhere. Captain America Comics debuts in 1941. Fantastic Four debuts in 1961. The former is "by Joe Simon and Jack Kirby", the latter is "by Stan Lee and Jack Kirby", which, before we even get into the fact that the common denominator here is Kirby, do people make the connection that this is the same Kirby?

Are people aware that yes Kirby worked on comics in those intervening 20 years, with stuff like Boy Commandos and Young Romance being million copy sellers.

Now, people might be aware that the reason this is Actually Important is that this was and is a labor rights issues. In the discussions of AI art and art theft, people gloss over that art is already being stolen, by the companies that the artists work for (read: the surplus value of their labor is extracted by the company in the form of wage theft, just like every other form of work). People might be aware of the Marvel specific issues with wage theft and royalties issues in extreme cases like Bill Mantlo's family having to set up a GoFundMe meanwhile Rocket Raccoon has starred in multiple films that grossed over a billion dollars.

To connect all this: I was operating under the impression that the average Tumblr user has been exposed to a gross amount of Marvel corporate propoganda, when they've only caught the edges of it. The picture is still there, however, and some people would point out that this is a Kirby vs. Marvel issue, wherein Kirby walked in 1970 when it was clear that Marvel's new owners would not give him a contract that paid consistently and ensured royalties for merchandising (Kirby had four children by this time and was still freelancing, not a good combination). Kirby had to fight Marvel again in the 1980's to get his original art back as a means of something he could actually sell in case he got to a point where he could not work anymore.

But Stan Lee effectively took the side of the company everytime against Kirby and other writers and artists, became the face of the company, to line his own paycheck and protect his own financial interest. He was not a pleasant person to work with or be around in any capacity, ask anyone that knew him at length that wasn't significantly younger than him and an established fan. The meme I created above was compiled from arguments from people much older than anyone reading this who has a vested interest (regardless of motivation) in maintaining this fiction and by extension deferring to a capitalist entity like Marvel over any actual human being that ever worked for the company. Some of it stings, like when John Morrow, who publishes the magazine The Jack Kirby Collector, had an extended issue wherein he intentionally butchered and cherry-picked evidence and skewed the pattern they produced to maintain the fiction of Stan Lee. According to Jack Kirby is a direct response to that.

All this to say, anon, I'm sorry, not because any of this is wrong mind you, but that I could have phrased it in a nicer way. I thought you were someone else. Like that meme where two separate Twitter users get funneled into a single newsfeed causing a third person to assume there's a single hypocritical person on the other side of the screen.

Wait what do you have against Stan Lee. genuinely curious, I don't think ever seen you post about it

Nepotism hire office worker who's stuck as Marvel's only editor as the company (and frankly the entire comic book industry) are experiencing an implosion that almost takes out everyone in the late-1950's. Jack Kirby has nowhere left to turn to so he starts working at Marvel and has to brainstorm an entire new line of books to ensure the company stays afloat. Lee begins crediting himself as the writer across the entire line of books so he can collect the writer's paycheck (the "artists" at Marvel at this time were also the writers, they were submitting complete stories on a freelance basis, Lee would eventually mandate a system where dialogue and captions couldn't be written ahead of time so he could fill them in himself). Marvel blows up in popularity and Lee positions himself at the center of it, much to the ire of Kirby, along with Steve Ditko, Wally Wood, Dick Ayers, the list can go on. When Marvel is sold to Perfect Film and Chemical in 1968 and becomes a publically traded company, Lee is part of the "package deal" wherein whatever current corporate owner of Marvel can use him as the "original creator" figurehead as a means to block royalties for dozens of people who had worked at the company throughout the 1960's, and functionally its a role he kept for the entire rest of his life, and now your average person (along with a specific subset of industry veterans that can range from Roy Thomas to Larry Hama to Bill Mantlo to Jenny Blake Isabella) thinks of him as the original-idea-guy who ~actually~ created the line of characters now regarded as the "Marvel Universe".

[bellestarot]

General analysis: Wonyoung’s Destiny Matrix

june 20, 2025

Essence and life mission

The central number in Wonyoung's matrix is (9), represented by the Hermit. She is someone who turns inward often, constantly seeking self-knowledge and looking for answers within herself. She values patience, resilience, and maturity, and tends to act with deep reflection. She isolates herself by choice and only offers advice when asked, rarely interfering in others’ matters. She is trustworthy and loyal, but whenever disrespected, she sets clear boundaries in her relationships. She's not afraid to stand up for herself, knows what she wants, and goes after it. She's a dedicated learner, reads a lot, is highly intelligent, and strongly trusts her intuition.

However, this can also manifest as a shadow side — a comfort zone that leads to excessive isolation, emotional detachment, and a sense of social disconnection or feeling out of place. She may struggle with forming close bonds, feeling like she doesn't fully belong.

Regarding her sexuality and romantic tendencies, she tends to repeat past relationship patterns with new partners. When a relationship ends abruptly, she often has a hard time moving on. She sometimes clings to the past, wishing to revisit places she went with an ex or expecting her new partner to behave in ways that resemble her previous one.

At the core of her matrix lies the combination 9-9-18, indicating a challenge in being fully understood, as these are introspective and guarded energies. Wonyoung exudes a strong magnetism — admired by both fans and those who know her personally — but very few truly understand her on a deeper level.

Her life path calls her to return to the world with the insights she’s found within. She often knows exactly what needs to be done, yet continues to repeat certain patterns because she keeps her wisdom to herself. She has a great deal to teach, guide, and share, but holds back out of hesitation. There's a strong calling for her to connect with the spiritual realm and take meaningful spiritual actions in the material world.

The way she comes across

Wonyoung appears to the world the image of someone driven by purpose — a woman with discipline who doesn't procrastinate. She seems practical, consistent, and grounded. She embodies a strong masculine energy of leadership and life management, especially in her work.

She comes across as responsible, powerful, and persistent — someone with a commanding presence. She knows how to bring things into reality, making her a strong force in society and in business. She radiates autonomy, self-sufficiency, and empowerment, doing what she sets her mind to. There's a sense of firmness about her — she takes on commitments and follows through. She achieves what she wants through conscious, intentional effort.

Family Balance

About her family — in a very beautiful way, her family has always radiated faith. They've supported her with optimism and positivity, believing in her from the very beginning. They are sincere yet warm-hearted, affectionate, and nurturing.

Her family is cheerful, generous, and always willing to share with others. There’s a strong sense of harmony in their presence. They’ve helped her build self-confidence and encouraged her to believe in her dreams.

Material Karma

In her past life, she struggled to break ties that were holding her back. She may not have set clear boundaries and lacked the inner power to initiate change. There was a lack of firmness, indecisiveness, and difficulty embracing renewal.

The biggest current obstacle to financial prosperity

The biggest obstacle she faces when it comes to earning money is that she spends a lot on beauty and self-care. She doesn’t really care what she spends money on and often buys unnecessary things. She also questions whether she genuinely enjoys the work she does, if it inspires or motivates her. This is Wonyoung’s material karma.

The energy of number 6 also seeks perfection and approval from others, and she struggles with a lack of self-love. She has difficulty following her heart and doing what she loves, which prevents her from feeling happy in her work. She may also lose a lot of money trying to please others.

In past lives, she always struggled to open herself to the world and to opportunities. Whenever she started something, she would leave it unfinished, becoming stuck and giving up at the last stage. She didn’t dedicate enough time to what she was doing and easily became frustrated. She was very disconnected, trapped in a cycle that never changed.

Regarding how she can prosper, it could involve her speaking openly about the issues that hold her back and make her a slave to herself. She needs to break free from these chains and leave harmful behaviors behind. She could start sharing, whether through podcasts, books, or interviews, about the things she does that she knows are damaging and keep her captive, helping others to relate and recognize themselves in her story. It’s about acknowledging the darker parts within ourselves.

Karmic Tail

In a past life, she was a witch, a scientist, a metaphysician, or had other knowledge. She may have had a lot of magical knowledge; she was very powerful, in a way that would frighten others, but she either couldn’t or didn’t want to share her knowledge with others since she had access to secret or magical knowledge. She may also have tried to escape or leave behind what she had achieved in one of her past lives related to magic. She might have also used magic in a way that backfired on her, causing her to close herself off.

In this life, her karmic mission is connected to acquiring spiritual knowledge, showing her talent, her essence, finding her vocation, and following her own path. Sharing what she learned with others, believing more in herself, that she is capable, that she is intelligent enough. And even though she thinks this of herself, she may have an intellectual ego thinking she is smarter than others, which needs to be changed.

Natural Talents

Her divine talent is balance. She could be very successful in a career as a lawyer, understanding laws, mediator, judge, politician, banker, or social justice activist. She is honest and sincere, uses logic and reason more than emotions when necessary, takes responsibility for her actions, strives to be a just woman, acts ethically, and thinks a lot before acting.

Her innate talent that she needs to develop in this life involves concentration, inner creation, and focus on her goals. She needs to go after her objectives without thinking, just act. She shouldn’t procrastinate or spend days thinking; she needs to get moving and take control of her own life.

She would also do well in careers like driver, jockey, racing athlete, businessperson, martial artist, logistics.

Regarding talents from past lives, it shows she wasn’t very different from who she is today. Her talent in one of her past lives was connected to the arts, the stage, as an artist, actress, or other artistic means she might be interested in. This positively encourages her today, where she naturally has self-confidence, attracts fame and success, easily becomes the center of attention, has a lot of courage to be in the spotlight, and is recognized as a reference.

Hidden desires of the soul

Her soul has the desire to always act with ethics, responsibility, and impartiality, especially involving legal matters, contracts, or evaluations, paying close attention to details and transparency. Her soul has a thirst for making rational decisions, based on facts rather than emotions, ensuring that her choices are fair both to herself and to others involved. She seeks the peace that can be created when justice or balance is restored, both in personal relationships and decision-making.

But there is also a contradiction, as her soul has a need for freedom and craves change because she feels uncomfortable with routine. She seeks a more spontaneous life, listens more to her emotions than to reason, does not accept impositions, wants to act impulsively without thinking about consequences, and desires to live new experiences.

Paternal karmic debt

Paternal ancestors may have had difficulties making decisions in relationships, especially concerning ethics. There may have been betrayals, love triangles, or instability in romantic relationships. These ancestors had conflicts related to romantic love and the social roles they played. This could have created karmic patterns for her, such as constantly seeking male approval or validation, fear of making mistakes in any area of life—whether professional, romantic, or spiritual—along with indecision, duality, and emotional instability in relationships.

Her paternal lineage may have come close to achieving great financial success but failed to complete those goals. They may have been overly perfectionistic and controlling, possibly superficial, with fixed ideas about success, money, and public image. They couldn’t expand what they had and didn’t reach true success.

This could affect her today by making her abandon projects halfway, become easily frustrated, or feel pressured to maintain the appearance of being perfect and successful in front of the cameras—while hiding how she truly feels. Some of them may also have been excessively attached to material things, using wealth to fill emotional voids. In some cases, money may have been used to manipulate or destroy other people’s reputations or lives, repeating cycles of self-sabotage.

She needs to stop worrying about what others think and open her mind—to travel the world, let go of the need to be perfect, and start finishing what she begins. She must honor her gifts and talents, even if they are still hidden, work on her self-esteem and self-love, and pursue what she truly wants—not just material things, but also spiritual growth.

She needs to break free from dependency or suffering tied to money, fame, or lust. It's essential for her to transform her relationship with her lifestyle in a healthy way and to heal trauma related to authority figures or dominant personalities.

Maternal karmic debt

The ancestors may have had problems related to money, involving injustices, fraud, theft, exploitation, or poor financial decisions. There may have been unresolved financial agreements as well, such as disputes over property or assets. It’s also possible that there was a man with an authoritarian, controlling presence—someone who dominated financial matters, representing patriarchal and oppressive figures.

This impacts Wonyoung today in her relationship with legal matters and money. She may carry an unconscious fear of receiving or a sense of guilt about having too much money, as well as issues related to blocked inheritances or unresolved property matters. She also feels a need to control money out of fear of losing stability and has difficulty trusting others with financial matters—often taking full responsibility for everything herself.

She must continuously practice fairness, honesty, and balance in her financial actions, avoiding judgment and any tendency to manipulate others through money. She could benefit from exploring holistic or esoteric approaches to healing ancestral karmas, especially those tied to the family's financial history. It would help her contribute to organizing her family's finances.

She needs to work on flexibility, trust, and balance—embracing masculine energy in a healthy way and learning to manage her financial life with harmony and wisdom.

Gifts passed down from her father

They involve surrender during moments of challenge, letting go of effort and movement. Making sacrifices with goodwill, acceptance, and detachment from material things. A natural empathy for people in need and abandoned animals, sensitivity to others' pain, and a tendency to give to charity.

She inherited from her father the emotional side — sensitivity guided by the heart. At times, she finds herself torn between reason and emotion. She is highly idealistic, often indecisive, and constantly questioning her feelings and choices. She seeks deep connections but has a fear of being tied down. She may experience inner conflict between what she wants and what she believes she should do. She easily attracts others through her charisma and beauty — physical, emotional, and even spiritual. There's a desire to align with universal love, to develop emotional maturity, and to find balance between pleasure, responsibility, freedom, and commitment.

What she actively puts into practice from the talents inherited from her father is her strong sense of justice. This gives her a natural ability to analyze situations with impartiality, using logic without judging others. She sees both sides of a story before making decisions and acts based on solid principles. She has a strong sense of ethics and morality, takes responsibility for her actions and their consequences, and is a wise advisor with mental clarity and rational thinking.

Gifts passed down from her mother

She inherited balance, patience, and harmony from her mother. Her mother has a conciliatory influence, with strong abilities to handle emotions and conflicting situations with calmness and wisdom. Peace, serenity, and collective well-being are highly valued. There is great emotional control, knowing when to act, avoiding impulsiveness. They are flexible and open to continuous learning, with a broader and more compassionate outlook.

Positivity, new ways of looking at life, always being truthful and transparent, being grateful for everything she has, trusting the path she is walking, inspiring and motivating others, and avoiding arrogant behavior — all of this comes through. A focus on good health, vitality, freedom and confidence, enlightenment. Peace, fraternity, intelligence, and good feelings. A good reputation, joy and success, understanding.

A great deal of wisdom, a search for meaning, and a desire to help others, to follow a tradition, spirituality, and the pursuit of knowledge. She inherited a deep appreciation for ethics, principles, and learning. She is someone trustworthy and respected, with a strong sense of responsibility. Introspective, she is always seeking higher purpose — whether through religion, philosophy, or practical studies. There is a strong connection to spiritual and ethical values. At times, she may have very conservative and rigid thoughts in her convictions.

Money line

How to prosper: She needs to have a broad worldview, seeking interconnection with experiences, becoming more adaptable, and being open to new experiences and willing to learn from the world around her. Traveling the world, working in a job that involves travel and exposure to different cultures, exploring, and connecting people would suit her well. Careers that would bring more money involve frequent travel for work, especially to foreign countries.

What is blocking her: A lack of achievement, not fighting hard enough for what she wants, and a sense of incompleteness in what she accomplishes. She feels disappointed easily, thinking that the success she has isn’t enough. She also doesn’t get close to people to build connections, tends to stay on the sidelines, and sometimes may lack empathy.

Romantic life

The ideal type of person who catches her attention, or who she should look for: Someone who gives compliments, is caring and affectionate. She needs people who are decisive, communicate well, and openly show and express love. She also needs a partner who makes her feel sexually comfortable, encourages new experiences, someone who helps her break free and allow herself to feel. People who help her stay balanced and pull her away from addictive energies in various areas.

She may meet her future partner or spouse in a very luxurious place, possibly full of powerful people. They appear to be very sensual, with a striking gaze and a dominant personality. They can be persuasive, mysterious, and have a good sense of fashion. Their career might be related to business, banking, or law, especially working to protect corporate interests.

Her future partner is a very intense person, interested in more than just appearance. They need someone who captivates them and has a strong desire to uncover the soul of the other. This person also respects her when she wants to be alone, as they tend to isolate themselves too, being quite introspective. They are someone who seeks self-knowledge and reflects deeply. But they also have a lot of love to give, know how to be affectionate when they want to, win her over in every way, and when they fall in love, they give themselves completely—they can be very loving.

⋆｡‧˚ʚ🍒ɞ˚‧｡⋆

[strxnged]

do you guys ever scroll for a bit on your dash and pat yourself on the back for cultivating the most fire feed ever. i got all my fandoms covered, beautiful artwork, inspiring studyposting, and brainrotting shitposts

[judaismandsuch]

So as what one would commonly call an 'Orthodox' Jew, but alt, I will give you my take:

Yes and no.

'It' is, in modern English, absolutely wrong. While some people choose to use 'it' to refer to themselves, 'it' is viewed as a diminutive by and large - one refers to objects or animals as 'it', and even animals barely. If you go up to 99% of indivuduals, and refer to them as 'It' they will take offence, and rightly so.

Now, that may change in the future, in which case 'it' would be acceptable, but for now it is very much not.

'They' is funkier, now it is definetly not in the same class as 'It', but Hebrew has plural pronouns (admittedly, masc. and fem. but they do exist), and while HaShem is occasional referred to in the plural (debatable between the rabbis if HaShem is actually referring to Himself in the plural, or if He is talking to the angels, but I digress). But HaShem is never referred to by any of the prophets in the plural (i.e. HaShem may at one point say 'we' when seemingly only reffering to Himself, but at no point does Moshe say 'You' [plural]-note I could be wrong about this, but feel free to correct me if you have a source direct from tanach that is not ketuvim).

Now, combine that with the fact that it could appear that you are reffering to multiple entites, or implying that HaShem is a myriad of entities in one.... and you really shouldn't. This becomes more a case of Maras Ein than Chillul HaShem (imo), but this is another one where the shift in English can be in your favour.

Now, one thing that is definetly acceptable is reffering to HaShem in the feminine ('She' 'Her'), we know this because, as others have mentioned, Hebrew is fully gendered, and Moshe Refers to HaShem in the feminie 'you'.

(BaMidbar/Numbers 11:15):

So I personally alternate between He and She.

Then also, one should capitalise the pronouns one uses when talking about G-d.

Now, are you insulting HaShem? Ehhh..... That is talmudic debate. But it is incumbent upon us to show utmost respect, which includes following conventional linguistic norms of respect.

But yeah, lmk if you have further questions!

I'm a Jew myself but asking for others opinions.

So like I use they/it pronouns for HaShem generally. Just because it matches with my idea of G-d as not being humanoid and therefore not being attached to any specific genders and generally being more of a force of nature than personal.

But I grew up in a household that was much more cultural than religious. So I don't know how religious Jews feel about this. Am I insulting HaShem by using the wrong pronouns? Am I like misgendering god? That seems extremely mean.

.

[johnnyshrine]

★ 123 // “Take the next best step and pray.”

[clownakai]

You will stop for three seconds and appreciate Suzuki Sonoko. Thank you

[definitelynotshouting]

You have synesthesia?? How does that work for you? Is this how you manage to use the word “meat” in a way that makes me go “holy shit that’s good and cool i need to read that sentence four more times” instead of “ew”?????

I do!!! Letters, numbers, and words all have colours and sometimes visual textures for me-- and while numbers and letters on their own are generally only a single colour (7 is a bright, grassy green!!! while "K" is a pale peachy pink, for example :] ), when i put them into words they often take on entirely new colours, some of which even bleed into each other like watercolour paints. Ironically, its why i use the UK spelling of "colour" in the first place-- the "u" turns what looks like a dull, desaturated blue into a smeared blue-and-purple that i find really pretty to look at :]] so when i say i like to paint with words, i kinda mean that literally 😂😂😂😂😂

But yeah, i'd imagine thats why my writing is Like That™ to some degree-- a lot of what im doing behind the scenes involves matching the colours and visual textures of a given word with all of the others in order to evoke a particular vibe or image in my writing. There are a lot of layers to how i write, but this is probably the one that takes both the most time AND is the one i happen to talk about the least WKDJWKSJEJ

[myokk]

She hears him calling her name as she flees down the spiral staircase, almost tripping over her feet in her rush to get away from him, but he catches up quickly, reaching out to grab her arm in an attempt to slow her down. She stops running immediately - she supposes her traitorous body wants to see what he has to say, or maybe it just wants to bask in his intoxicating proximity. He crowds her space, and she sees that unfamiliar look in his eyes again. So very different from the cold disdain she had seen the last time she had been this close to him, during the argument that had ended their friendship.

Oh, Merlin, he's getting closer to her, and she can now clearly see the freckles dusting his cheeks and nose and forehead and then before she knows it, his hand is sliding up her arm, leaving goosebumps everywhere he touches and then he's caressing her jaw with his rough thumb and he pauses. Her eyelids flutter closed as her head tilts towards him - she couldn't stop herself even if she wanted to (what does she want?). She can feel his warm breath ghosting over her lips and she has the improbable, ridiculous thought - how is he remembering to breathe? - before he speaks. His lips brush against hers with every soft word and a deep shiver runs through her body.

"I," she hears him say, his voice so, so low, "haven't been able to think since last week."

That's all she needs to hear, the brush of his bottom lip against hers all she needs to feel, to push her into closing what minuscule distance there is between them and then his lips are on hers and it's better than anything she's been imagining. His mouth is soft against hers, insistent, and her hands go up to grip the collar of his plaid jacket to make sure he doesn't go away or disappear on her.

from my oneshot💘