#like half of my problems would be solved with money

[ladyshadowqueen]

having a moment of understanding that life in your twenties is hard and it’s unrealistic to be on top of everything and doing great and just how much that actually sucks lmao

[transmechanicus]

It is sunday night. I remain exhausted.

[gideonisms]

it's really irritating and difficult to live my life sometimes and for what? not striving to accomplish any huge goals here but the tiny ones, are also excruciating,

[mercutiodidntdieforthis]

My job paying me better would fix at least like 40% of my stress I think

[leaderwonim]

𓇻 I’M A FEMINIST, OBVIOUSLY, BUT I WOULDN’T REALLY MIND HIM SAVING ME.

▸ PAIRING.. class president!yang jungwon x outcast!fem!reader

▸ SYNP. jang y/n hated yang jungwon. perfect, loved by everybody, class president yang jungwon. people only liked him because he was a man and he was charismatic. however, when she’s being picked on by the girls at school, yang jungwon comes to her rescue, and weirdly, she didn’t mind it?

▸ GENRE. enemies to lovers (it’s one sided though, yn just hates jw😭) angst, mentions of bullying, mentions of sexism, fluff

author’s note: this is based off of olivia rodrigo’s unreleased song! This was honestly so much fun to write and it took me about 3 days cause I fell violently ILL like the day after I started writing😭 As usual, REBLOGS and COMMENTS are so greatly appreciated <33

Jang Y/N was what people called an outcast. Although she was pretty and had the grades, she heavily disliked half of her class, which in turn, didn’t exactly make her very popular.

“I hate him.” She says as she shoves a spoonful of rice into her mouth. Her only friend was her sister, Wonyoung, who told her that she shouldn’t be so negative all the time.

“Who, Jungwon?” Wonyoung asks, frowning. “Yah Y/N, you can’t hate him forever. He’s nothing but nice to you.”

“I don’t care,” Y/N mumbles angrily, putting away her lunch. “Wonyo, people only like him because he’s a man who can say a few charming words. He smiles and at least half of our class falls onto their knees or something.”

Wonyoung chokes at her sister’s comparison, and can’t help but let out a little laugh. “I’m just saying Y/nie, you can’t just despise him because he seems perfect to the naked eye. In fact, I say become friends with him. It’ll be good for you.”

Y/N shuts down the idea right away, much to Wonyoung’s dismay.

“I am just saying,” Wonyoung stands up, finished with her lunch. “I mean, don’t you find it sad? That you eat lunch everyday with your sister instead of eating with friends or a boyfriend?”

“No,” Y/N says, frowning. “I like eating lunch with you Wonyo.”

“Hm, I guess.”

The Jang sisters lock arms, strolling to their next class. They miss the longing glance that Yang Jungwon sends towards Y/N’s direction, already too far gone into the Decelis Academy hallway.

‏‏‎ ‎

Unfortunately for Y/N, she had her leadership class with Jungwon, where they would discuss things like student politics and how to better the school so that Decelis could stay at its rightful place of number one on private academy rankings.

It was stupid, Y/N thought, Decelis shouldn’t even be close to number one, this school was filled with a bunch of spoilt children who were obsessed with the idea of money and power.

“Is there a problem, Miss. Jang?” The teacher asks, noticing the little scoffs she was adding each time Jungwon spoke about an initiative he wanted to add.

“No,” Y/N shrugs. “I just think Yang Jungwon’s new initiative is just a waste of time. It's not going to solve anything.”

Jungwon smirks, something that Y/N so desperately wants to wipe the floor with. “Y/N, always the critic of my ideas. Very well, let’s hear your brilliant solution.”

She rolls her eyes. Of course Yang Jungwon wanted to pretend to remain civil, if he had blown up on her, it would’ve tarnish his reputation, and Yang Jungwon would be nothing without his reputation, right?

“Instead of your one-size-fits-all approach method, we need personalized mentorship programs. Each student faces unique challenges, and your initiative doesn't address that.”

Jungwon smiles. “Well I suppose you’re right. But perhaps if you actually joined the initiative, you'd understand its effectiveness.”

Y/N grits her teeth, not enjoying how much Yang Jungwon was enjoying this. “Oh, right, because following the herd blindly is the key to success? Unlike half of Decelis’ population, I prefer independent thinking.”

The boy leans closer in, face almost touching the girl. “Sometimes collaboration is the key to progress, Y/N. Try it sometime.”

The two students make eye contact until Y/N breaks, finally pulling her eyes away.

“As usual, Yang Jungwon always has to be right.” She mumbles under her breath. “God, please save me from being in this class any longer,”

‏‏‎ ‎

Y/N throws her backpack on the floor as soon as she steps into her house, not caring about the expensive computer her grandmother had bought her last Christmas that was stuffed inside. Her parents were in the kitchen, discussing something in hushed whispers, almost as if it was top secret.

Always being the curious child, she leans onto the wall that separated the living room and kitchen, trying to make out what the topic was about.

“I’m just worried honey,” she can hear her mom say as her dad rubs her back comfortingly. “Y/N doesn’t have a lot of friends at that school, Wonyoung told me about it. You know she only hangs out with her sister and that’s it?”

“I mean, is it really that bad that she only hangs out with Wonyoung? She’s always been quiet, I think we’ve just got to respect that. She’s an excellent student anyway, there’s no harm in having little friends.”

Although her parents truly just wanted the best for her, Y/N felt like a complete loser by how they were going about it.

She quickly rushed to her room, biting her lip in annoyance at how everybody seemed to have an opinion about her life. She was happy with how it was going, and she didn’t care that her only friend was her sister, Wonyoung was a sweetheart and lived with her, it was a built in best friend for life.

“Just you wait,” Y/N huffs, sharpening her pencil. “I’m gonna go to university, leave this place, and I won’t have to hear about any of these kids ever again.”

‏‏‎

Y/N woke up the next day with a red eye, probably from crying last night despite telling herself she didn’t care.

She cared, a lot.

Romanticizing being alone was fun until she realized that she was truly all alone, with no friends to lean on.

“Is that Jang Y/N?”

Park Jiwon. The devil herself. She was evil as she was pretty, and she had no problem making Y/N’s life a living hell.

“Where’s Wonyoung? Did your own sister finally get tired of you?” Her little group of minions laugh as if it was the funniest thing ever, and Y/N tries and stops herself from giving them all a swing to the face.

“No, but I’m sure you’re used to that feeling, right Jiwon?”

“Oh you little b—”

“Jiwon, you can’t hit her! You’ll get suspended and it’ll go on your permanent record.” Her friend says, which makes the girl straighten up right away.

“You’re lucky Jang,” the girl snarls. “But yah, what were you thinking? Talking back to Jungwon? He’s so smart and handsome, dedicating his time to make initiatives for the school. You should be more grateful.”

She and her minions get so close that they practically push Y/N back onto the locker, suffocating her with their glares.

“Hey, what’s going on here?” The voice of Jungwon doesn’t go unnoticed by a single girl, who, all but Y/N, straighten up their hair when they realize he’s behind them.

“We’re just talking, right Y/N?” Jiwon says, pinching onto the girl tightly.

“Really? It doesn’t seem like it.” Jungwon rolls his eyes. “Park Jiwon, don’t make me give you detention for picking on other students. It doesn’t make you attractive.”

The girl gasps, immediately letting Y/N go as her face heats up in embarrassment.

“I wasn’t—”

“Just go.” With one point of a finger, Yang Jungwon got Park Jiwon and her minions out of the hallway, leaving Y/N and him alone.

“You okay?” He asks her, eyes concerned.

“Thank you,” she breathes out. “You didn’t have to do that.”

“Why didn’t I?” He raises his eyebrows. “You were getting picked on.”

“Well, I’m not the nicest to you.” The girl says, suddenly embarrassed. “At all, actually. So thank you Jungwon, really.”

“Ah,” the boy smiles. “It’s nothing. I don’t hate you if that’s what you think, I think you have a brilliant mind just like me.”

And for the first time since she’s stepped into the school, Jang Y/N finds herself liking Yang Jungwon, and not just for his looks.

‏‏‎

“Y/N!” The loud voice of Yang Jungwon doesn’t go by Wonyoung, who gives her sister a smirk as she slightly pushes back her shoulder.

“Wonder why he’s coming,” she teases, which makes Y/N scrunch up her nose in annoyance.

“Would you like to come with me to this new bread place?” He asks, hands on his knees as he catches his breath. “Sorry—I ran all the way from the cabinet office to here.”

“It’s alright,” Y/N giggles, which makes Wonyoung’s eyes pop out of their sockets because she swears she never heard that sound coming from her sister’s mouth before. “I’d love to Jungwon.”

“Great! I’ll uh.. I’ll see you later!”

Wonyoung turns to face Y/N as soon as Jungwon leaves, giving her the biggest grin ever. “What was that?!”

“Let’s just say, I don’t hate Yang Jungwon anymore.” Y/N smiles, laughing as she watches Wonyoung’s jaw practically drop to the ground.

‏‏‎

“It’s cold, isn’t it?” Jungwon says as he and Y/N walk to the new bread place.

“Yes,” Y/N puffs out, “I should’ve brought a jacket.”

Before she knew it, Jungwon already takes off his jacket and wraps it around the girl’s shoulder.

“Jungwon,” she whines, “then you’ll be cold!”

“It’s alright really!” He laughs, giving her a big smile. “I’m practically invincible to cold. Was just asking because you seemed to be freezing.”

“You’re sweet,” she says, looking down at her feet. “I feel really guilty for trying to one up up all the time or prove you wrong. I just hate it, you know?”

“Hate what?”

“You might not realize it but a lot of people don’t want to hear what I say because I’m a woman, and that’s it. Just because I’m a woman. Like sometimes, I have ideas just as brilliant and changing as yours, but everybody says I’m complaining and over analyzing. When you say it, with your handsome face and clear voice, everybody’s suddenly entranced, and they’re so interested in school politics.”

“So you think I’m handsome?”

Y/N rolls her eyes, pushing back Jungwon slightly as he laughs.

“I’m kidding, Y/N. I know what you mean now. I’m sorry that I can’t change how people view and perceive things, but I want you to know that I listen to your ideas, that I care. You might not realize this either but whenever you’re talking, I always listen. Like your initiative about bringing better programs into the school, I listened through the whole thing because I just—I’m inlove with the way you articulate things and the way you speak. If I was half as good at speaking my mind like you were, I’d be unstoppable. You’re a great person, Y/N, and I’m so glad I’m able to see that.”

The way Yang Jungwon speaks about her makes Y/N want to cry and smother him in a hug, which she does a second later by bringing him into a bone crushing hug.

“Thank you Jungwon.” She says, face in his neck. “Thank you.”

“Of course.” He feels like he’s out of breath by how close the two of them were, his heartbeat racing by each second that passed. “I’d do anything for you, Y/N.”

‏‏‎

“Hey!” Y/N is practically used to seeing Yang Jungwon come up to her everyday now, the two even spending lunch together every two days.

“What’s up Yang?” She says, noticing a packet of papers in his hand.

“You know your feedback on my initiative? Your personalized mentorship program idea! The headmaster really liked it and he’s implementing it starting next semester with your name as the credit on it!”

Y/N’s eyes widen in joy, shrieking as her hands unconsciously come in contact with Jungwon’s, the two holding both of each other’s hands tightly as they jumped in happiness.

“You’re amazing Yang Jungwon!” She says giddily, “you really are.”

The two of them stop to stare at one another for a brief second before Jungwon finds himself leaning in, closing the gap between their lips.

When they pull away, the smiles on their faces never fades, Jungwon’s dimple ever so prominent.

“I love you,” Y/N breathes out. “My wonderful class president.”

And although Y/N is a feminist, obviously, she wouldn’t mind a man like Yang Jungwon saving her, for he taught her what love was like, and that she should never ever settle for less.

[inamagicalhallucination]

AITA for letting my boyfriend think I was dead while going shopping

So context: i (20m) have been dating my boyfriend (18m) for a few months now. We did not get along initially when we met, because the person who took me in and abandoned me, took him in later on and approved of him, bringing out jealousy on my part. I will admit that I judged him (my boyfriend, that is) harshly before getting to know him because of this. However, the two of us, since then, have come to understand each other really well. He has also helped me understand that I did not need the person who took me in's approval and I could exist as my own person. Overall, I think he is my other half.

Anyway, the problem started a few days ago. I knew he was in trouble at work so I rushed over (our workplaces often collaborate so this was not particularly new or strange) to the ship he was on to help him out. Unfortunately, the problem was bigger than we could solve, and in the end I helped him escape and unfortunately died.

Obviously, I am not dead.

I do not really know what happened, but I do know that my boyfriend thought I was dead. And I also knew, when I came to, that I was wearing different clothes.

Now, I am not a fashion person, usually. But my long coat was replaced by a very ugly replica. I did not mind not having my coat, as I gave it to my boyfriend to help him escape. But I looked like I had not showered, and I smelled bad. The new, ugly coat was just the icing on top.

So, I went to a public bath, got myself clean. Went to a clothing store, chose a really badass outfit. During this time, my boyfriend was attacked. So naturally, I immediately rushed over to save him.

He was initially happy to see me. However, he started asking more and more questions about how I was alive. When he realized that my new outfit (which I know he liked - he kept on glancing up and down my body!) was the product of the two hours in-between the last time he saw my body (long story short: some bastard was animating it but I was not conscious) and now he grew quiet. I asked what was wrong, he inquired whether I had been awake during the two hours. I said yes. Now he is upset.

My sister says that I was the asshole for not telling him (and not telling her). When I died, he grieved me a lot, apparently, and went looking for my body after I had left to get ready. My superior and friend from work said I was a bit of a jerk but he understood my desire to look good and he also liked my outfit. He also said it was good to build up the tension.

The person who took me in thinks I was right to not look ugly because he believes that I should put effort in my looks for my boyfriend. However, when he said this, my boyfriend overheard and is now upset at him too.

I thought the best person to go to would be my boyfriend's younger sister. When I asked her about it though, she said she would only answer if I bought her tofu. Unfortunately, I did not have access to my money at the moment, and the money in my pockets was used for my new outfit.

Finally, when I talked to my subordinate about it, she cried. I forgot to tell her I was alive too.

So,

AITA?

[copperbadge]

Every time, you guys. Every time I look into alternatives to Lulu.com for self-publishing I come up with “Wow Lulu really is the best of a bad set of options, huh?” 

Recently, Draft2Digital bought Smashwords in order to bring a print book company under their aegis; they’d formerly only done ebooks. I thought I might investigate them as an alternative to Lulu, which I’ve used for about twelve years now. For ebooks I would venture D2D is probably top of the line. For print books they are....not. 

I’m writing this out half so other folks can see it but half so that in the future I can look this up and remind myself of why I’m still with Lulu. 

TLDR: Not only does Draft2Digital want 60% of my print book royalties where Lulu takes 0%, and $30 for a proof that costs me $11 at Lulu, but I also appear to have solved the problem of why Lulu was making me price my books so goddamn artificially high. Which is like. Honestly the best anti-anxiety drug I’ve experienced this week. 

Basically there are a number of elements that go into self-publishing with a print-on-demand service. For some publishers, there’s a “setup fee” which doesn’t really set anything up, it’s just there to be a fee, everything is done by computer on the back end. Traditionally, Lulu has not charged a setup fee. Smashwords used to charge $50, but Draft2Digital currently waives it. I was heartened by that because the setup fee was keeping me from migrating, since I can afford $50 but I balk at knowing I’m paying them $50 for nothing. 

Next is the cost of printing -- what it costs the company in paper, ink, machinery, labor, etc, to just make a book with no profit. Lulu’s price calculus isn’t super clear and I’ve never bothered looking at what the breakdown is, because they’re pretty up-front -- they tell you in the process of setting the book up how much it’ll cost. In this case, a 140-page 6x9 trade paperback, no frills, which is how all my books are printed, is $5. Draft2Digital doesn’t tell you the flat price anywhere but they do offer the breakdown information; it costs $1.22 flat plus $0.0133 per page. So, for a 140 page book, the at-cost is $3.08. So far so good. 

Now, if you’re going to sell through Lulu, the “at cost” is the minimum price. You won’t make any money but you CAN charge just $5 for a $5 book. Any pricing above that is your cut. So -- let’s price this 140 page trade paperback at $13-$15. That’s a bit high to be honest but let’s just see. At Lulu, your take is roughly $6-$8 based on those prices, because you’re just dropping out the cost of printing from the retail price. 

At Draft2Digital, the same 140-page trade paperback, which remember is quoted as costing roughly $1.20 less to print than Lulu charges, gets you $2.75-$3.50 in royalties per book.

....wait, what? 

So now we need to sidetrack a little but I promise it’s for a reason. One of the motivations for looking into a change to Draft2Digital is that I didn’t like that Lulu was setting higher “minimum prices” than I was accustomed to -- they would tell me the book only cost $5 to print but require me to sell it for $12 or similar, and I couldn’t work out why. I’m an idiot but the penny did finally drop: it’s because when you distribute them outside of Lulu (say, on Amazon or Barnes & Noble or similar) your royalties drop like a stone. $7 in royalties purchased through Lulu comes out to like twenty-five cents purchased through Amazon. So Lulu forces you to price the book at a point where you even GET royalties and don’t end up weirdly owing Amazon money. The “global distribution” is what’s driving that minimum up. 

So in price-quoting a competitor I actually solved the problem with Lulu. 

Which is good, because the fun doesn’t stop there. If you want a proof copy of a book from Lulu, it’s the at-cost of the book, plus tax, plus postage. Buying a proof copy of this book from Lulu would cost me $11. Lulu makes you order a new proof copy every time you make a change, which is shady, but usually I only need to make 1-2 changes across the life of a book, so at most the cost will probably be $35 and for that I’ll get three copies of the book. Draft2Digital doesn’t give you an option. If you want a proof pre-publication, it’s $30 flat. If you want to publish and then buy a copy you can, but you can only make one change to the book every 90 days once it’s published. If you want to make more than one change, it’s $25 every time you upload a new version of the manuscript within that 90 day period.

So Draft2Digital’s books cost less to print but they take a massive cut of your royalties out of the retail cost of the book. If the book costs $3 to print, and I price it at $15, that’s $12 in profit on the book. Of that $12, however, I only receive $4. Draft2Digital literally wants 2/3 of my royalties per book. They want $20 more than Lulu to send me a proof copy. If I need to correct the proof, the correction is free, but I’m assuming the second proof will also cost me $30. Any changes after that, within 90 days, will cost $25 plus $30 for a new proof.

Which means my upfront costs at Lulu are about $35 per published book; to do the same thing at Draft2Digital is between $60 and $105 depending on whether I need to make changes after the second proof copy. And even after that, my royalties at Lulu are just about twice what they would be at Draft2Digital per purchase. 

So, well, Lulu it is. And the problem I was having with Lulu is solved if I decide to just retail through Lulu rather than selling globally. Which...selling globally has done two things that I’m aware of:

1. Fucked up my author page so badly on Amazon that one of my books is still attributed to Kathleen Starbuck, and one of her books is for sale on my author page. 

2. Raised the minimum price I’m allowed to set my books at by like, 40%. 

So I think probably what’s going to happen is going forward my books will be for sale only on Lulu. I can still assign them ISBNs and they still will ship worldwide, and the prices will fall significantly. My deepest apologies to those of you who have paid an artificially inflated price for the last few books; I’m going to fix that going forward, I’m going to go in and try to fix it retroactively in the books that are already on Lulu, and if it’s any consolation at least the cash came to me, and TWO THIRDS OF IT didn’t go to Lulu. 

It’s gonna take me a little time, untangling Lulu’s relationship to other retailers is tricky, but eventually the Shivadh Omnibus and Twelve Points should come down significantly in price, and there ought to be a dollar or two drop for the older books as well. 

This is why it always pays to do the math, even if like me you are dreadful at it. 

[decolonize-the-left]

I hate democrats with all my very heart but I can't in good faith advise to vote 3rd party in these hell years when they would see every trans person hang and be off hormones. When the transphobia is not at its height (Eg, like. a few years ago) I would 100% agree with you, but the stakes are too high. If the states falls to transphobia, even more countries will follow it. I think it's harmful to consider not voting D this upcoming election. Once they got off tihs current bend, I could get behind where you are coming from.

"this is helpful and not lacking critical analysis at all"

"if the states fall to transphobia"

Where have you been?

GA & VA are blue states this year btw. It's gotten worse since May and and April, too. The mid terms didn't save anyone.

Also if you, the person reading this, have considered voting 3rd party pls know it's not nearly as unpopular or as unlikely of a win as Democrats want you to think it is.

People would vote for a good 3rd party candidate, actually.

Dems convincing you its a long shot is absolutely a self-preserving psyop hoping to convince you otherwise. Its a half-assed theory that blatantly denies what we learned from 2016 and can still see in polls.

And that's 3rd party candidates stand a shot of they can get in the primaries for the general election. People want progressives. People were pissed and turned to voting for Trump when Sanders fell out- not Clinton.

They need and want another option and it's not a long shot or unlikely. They just need to make it to the primaries.

Enter Cornel West

Cornel West is not running as a Democrat and thus does not need to battle Biden for a spot on the general ballot in November of 2024....

✨ Which gives you and all your friends plenty of time to learn about him ✨

So here are some of his policies and also his campaign site

I'm a decolonial anarchist that hates the state and sees voting as nothing as upholding the state. I make no room for Democrats because Democrats lack the ambition to challenge anything about it.

But unless Cornel West drops out or ends up being some awful closeted abused... Im going to vote for him.

A lot of his politics and campaign goals align with my politics. I wouldn't feel like I was settling if I voted for him.

And a lot of this stuff isn't unreasonable or unrealistic either. Like I just made a post about how the NDAA budget proposal for 2024 is being increased with enough money to solve clean water, homelessness, and implement free college tuition for the whole USA. And Republicans are fighting for more.

And that's just the budget for two years, it'll probably be increased by another hundred billion in a couple years. Nobody blinks when the military budget is swelling like that.

But we should when we can be using that kind of money to solve real problems that real people are having and face and would change lives literally overnight. They just throw that money at the military where most of us never see it again.

But this stuff can be real.

[anabdaniels]

A cozy little life

Paring: Agent Whiskey x Female reader

Summary: You're enjoying your housewife life and your happiness makes Jack happy too.

Word counting: 920

Rating: General audiences

Warnings: Domestic bliss, domestic fluff, reader is enjoying her domestic life, Jake being the amazing husband we know he is.

A/N: I had a little epiphany while baking a cake, so here we are.

Divider from: @saradika-graphics

Masterlist

Even though most times you didn’t see anything spectacular about your cooking experiments, that time you were slightly proud of the results. As if the incredible smell of freshly baked cake wasn’t enough, you had successfully unmolded the cake without the caramel remaining glued on the mold.

If a year ago you were told that you would be that happy about a cake with caramelized bananas on top of it, you would have been in total disbelief. Still, on that afternoon, seeing yourself so excited about choosing the right temperature of the oven, so the cake could bake properly without the bananas and caramel at the bottom of the mold getting burned during the process, you couldn’t help but laugh at how much life can change on the space of a year.

Your old corporate job used to be pretty okay and you had no intention to quit after marrying Jack, until your previous boss retired from work and her son assumed the management and converted the work environment to the worst possible: work overload, accumulation of functions, work at weekends and holidays every time it was possible. Every day you went home frustrated, mad, or upset, Jack was always the most comprehensible someone could, comforting and taking care of you while you vented about everything until the day you came back home crying and shaking at the edge of a burnout.

“Sugar, you’re quitting that job.” Jack spoke firmly after pondering everything you told him.

“What? No, I can’t simply quit.” You said with your voice still husky from the time crying.

“Oh no? And may I know why?” Jack raised his eyebrows with both hands lying on his hips.

“I haven’t planned it; my finances are quite messed up at the moment and…”

“Honey, stop.” He sighed frustrated and approached you, resting his hands on your upper arms “I thought I’ve made it clear to you that money ain’t a problem here and that you’re more than welcome to rely on my finances that, by the way, are half yours since we got married. We have enough money to live comfortably for the rest of our lives, you don’t even have to work. I got it if you want to do it, but I’ll not let you do it at the price of your sanity”

You planned to get a new job as fast as possible when you quit, but then you decided to get some rest before start working again. After a few days, you started to feel like you were wasting time, and then you decided to test some of the hundreds of recipes you had saved and never had the chance to do. When the first couple of months passed, you realized you were concerningly happy with your new lifestyle. After six months you just accepted that you were happier than ever daily trying new recipes and doing flower arrangements around the house, even having to remind Jack to take off his muddy boots for the 100th time wasn’t a bothering task anymore.

Jack would never say it out loud, fearing to sound like those weirdos a lot of ladies complained about, but he loved to have you home full-time, knowing that, no matter what hour he came back home, he would find you there in one of those gracious dresses you wore daily and no longer struggling to keep your peace of mind as it used to be when you had your corporative job.

That afternoon wasn’t any different, after a long workday with the livestock, Jack came back home, almost entering home with his dirty boots, but stopping the moment he saw the freshly mopped floor shining like glass. He knew moping it again would solve any footprints left, but Jack would never have the nerve to ruin something you had done, so he was more than happy to let his muddy boots rest next to the door as he entered home. Based on that sweet smell of something recently taken out of the oven, Jack followed to the kitchen, smiling widely when he found you there, looking like a proud mother while taking a picture of the warm cake in front of you.

Calmly, Jack approached you from behind, wrapping his arms around your waist and kissing your shoulder. You smiled and let yourself relax between his arms, leaning your head back to rest against his chest.

“What’s my pretty wife inventing today?” Jack asked in a warm tone, kissing the top of your head.

“Well, I successfully made a caramelized banana cake, and I’m very proud of it if you ask me.” You answered happily, melting a bit between his arms.

“As you should. Just the smell of it by the door was enough to make me hungry.” He answered sincerely and moved to sit in one of the chairs next to the table, pulling you to sit on his lap.

“I make no compromise about it being eatable, but at least looks good.”

“Y’wouldn’t cook anything bad even if you tried hard, honeybee.” He assured while squeezing you between his arms, hiding his face in the crook of your neck.

“What’s the matter?” You asked sinking both of your hands on his hair.

“Is invigorating to see you happy, makes me happy either.” Jack admitted sincerely, planting a kiss on your neck “I love you so much, sugar.”

“I love you too, cowboy.” You answered quietly, closing your eyes and resting your head against his, simply enjoying the comfortable embrace of your loving husband.

Tagging: @missladym1981

[yippeecahier]

NGL, I come from a place of privilege, given that I am under 25 and have no debt.

I have about $30,000 in assets - just my savings, car, tech, jewelry, and all my worldly goods that could be resold put together, at their current value. If I lost that 30k, which is really just (one) medical emergency away from bankruptcy, I would have to strip everything for the cash. In just cash alone, I'm not even close enough for a downpayment on a starter home, a multi year endeavor.

By comparison, millionaires such as Lady Gaga (130 million) and Keanu Reeves (380 million) are far above me. To be on the same level, I would have to earn and retain in financial or asset form, $129,970,000 or $379,970,000 respectively. Anything I spent on rent, insurance, gas, food, medicine, and other consumables that can't be resold doesn't count towards that net worth total.

That's a lot. But this pales in comparison to billionaires such as Jeff Bezos (117 billion) and Elon Musk (191 billion). I would have to retain $116,999,970,000 and $190,999,970,000 respectively. At my current income of $50k, which is above the median income for people with my level of education, assuming I magically don't need to spend any money on consumables and can just bank it all:

It would take me 2,599 years and 146 days to obtain Lady Gaga's wealth, or almost 26 CENTURIES.

It would take me 7,599 years and 146 days to obtain Keanu Reeve's wealth, or almost 76 CENTURIES.

It would take me 2,339,999 years and 146 days to obtain Jeff Bezo's wealth, or almost 2,340 MILLENIA.

It would take me 3,899,999 years to obtain Elon Musk's wealth. It would take me nearly 3,900 MILLENIA.

Oh, this is after having paid off all my debt and with my existing assets, by the way. For even Lady Gaga, the least wealthy of this list, I would have to work tirelessly from before the Roman Empire was even founded.

But that's just me, a college-educated middle-class American citizen who is both debt and child-free.

It's much more fascinating to compare these to each other.

Lady Gaga makes $25 million a year.

Keanu Reeves makes $40 million a year.

So, if I deduct what these millionaires already have in assets and divide the total of the billionaire's assets by their income to find how many years of just banking money (no consumables):

Lady Gaga would have to bank another $116,870,000,000 to have Jeff Bezo's wealth. Assuming she stops spending on consumables like food or whatever and every penny of her $25 million income goes into future asset wealth, it would still take Lady Gaga 4,674 years and 293 days for her to obtain Bezo's wealth.

Keanu Reeves would have to bank another $190,620,000,000 to achieve Elon Musk's wealth. Again, in a fantasy world where Keanu doesn't have to feed and clothe himself, it would take him 4,765 years and 6 months to obtain Elon Musk's wealth.

The gap between the assets of famous multimillionaires like Lady Gaga and Keanu Reeves (who make MILLIONS every year) and that of famous multi-billionaires is a little less than HALF what it would take me to become as wealthy as Lady Gaga at my income level, which is, again, above the median. I could never achieve that wealth in my entire fucking lifetime, because, even if I assumed my income would go up and actually outpace inflation, I still need to eat and I can only use my body for labor until I'm 80, tops, which is only 56 years of work and nowhere near the thousands.

This sounds very conspiracy-brain, but sometimes I think the United States deliberately undermines math education and the corresponding understanding of how to problem-solve and comprehend magnitude of these kinds of numbers. Because if kids sat down and did the math, they just might realize that there is no way to become this rich on your own hard work.

Sure, you can invest in the stock market - but that's gambling. Most people might be able to hamper the effects of inflation on their asset values with stock investment.

The American dream is a lie.

The middle class is closer to becoming homeless than they are to becoming multimillionaires.

Even multimillionaires are closer to becoming middle class or even homeless than they are to becoming multi-billionaires.

Don't fucking tell me to budget and I'll become a millionaire. It's more likely I'll get hit by lightning or lose it all to medical bills.

If this doesn't radicalize you, I don't know what will.

[wttcsms]

excerpts;

i have over 100k+ words in unfinished drafts/wips in my google docs. yikes.

in an attempt to gauge general interest + also to motivate myself in attempting to at least finish half of the projects i've started, i'm going to share some of the fics i think y'all will be most interested in 🤍 (and also because these are my usual first rough draft attempts, so these are just the best of the worst LOL)

as always, lmk what you think, what you're most excited for, and i'm always open to chatting about any of my concepts in depth 🤭

featuring keiji akaashi, atsumu miya, sae itoshi, tobio kageyama, naoya zenin, satoru gojo, + a plot that's still open for any character so tell me why ur fave deserves it (all with fem reader)

— brace for impact, keiji akaashi elevator pitch: rich college girl with daddy issues is roommates/put under the care of old-time family friend, 20-something y/o keiji akaashi

“I just don’t want you to waste your life away.” He answers, which is the truth. He really hates picking you up when you’re drunk off your ass, unable to defend yourself against the swarms of sleazy college guys that are attending the same party as you. He hates the fact that you’ve been raised — if the dozen father-daughter interactions you had with your dad counts as him “raising” you — to believe that money can solve all your problems. Because, sure, having money has gotten you out of many tight spots, but it wasn’t money that drove to a college on the other side of the city to pick you up, it was him. He has to stand here and watch you push the universe’s boundaries, trying to test your luck, to see if there’s a problem or a bad situation that you can’t get out of this time. You’re reckless and privileged and insecure and rich — the deadliest combination for any college age girl to be. You’re going to ruin your life before it even fully begins. It’s like your default mode is self destruction. 

“Not this speech again.” You sigh, shifting your body so that your knees are turned towards the door instead of him. “Y’know, Akaashi, you’re not my dad.” 

“Yeah, because unlike him, I actually care about you.”

You’re silent now, still staring out the window. He’s usually better at keeping his mouth shut, but it’s hard to do whenever you’re constantly pushing and pushing and testing his patience and he’s just so—

“—sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.” His knuckles are white from how hard he’s gripping the steering wheel. It’s a wonder how the words leave his mouth; you think the way he’s clenching his teeth acts as a formidable enough boundary. 

Actually, you think, it’s entirely justifiable. You’re coy, not dumb. You know when you’ve pushed Akaashi too far, and this is one of those times. And, really, you kind of — scratch that — you do deserve it. All of it. And then some. You’re irresponsible, and you drag him out to the other side of the city so he can act as your guardian, your protector, even though that is most certainly not the role he planned on playing. Honestly, you’re just surprised that he hasn’t left you out to rot like everyone else, and you’re thankful, you really are. But what are you supposed to say? That? The truth? Probably. 

You don’t, though. You just mutter some weak ass retort that sounds an awful lot like “you need to get laid” before staring out the window for the rest of the ride. 

— devil on my shoulder tellin' me i'll die soon (i don't really want that to impact you), atsumu miya elevator pitch: yakuza au but a healthy amount of porn and plot. sequel to this.

The first time Osamu Miya meets you, you’re unconscious, and he has a feeling you’d be grateful about this fact considering the state you’re in. 

Atsumu’s carrying you bridal style, and even in your sleep, you still cling to him. The sight would be almost sweet, but Osamu’s not an idiot. There can never be anything sweet in his dear older brother’s life. Even in the pale moonlight, Osamu can see the bruises and hickeys lining your neck, a trail of them that seem to disappear underneath your clothes (he wouldn’t be shocked if there’s a map of hickeys littering your skin). Your hair is sticking up at odd angles, your lips are swollen, and you are knocked out in every sense of the word. 

If the situation wasn’t serious (even without verbal confirmation, he’s well aware of how dire this situation is right now; Atsumu wouldn’t have visited him if it weren’t), Osamu thinks he would have made a comment about his brother’s rough handling. 

(He doesn’t, though, because Osamu knows all about just how rough his brother can get — after all, they both had the same upbringing.) 

“‘Samu,” Atsumu says, and his voice makes him sound like he’s worse for wear. He sounds like when he was fourteen and had his first taste of initiation, when a group of the strongest men would beat him relentlessly for thirty seconds and he wasn’t allowed to fight back. The crack in his voice is subtle, and even though Osamu rarely speaks to his brother anymore, he’s still a master at reading him. 

“Who’s the girl?” Osamu nods to your sleeping form, trying not to focus on the purple and red marks. God, he can’t tell if he, Atsumu, you, or all three of you are lucky it’s so dark. Osamu can’t really believe it’s possible to go out in public after a night with his brother; not without being on the receiving end of a few concerned looks. 

“I need a favor.” Atsumu ignores his question, which is typical behavior for him, so Osamu’s not entirely too surprised or annoyed. “She’s in danger, and it’s—” 

Atsumu grimaces like the next words he’s about to say are going to leave a bitter taste in his mouth. And maybe it’s because that’s his brother and they grew up together, or maybe it’s because ‘Tsumu’s always been a little predictable (or has Osamu just always been good at predicting?), but Osamu can almost mouth what his brother’s about to say.

“—my fault.” 

So, you must be someone awfully important to his brother then. Important enough that Atsumu would finally visit him in person after all these years (with barely any warning beforehand, too). Important enough that Atsumu would treat you so roughly (if the marks on your body are any indication of what you’ve been through) and still care about you so deeply. Important enough that he’s finally taking accountability, finally taking the blame for his actions.

He didn’t think it was possible, but Atsumu’s left him genuinely speechless for a moment. 

“Please, ‘Samu.” Atsumu Miya is not the type of person who breaks down easily. He does not beg, he commands. But right now, Atsumu sounds like he’s this close to getting down on his knees and clasping his hands together if that’s what it’ll take to get Osamu to help him. “You told me you would owe me after what I did for you. Consider this your repayment.” 

Apparently, you’re someone so important to Atsumu, he’s cashing in a favor that’s worth his life just to ensure your safety. Osamu can’t tell if that’s true idiocy or true love — then again, there’s hardly a difference between the two, is there? 

“Idiot. I would have helped ya regardless, y’know.” He means it. Every word. 

“I know.” And Atsumu means it, too. Because even if they’ve went years with little to no contact, even though they both belong to two completely different worlds, they’re still brothers. Which means that they also know each other as well as they know themselves, and Atsumu knows that Osamu can never truly be at peace until he feels like the completely imaginary debt he owes is paid back in full. 

The universe must have a taste for irony, though, because Atsumu thought that ensuring your safety and bringing his brother peace would make him feel good. Instead, transferring you to his brother’s arms allows the weight of the world to rest more comfortably on his shoulders. 

Osamu takes one last look at his older brother, and he’s not entirely surprised to see that his attention is on you, dark eyes staring so intensely at your sleeping figure, he wonders if he’s trying to commit your face to his memory. He’s worried about Atsumu. Sure, he’s got a whole entire gang on his side, a rather powerful one too, but ‘Tsumu’s never been the greatest at being left alone to his devices, even if he doesn’t want to admit it. 

But then Atsumu looks up at him, and Osamu feels like they’re both fourteen again. Trapped, vulnerable, in immense pain… But not alone, never alone. 

“Thanks, ‘Samu.” 

“Any time, ‘Tsumu.” 

(It’s the same words exchanged by their teenage selves years ago, whenever Osamu would help him clean his cuts and sloppily stitch him up.

To them, it was another way of saying “I love you”.)

— it always leads to you [chapter one], sae itoshi elevator pitch: literally the long ass, long awaited start to this series. if you listened to taylor's new album (ttpd)... yeah, that's basically the new soundtrack for this fic. do what u will with that info <3

A hard pill to swallow is that people never get over their first loves. 

It’s like, scientifically proven, or something. There’s been studies, you think. Not to mention that you belong to the group of people who have never gotten over their first loves. 

You’re aware that it’s probably embarrassing and should be something that brings you shame, but when Sae comes knocking on your door, infrequent, surprise visits that always catch you off-guard, you find yourself opening the door for him. 

(He has a key. He can let himself in any time he wants. You think he must forget.)

This time, he’s not knocking on your door, but he is waiting in the stairwell near the entrance to the floor of your apartment. He’s got a baseball cap on and a dark sweatshirt, and you want to tell him that everyone who lives here is most definitely getting shitfaced at the college bar you just left (the one whose only redeeming qualities are that it’s by campus and the drinks are cheap). He doesn’t have to worry about hiding his identity. 

You frown when he approaches you. 

“You didn’t tell me you were coming,” you pout and complain about this halfheartedly, but it’s all for nothing. Sae never tells you when he’s coming; it’s almost like you’re just a spur-of-the-moment decision to him, which doesn’t feel right since the Sae you grew up with was always meticulous and purposeful with his actions. Granted, the Sae you grew up with left on a plane to an entirely different continent four years ago, and the one you have standing next to you now sometimes feels more like a doppelganger than your ex-boyfriend. 

He doesn’t answer, because of course he fucking wouldn’t. He waits for you to fumble with your keys; if you knew he was coming, you wouldn’t have let Akane convince you to take as many shots as you did. Now everything is kind of blurry and hazy, and your hands shake despite the lack of coldness you’re feeling. 

You delude yourself into thinking that there’s something of the old Sae left inside of him as he gently pries the keys from your fumbling fingers and unlocks the door to your apartment himself. 

Entering your apartment feels like traveling in a time machine, only instead of traveling back in time or to the future, Sae is entering a present-day parallel universe. This apartment, with its best (and only) amenity being a short distance from campus, could have been his. Could have been shared by the two of you, even. 

If he had stayed, that is.

Sometimes Sae ponders what his life would be like if he stuck around. If he had never had the ego or the audacity to want to see more of the world. You know better than to ask him why he never visits you when you’re on a holiday break from school, and he thinks it’s because you still know him the best out of anybody, even Rin. The truth is, Sae is too uncomfortable to come crawling back to his childhood home that he grew up in, the one he’s spent years determined to grow out of. He only comes back home when absolutely necessary — out of eldest son/family obligation. 

This college apartment, seeing remnants of a life you’re living that he doesn’t know much about (even though all he has to do is ask, and you would gladly tell), feels wrongly nostalgic. Like, the sweatshirt lying haphazardly on the couch displaying a big, fat Tokyo U logo on its front could have been his instead of your roommate’s. He could have played college ball instead of trying to get recruited directly to the big leagues. Sae’s good enough to get a scholarship. Even received a letter informing him that Tokyo U would be more than glad to have him, full-ride. 

(The letter resides in the back of his closet, crumpled up but never forgotten.) 

And, most importantly, you wouldn’t be looking at him like this. 

Even drunk off of cheap alcohol, you sober up startlingly fast when you see him. You shouldn’t give him so much power over your life, but he’d be a damn liar if he said he didn’t relish in the overwhelming relief that you still love him just the same. Nothing ever changes back home, and he says this with disdain, but when it comes to your unshifting affection for him, he figures staying the same can’t be all bad.

“Y’know, it always feels like you’re judging me when you just stand there and look at everything.” An intoxicated you is an honest you. If he wasn’t so determined to mask everything about himself, he would have smiled at your admittance. 

He doesn’t smile, though. He just continues to let his cold eyes roam across the entirety of your cramped, college apartment.

— an indentation in the shape of you, tobio kageyama elevator pitch: idol!reader who goes into hiding after a major scandal despite being the victim x pro!tobio who's been hopelessly pining after you since forever. now you're in hiding, but also living in the apartment right across from his.

SEARCH NEWS: [NAME] [SURNAME] > TOP RESULTS (SORTED FROM MOST TO LEAST RECENT)

WHERE DID [NAME] [SURNAME] GO? *INCLUDES EXCLUSIVE PHOTO OF HER MOST RECENT SIGHTING!*Posted on March 10, 2019

[NAME]’S SOCIAL MEDIA ACCOUNTS HAVE BEEN TAKEN DOWN, IDOL HAS NOT BEEN SPOTTED IN A WEEK Posted on January 4, 2019   BREAKING: [NAME] [SURNAME] GOES SOLO! LEAVES IDOL GROUP TO START HER OWN CAREER! Posted November 6, 2018

KENTARO TANAKA NOW DATING J-POP IDOL AYAME MATSUMOTO, [NAME]’S FELLOW GIRL GROUP MEMBER!Posted on November 1, 2018

AFTER RECEIVING BACKLASH FROM ANNOUNCEMENT OF HER RELATIONSHIP, [NAME] [SURNAME] ISSUES AN APOLOGY ON ALL SOCIAL MEDIA ACCOUNTS Posted on September 3, 2018

NEW COUPLE ALERT! IDOL [NAME] AND HER RECORD LABEL’S EXECUTIVE, KENTARO TANAKA, SPARK DATING RUMORS Posted on August 16, 2018

When you spend most of your adolescent and young adult years standing in front of a camera, constantly served on a platter for the masses to scrutinize during your most formative years, you get used to being seen. People’s eyes locked in on you isn’t a comfortable feeling, but it’s one you’re very well acquainted with. Watchful, judging gazes cling to you like a second skin. 

It comes with the job is what your personal manager, Fumiko Gima, tells you, right before she tells you to toughen up. You had been fifteen at the time and saw a blogger discussing how you were the least attractive cast member on the children’s ensemble show you starred in. 

All eyes are on you from this point forward. You really going to let them see you cry? Fumiko is not a nice person, but she is incredibly kind, in her own way. She’s the type of person who believes in tough love, all while claiming that she doesn’t even think love exists. 

You think about the disapproving frown on her face when you revealed your relationship with Kentaro Tanaka. 

“You think you’re in love with him?” Sometimes it’s hard to believe that Fumiko is barely seven years older than you. Her youth is evident in her flawless skin and shiny hair (both of which are maintained by very meticulous routines), but the flat expression she wears on her face makes her seem like a woman who found out the hard way that her thirties are not going the way she planned. You’re eighteen when she asks you this question, and you don’t know how a twenty-five year old woman can have such an intimidating aura, but you think that only adds to her beauty. 

“He told me he loves me.” 

“People like him and I don’t believe in love.” Fumiko makes a face; sometimes, she lets her poker face drop in favor of making a face of disgust, annoyance, irritation, or extreme smugness. Right now, she looks disgusted. “Well, I wouldn’t normally place myself in the same group as him, but our industries are pretty much the same. You don’t get to where we’re at because of love, that’s for damn certain.” 

At this point in time, you’re adamant that it’s love because that’s what he says it is, and you’ve never been in love before, but you know that it’s something great. You’re eighteen, and insecure, and he’s in such a powerful position — he could have anyone he wants, and he loves you, so he picks you. Maybe Fumiko is just bitter because no one’s ever chosen her. 

— angel of the morning, atsumu miya elevator pitch: historical, ambiguous war au ft. soldier!atsumu x the civilian sweetheart reader who nurses him back to health

It’s the thunder that wakes you first. 

Lately, you’ve been a light sleeper. Paranoia is a good companion whenever you’re a young, pitifully unmarried lady who lives alone. You keep a chair propped under the knob of the front door, and you no longer open any windows, scared that you’ll forget to lock them at night. 

Normally, it’s the ticking of the grandfather clock in the foyer, or the creaks that come and interrupt the silence of the night (your parents used to swear that old houses just make those noises) that keeps you up. Sometimes it’s the neighbors next door; they like to get into screaming matches that seem to be so loud, they shake the walls of your home. 

It’s not your neighbors’ arguing that rattles the walls tonight. It’s the thunderstorm that the sweet old man at the farmer’s market warned you about. You be safe out, miss. Take some extra apples. It might be too flooded for you to go out like you normally do. 

You pull your blanket over your head, enveloping yourself in darkness but doing very little to block out the noise outside. The thunder seems to only grow louder, each boom punctuating the lightning that you’re certain is striking through the sky. It’s too loud. 

And rhythmic. 

You listen closer… Three booms in succession. A pause. Three more booms. After a minute of this pattern, the sound only comes more rapidly — louder than before, too. 

The loud booms — it’s not from the storm, then. 

There’s someone knocking at your door. 

You debate hiding under the blanket forever. Maybe this stranger will go away and leave once they realize that no one is going to answer the door. Besides, no one trustworthy is roaming the area at this time of night, right? What possible explanation could there be for someone to be stranded outside at midnight during a major thunderstorm? 

But the knocking persists. Whoever this stranger is, they don’t know when to quit. You’d be annoyed if you weren’t so paralyzed with fear. 

“Open up!” A muffled voice still manages to cut through the front door, traveling all the way to your bedroom. It only serves to make you more afraid; what sort of monster is waiting for you outside? The storm rages on, and the knocking won’t stop. 

What happens if this person is in genuine trouble? Would a murderer truly be going through such lengths to kill someone? A thief? 

Well, you rationalize, it’s not as if you have many items worth stealing. Besides, you have no family, no marriage prospects, and a dwindling stash of money with no means to make more. You’re just existing at this point, and you’re surviving on limited time.

So you make your way to the front door, cringing as one section of the floor creaks as you tiptoe through the darkness of your home. You highly doubt the stranger outside can hear you, but you still hold your breath as you peek through the curtains. It’s too dark inside and out for anyone to notice the movement, and all you can make out is a large figure. There’s a knapsack by their feet and hanging off their shoulder is a gun. 

The knocks shouldn’t catch you off guard by now, but one particular hard bang against the door has you jumping in surprise, away from the window. 

This stranger must be a soldier. 

There��s not a lot of fighting to be done down here. The southern towns have mostly been unaffected. Most of the war is being fought up north. All the southern soldiers write back home, telling stories about the cities they visited, careful not to mention the red that runs through the streets and the way the citizens will have to update the population count on the sign outside their City Hall. 

But still, you know what everyone knows — when a soldier, especially one from your side, shows up on your front step, you better let him know that this home is now his. 

You slide the deadbolt with shaky hands, turn the lock on the doorknob, and only hesitate for a few seconds before removing the chair that serves as your last barrier. He’s a soldier, you remind yourself, hoping that you’re not wrong. The least you can do for him is offer him a hot bath for leaving him outside for so long. 

You open the door, revealing a blond-haired soldier weighed down from the weight of his sopping wet uniform, his hair sticking to his forehead because his face is also covered in rainwater, and it’s now that you notice that he’s got one arm wrapped around his abdomen. His hand is pressing down on his side, and you don’t think the dark liquid coating his fingers is water. 

“Finally.” He says. “I’m First Lieutenant Miya, and I fight for the south. I am seeking temporary refuge in your home, and I require only what you can afford to give me. I–“ Before he can finish rattling off what he’s been forced to memorize for times like these, First Lieutenant Miya falls forward, his body crashing into yours. 

It’s been a rough day. 

A rough week. 

A rough month.

A rough life, really, but Atsumu Miya’s long past the days of whining and complaining about things he can’t control. For example, he no longer dwells on his father abandoning his mother right before she gave birth to him and Osamu. There’s still a bitter taste that gets left on his tongue when he mentions dear old pa, which is why, for the most part, he chooses not to discuss him at all. He can’t control the way the north and the south view each other; sure, the mandatory draft isn’t his definition of a fun time, but he honestly didn’t have many plans after school, anyway. He probably would’ve joined the cause, regardless of the law or not. It’s just… A choice is nice to have, y’know? 

Like, if he had it his way, he wouldn’t have gotten caught up in some ambush tonight. If only he weren’t just a lieutenant. If only his captain weren’t such a dumbass.

If he had a group to command, Atsumu’s certain that he wouldn’t lead his men into obvious traps, unlike some captains. But newly promoted Brigadier General Kita isn’t here to force people to listen to what Atsumu has to say. Kita has bigger problems to worry about, bigger troops to organize. 

Atsumu’s morning starts off bright and early with a five mile trek in the woods. The sky is overcast, and anyone with eyes is capable of predicting the storm that’s coming. Atsumu suggests building temporary shelter before the rain makes it too hard to walk; it’s already hard enough to navigate now, but Atsumu’s visited this town before, when he was a little boy. It floods easily, too easily. 

His captain doesn’t listen. Typical.

Around noon, they take a short break to eat. Rations are getting lower. Atsumu suggests that two or three soldiers turn around and head towards town to get supplies. His captain argues that their group is already small enough and sneers that Atsumu must be a northie lover since he’s trying so hard to sabotage this plan. 

The plan is shit, by the way. The captain swears his intel is good, that he’s just oh so certain that a troop of northern soldiers are planning to invade a series of small southern towns. They’re supposedly cutting through the woods to be discreet, and they plan on striking at night.

Atsumu thinks that the captain is just falling into their trap (spoiler: he’s right). There’s no way anyone would bother capturing small towns, just like there’s no way people ever want to listen to someone who’s just a lieutenant. Nobody thinks they have anything to offer, so it’s not worth the time to even pretend to care. These towns aren’t loaded with resources. They aren’t located in any coveted areas. There are only a couple of farms, but even then, they’re not big enough to justify wasting troops to terrorize the townspeople. 

But First Lieutenant Miya follows his orders anyway because what else is he supposed to do? Unfortunately, talking back comes to bite him in the ass because as nighttime starts to settle and the first drops of rain start to fall, his captain gives him a slimy smile before telling him, “Since you have such great ideas, Lieutenant, why don’t you go ahead and turn back into town to get us some of those supplies we needed?”

Well, Atsumu has a few choice words in reply, none of which will get him back into his captain’s good graces (not like he cares to be anyway). Atsumu can argue that it’s dark out, and no one in their right mind is going to be up at night. Atsumu can throw back his captain’s words and remind him that their measly team is already lacking in numbers. He can make the captain look dumb and ask him where the supposed enemy troops are at, since apparently they’re supposed to be capturing the town right about now. He can abandon the men, go back home, and enjoy a homecooked meal from ma. She wouldn’t care enough to scold him for being a dirty deserter; the lecture will come, surely, but she wouldn’t be too harsh with him. Atsumu misses home. He misses his brother, who belongs to a different troop. He misses Shinsuke, his former captain. He misses his mom. 

What he does end up doing, though, is biting back his tongue. He barely nods, clenches his teeth as he reluctantly says yes, sir, and treks off on his own. 

He’s about three miles in when the bullets start flying. 

Isn’t this just a lovely way to finish off the night, he thinks, before sprinting through the trees, weaving between them, trying to ignore how loud and how close the shots sound. He thinks he’ll probably go deaf by the time this damn war is over. A bullet narrowly misses his face, and then he starts to think he’ll probably be dead before then.

He can’t see. If he can’t see, he doubts the enemies can, either. That’s when he gets an idea. His legs are sore, he’s thirsty, and every step he takes is punctuated by a sloshing sound because the area is flooding, just like he predicted it would.

(Sometimes it’s a pain being right all the time.)

The shots are still coming at him in rapid succession, and he believes maybe it’s because they still think they have to shoot at him. If they think they got him, maybe they’ll leave him alone. It didn’t sound like anyone was bothering to chase after him, meaning they’re all probably perched in trees or hiding in bushes, shooting blindly into the night, hoping to land a lucky shot on a target. 

Before he can pretend to be hit, though, some bastard does get a lucky shot on him.

“Fuck!” He can’t help but yell out, the bullet piercing the side of his abdomen. A burning sensation begins to form on the spot where the bullet decided to make its happy home, and Atsumu can’t help but fall to the ground, clutching at the bottom half of his body. 

A minute goes by with no more shooting, and he’s glad he’s in enough pain not to realize that had he thought of his little plan of pretending to be shot sooner, he probably wouldn’t be in this predicament right now. 

It’d be so easy just to lie down and die. It’d be a slow death, sure. Painful, very much so. But no more fighting. No more captains belittling him. 

But if you die, a tiny voice in his head reminds him, it wouldn’t just be you that dies. It’d kill ma. It would ruin Osamu. Don’t be a selfish bastard. 

He allows himself only one more minute to stay absolutely still. He thinks the adrenaline pumping in his system helps to numb the pain, which is saying a lot, considering the fact that death would be preferable over this excruciating sensation. When he’s certain the coast is clear, he struggles to stand and keep himself steady.

He cannot die like this. 

Atsumu Miya knows better than to get upset at things he can’t control. He can’t control flying bullets aimed at him. He can’t control enemy soldiers; hell, he doesn’t even have soldiers he can control, enemy or ally. He can’t control a lot of shitty things that seem to happen to him, but as long as his heart is still beating, Atsumu Miya controls his own fate. He decides what happens next. 

It’s only a matter of putting one foot in front of the other, he rationalizes. He walks all the time. It’s not such a hard task. The storm continues to rage on, and Atsumu pretends he doesn’t even mind the water. He pretends that he’s not freezing. He pretends that he doesn’t care that his uniform is sticking to his body, making the dirty fabric cling onto him as if to act as a second skin. 

There’s a white flag in his knapsack. During training, they said to use it as a last resort. Die before you wave it, or something like that. 

He knows the intended use for it, but right now, he needs it as a tourniquet. He tightens the flag around his waist, using all his diminishing strength to get it as tight as possible. He can trick himself into thinking it’ll stop the flow of blood leaving his body, but at least it’ll slow it down. It’ll grant him enough time to make it into town and get help. 

He doesn’t choose the first house he sees; he chooses the one he likes the best. It’s nothing all too impressive — certainly not the biggest, but from what he can make out in the dark, it looks quaint. It reminds him of home, almost. There’s a porch with a bench outside and flowers on a window sill. It seems to glow in the darkness of the town, its paint a much brighter shade than the surrounding houses. A nice family must live here then. 

He knocks on the door, and there is no answer. Atsumu Miya did not walk this far with his life literally draining out of him to only make it this far. He knocks and knocks, and because he is too stubborn, even to the very end, he doesn’t quit. Someone must answer the door. It doesn’t cross his mind that perhaps this lovely family he’s envisioning might not even be home. It feels like ages since he first started banging on this door, and he thinks this might be it.

And then the door swings open, revealing a young lady with a certain glow about her. Maybe it’s the blood loss talking, but right now, you look like an absolute angel. His bright beacon of hope. 

“Finally.” He swallows hard, trying to remember what he’s supposed to tell you. The proper words are evading him right now. Honestly, even standing is a struggle now. He thinks he does a good enough job, but then he blinks, and his eyes don’t open back up after that.

— to the victor belong the spoils, naoya zenin elevator pitch: the dark longfic i mentioned abt borderline yandere naoya + how he basically slaughtered your whole entire clan and is going to force you to marry him because you have a cursed technique that will basically grant him invincibility

“Who did this?” You’ve seen Naoya so angry that his words seemed to shake the very interior of the room he was shouting in. You’ve seen Naoya so furious that he had everyone in his vicinity cowering in fear, scared to face his merciless wrath. Never have you seen him so enraged that he can hardly speak, the sentence coming out from between bared teeth; they’re discernible growls more than they are words, but his message doesn’t need to be understood in order to know his intent. 

Naoya Zenin is out for blood. 

“Tell me who did this.” He demands, hand gripping your chin, forcing you to tilt your head up and stare him directly in the eyes. You know why he does this; he can read you like a fucking book. He’ll know if you’re lying before you can even finish whatever fabricated story you’ve spent forever formulating. There’s no point in trying to trick him because it’ll cause him to get angrier, and then what? Then, you’ll have the whole entire room’s blood on your hands. A massacre dedicated just for you. 

You hadn’t cried when he had taken you from your home. You hadn’t cried when you were about to be killed by that curse. You hadn’t shed a single tear despite the unfamiliarity of the Zenin Estate, despite the fact that you were forced into a marriage with a man you did not know, despite the fact that you’ve never been this far from home, suffering silently in feelings of isolation and despair. You hadn’t cried after all of that, yet now you’re sobbing? Now you’re here, struggling to stand on your own, clutching onto the material of his shirt as if he’s your only lifeline, dangerously close to burying your face in his chest and crying your little eyes out. He’s been angry more times than he’s ever felt any other emotion. He’s numb to the feeling of his blood rising, of his vision being tainted with red, of having nothing but sick thoughts and vivid memories of torn flesh and severed limbs surrounding him. This emotion isn’t foreign to him; it’s a part ofhim. And he’s angry, yes, but there’s something else that he feels when he looks down and sees you making yourself smaller, as if trying to use him as your own personal shield.

— balancing act [chapter one], satoru gojo elevator pitch: the first month of your bet will you and gojo inevitably get together <3 the start of this series.

You have what you order down to a T. You first started your tried and true method of restaurant ordering when you were but a wee little intern, too shy to go to town on a rack of ribs in front of your peers and bosses. Once you entered the city’s dating scene (which is actually Dante’s tenth circle of hell — it’s just never discussed because that’s truly how vile trying to find a good man in a big city is), you realized that there’s not much difference between lunch dates and client lunches. 

You have the obligatory greeting exchanges (“hi,” “hello,” “how are you,” etc.), the awkward smiles, the mental countdown going off in your head as you wait for the perfect moment to get right into business (“what do you expect to gain from this partnership?” — a line surprisingly used more often in your meetings with potential investors and clients). There’s the pained professionalism, the tight-lipped smiles, the napkin resting in your lap, the battle to maintain constant eye-contact. When you sit across from someone at a table, date or client, you don’t see the person; you see a goal. 

And you’re good at working towards a goal. It’s why you’ve always been the analyst your managers rely on, why you’ve morphed into the senior associate that all your juniors look up to at G&G Capital, and why you automatically figure that if you set your sights on a man only to have him end things, it’s not you who was at fault. It has to be him. You’ve charmed the toughest clients and built fantastic working relationships with the most well-connected M&A lawyers; if you’re this good at professional relationships, why wouldn’t you also be fan-fucking-tastic at a romantic one? 

All the men who have taken you out on dates before wanted to sweep you off your feet. An ex-boyfriend once admitted to you that you appeared so unimpressed at everything, it had become this fun, twisted competition with himself to see what he had to do to get a look of amazement on your face. 

“I can tell by the look on your face that you’re impressed.” Gojo says gleefully, holding open the dirty glass door so you and Utahime can walk in. 

Utahime looks like Gojo just slid open the backdoor to a white van and told her to get in. There’s shock with a hint of disgust evident on her pretty, doll-like features, and you know you’ve got a similar expression, too. 

The floors inside this restaurant — if the dingy, dimly lit shack crammed with small tables and rickety chairs can even be considered a restaurant — are sticky with decades’ worth of mystery liquids that have congealed into the half-inch thick residue that coats the floorboards. You have to purposely think about moving one foot in front of the other in order to walk because actual pressure needs to be applied if you don’t want your heels to become glued to the floor. You’re walking in front of Utahime and Gojo, and you end up choosing a table in the far back; it looks the cleanest. Briefly, you wonder if you’re allowed to be here, then think better of it as Utahime takes the seat next to you, and Gojo takes the one across. You highly doubt there’s a hostess here that’s dictating where the customers sit.

Especially since, upon one glance of the whole place, you realize that it’s empty save for you three. 

“Gojo, if we get killed, I hope they murder you in front of us first,” Utahime hisses. Her family’s so rich (and traditional), she’s never willingly been to a restaurant that doesn’t have a Michelin star. Before college, she’s never even eaten out at a chain restaurant. Being caught in a place like this has Utahime mentally spiraling towards rock bottom. 

“I hope they would, too. I don’t think I have the stomach to watch you meet your grisly end.” Gojo says serenely. Usually, he says things loudly, teasingly, gets all up in your face. When it comes to Utahime, he likes to play at being nonchalant. He’s been doing this to her for over a decade now, and it still grates her. 

Before Utahime can reply, the shaky voice of an older woman is exclaiming, “Oh! Welcome in! Have you gotten a chance to look over the menu?” The voice belongs to a short, plump woman with gray hair, a wrinkly face, but a kind smile that reveals yellowing teeth. She’s got a slight hunch to her back and nails with overgrown cuticles. You try to do a mental calculation of what you could buy this building for, to ensure that this sweet old lady never has to work a day in her life ever again. 

“You know what I want, Mrs. Kimura.” Gojo is giving her one of his signature dazzling smiles. “You can just double the portions today since my friend Utahime here eats enough for a family of five.” 

Mrs. Kimura lets out a throaty laugh. Utahime kicks Gojo in the shin from underneath the table. You’re wondering what Gojo orders from this place, and why does he order here so often to the point of them memorizing his meals? 

“I’m glad you brought friends with you today, Satoru. Meals always taste better when shared with loved ones!” She directs a warm smile in your direction, and you feel bad for returning it with your normal polite one. Tiny and brief. It’s more muscle memory than born from any real emotion. She’s shuffling away to the kitchen before you can try to summon a genuine smile for her, and Utahime’s phone is ringing, filling this near empty space with the tinny, anxiety-inducing sound of an iPhone ringer. 

She doesn’t excuse herself; just looks down at the glowing screen, grabs her phone, and heads outside to take the call.

Which leaves you sitting across from Gojo. Just the two of you. Just the two of you in a dingy restaurant seemingly run by only one old woman. The table looks older than you. The chair you’re sitting on makes a weird squeaky noise with any slight movement of your body. There’s no decor on the walls, no windows either. Nothing to distract you, nothing for you to feign interest in as you wait for Utahime to come back. 

You straighten your posture, try to discreetly look out the front door to gauge how close Utahime is to wrapping up her conversation, and find yourself with no choice but to look in front of you. All you see is Gojo.

He’s tall, you know that. Broad shoulders. Definitely not hideous, you can give him that much. You just feel shocked at how much space he takes up, how it feels like your eyes have to stretch to try to accommodate all of him. 

You don’t know why you feel so awkward, almost like a teenager going on her very first date with a boy she barely knows but still, for some inexplicable reason, wants so badly to impress. You can’t remember the last time you’ve ever felt this way, and you definitely don’t like this feeling at all. 

“How’d you find this place?” You ask him.

“I like to support small businesses.” He’s not teasing you, but Gojo has this bad habit of always adding a playful inflection to his words. 

“I hope you tip well. You look like their only supporter.” It’s not meant to be an insult to the painfully empty restaurant. You know how much Gojo is worth; when Itadori Googled “Satoru Gojo net worth” and showed the results to everyone, Gojo caught him in the act, looked at the top result, and threw his head back in laughter as he told Itadori to “add an extra zero and triple the number.” You think back to your calculation and assessment of the place. “Might as well buy the business.” 

“You make capitalism so cute.” He has to be teasing you now. You scowl. 

(He means it.)

— i wish to know the fatal flaw that makes you long to be magnificently cursed, satoru gojo elevator pitch: yandere gojo, royal au, nanny!reader... yeah idk what happened to this fic either, just that it was depraved and i wish i wrote more to share LOL

You’re acutely aware of the noise you’re making, every huff and small, desperate gasp for breath only further betraying your location, but you can’t find it in you to care.

You know, deep inside your pounding, frightened heart, that it doesn’t really matter how fast or how far you run. 

I will always find you.

Just the mere thought of him is enough for you to ignore the ache in your legs and push forward. If you can find the exit, if you can just see the daylight, surely you’d be able to—

You stop in your tracks.

There are two paths: one right, one wrong. Left or right? Freedom or imprisonment? 

There’s no time to waste, but you can’t make a choice. Which decision would be the right one? Surely either route would still be able to lead you to the exit, right? The sharp snap! of a branch being trampled on leaves you even more frightened. Without thinking, you take a left.

— i think you're too divine for my human mind, undecided elevator pitch: rough around the edges but w a heart of gold underground fighter!character x ring girl!reader. i think this was gonna be for bakugo LMAO but i do not have bnha brain rot so maybe a bllk or jjk or hq boy... NO ONE SAY ATSUMU I DON'T WANNA GIVE IT TO ATSUMU

The couch seems to shift with his weight, and you swallow hard, staring straight ahead at the same cement wall you’ve been staring at for the last ten minutes because you’re still too much of a fucking wimp to navigate this area by yourself. 

Despite the two of you sitting at opposite ends of the couch, there’s only about one foot of space separating his knee from yours. You suppose that he gets away with the manspreading since he probably has no qualms with punching anyone who voices their offense. After witnessing just how brutal the infamous [ring name nickname] can get, you know that you’re definitely not going to be the one to say shit to him. You can’t even look at him.

Where the fuck is your sister? You have your arms crossed, covering your torso, and you think you must have subconsciously pressed yourself as far back into the couch as you possibly could. Everything about you must scream out “she wants to disappear!!!”, and the worst part of it all would be the fact that it’s the truth. You knew coming down here would be a bad idea, and the sinking feeling of regret is practically solidifying itself into your stomach. You think you could throw up. 

“Hey,” a voice — a deep voice, scratchy and low and so scarily close to you — breaks the silence. “You must be…”

Of course, you’re used to it by now. Always being referred to as “Akemi’s little sister” no matter the situation, the person, the setting. It makes sense, you rationalize. Everyone knows Akemi. And so, by extension, they must know you — her shadow, her little sister. 

“...helped out Sakura.” 

“What?” You don’t know anyone named Sakura, but you finally turn your head to properly look at him as you answer. He’s got on a white shirt now, incredibly form-fitting, and he’s staring right back at you. You're quick to meet his eyes before getting too nervous and focusing on the space just below his eyes. Then, that becomes too close to eye contact for comfort, so you settle for staring at his jaw. It’s a nice jaw. Sharp. He could probably cut you with it if you contradict any of his statements, so maybe you should pretend to know this Sakura girl. 

“You must be the girl that helped out Sakura.” He repeats. He says it slow and almost carefully, like he thinks you must be some sort of idiot who can’t comprehend the most basic of statements. “Gave her your jacket.” He clarifies, and it makes sense. The girl with the hot pink colored hair must have been Sakura. 

“Yeah.” You nod. 

“So why are you here?” 

“Huh?”

“Y’know… Pretty girls like you don’t normally end up here without a reason. So what’s your reason?”

He says it so casually, throwing it out there as easily as a punch. He probably means nothing deep by it, probably doesn’t even realize the fact that it is a compliment. 

He called you pretty.

“My sister.” You answer, finally looking away at him to look down at your hands that have settled nicely into your lap. Your cheeks feel a lot warmer than they did a second ago. You decide to blame this as a result of too many sweaty people in one basement. 

“She a ring girl?” 

“She’s dating a fighter here.”

“And you?”

“What about me?” 

“Are you dating a fighter here, too?” 

You look him properly in his face after that comment, almost resisting the urge to laugh. Fear that he’ll get offended and smack you into the floor stops that reaction. Instead, you stare at him, slightly surprised, lips almost curled up into an amused smile at just how unbelievable it would be for you to date anyone like him. 

“You finally did it.” 

“Did what?” 

“Look at me.” He holds eye contact, almost as if he’s trying to challenge you into looking away. “I don’t bite, y’know.” He smiles, showing off a surprisingly straight row of white teeth, not a single tooth missing despite the nature of his… job. “It’s against the rules.”

Yeah. Because [character], the fucking [ring name nickname], looks like the type of man who follows the rules.

[raven-at-the-writing-desk]

“Crowley, I saw a huge rat in the mirror in my bedroom.”

Enter; An Unkindness of Ravens

“A huge rat, you say?!” Crowley plants his hands on his hips, his tone turning indignant. “Preposterous! Night Raven College boasts the most hygienic and pest-free living spaces for our students! Surely you speak in jest?”

You shrugged. “I don’t know what else you tell you. I saw what I saw, and what I saw was a rodent half my size staring back at me.”

“Goodness, half your size?!” Lips pursed into a frown, he turned away and started mumbling to himself. “A mutant rat skittering around in the floorboards of Ramshackle dorm means there’s potential for an entire infestation of mutant rats… They’d destroy the building from the inside out and spread all manner of disease!“

“Uh, headmaster? So can you help me out or what? Like… call an exterminator or something?”

“Perish the thought!! We cannot, under any circumstances, contact outside help!!” Crowley cried, slamming a hand down on his desk. “What would happen if this got out to the public? Oooh, I don’t even want to imagine it!!”

“Then can you at least send a teacher or someone to extract it out of my mirror? There must be a spell for that.”

“Certainly not!! While I have the it most respect for my instructors, I could not take a scolding from my colleagues about poorly managing our facilities! It undermines my authority as caretaker to the school grounds—for alas, no matter how perfect I may be, pests such as these can slip through the cracks. This information is to stay between us, Prefect. Is that understood?”

It took all of your strength to not roll your eyes at him. “How are you going to solve this then?”

“A wonderful question. The answer is closer than you’d think!” Crowley grinned, and that set off an avalanche of despair in your gut. It was never good when he was chipper in response to a problem. “You can capture and evict the rat yourself!”

“HUH?!” Your jaw dropped. “How do you expect us to do THAT?”

“Grim-kun is your familiar, yes? He possess very feline-like qualities. With the right prodding, he could be convinced to return to his baser instincts and prowl Ramshackle for this ‘huge rat’ of yours and any potential nests.”

“The rat is as big as Grim is,” you protested.

“Grim-kun could take it in a fight!!l Crowley insisted dismissively. “He’s a student of Night Raven College! They never know when to quit.”

“You’re joking. Please, tell me you’re joking.”

“I am not.” He paused, as though reconsidering. “Ah, but the ‘capture and release’ method still does not resolve the issue. There is always a possibility of the rodents returning… Very well then! Prefect, you and Grim-kun have my blessings to consume them.”

“You want us to do what?!” You balked in horror, your stomach twisting into knots.

“Did I stutter? Consume them. Eat them. Gorge yourselves silly.” Crowley clarified. Your queasiness intensified with each word he dropped. “Hmm? Why do you look positively ill?”

“Because that’s so gross!!”

He cocks his head to one side. “Is it really so strange? I myself find rat meat to be a delicacy, and since you so often request more pocket money for groceries… This kills two birds with one stone! You are receiving free food from this ordeal.”

Crowley laughs to himself, seemingly oblivious to your distress. Either that, or he was doing a most excellent job of ignoring it.

“Fufufu, how magnanimous of me!”

[velvetvexations]

The fact that Junior Year didn't at all challenge the way ANY system is set up is insane to me.

In the first half of the season I kept telling people the solution to Adaine's money problems wouldn't be Fabian buying her shit for her, because Brennan - DECOLONIAL PHILOSOPHER THAT HE IS - would never construct a scenario in which the solution to a ruinous lack of funds would be to get your rich friend to pay it off for you. This was just the foundation of my argument that Fabian literally, in-universe, did not have access to enough money to do that, because BLeeM usually plugs those holes and that seemed to be essentially the point of kicking Hilarial and Gilear off-screen for most of the season, but put that aside. The point is, it was clearly a critique of the system.

Right?

Because I assumed the solution would in some way be either changing the system or breaking free of it. Part of Adaine's problem is capitalism in general, but most immediately it's the financial demands the school system makes of her.

And then...the solution is not that. The solution is that she yells at her bosses to start paying her for being the Oracle, and Fabian beats someone in a dance contest so they do it. Problem solved. It's fine that Aguefort, which prides itself to an insane degree about what an anarchic madhouse it is for all the real freaks who want to just reach out and take life by the horns, requires you buy literal barrels of diamonds to be a wizard. That's fine.

The problem was that Adaine didn't have a fortune, not that she needed a fortune in the first place.

And it's wild because exactly that's something I liked about A Starstruck Odyssey. Obviously, Starstruck is an existing IP, and there wasn't a lot of room to just revolutionize galactic society overnight, but thematically it only enhanced the season's thrust to have everyone's problems be tied to money and for them to get past them by inventively striking a fortune. It was essentially taking this mildly grimdark capitalist hellhole and being like "okay, we'll play by your rules, assholes" and by the end it felt like there was a heavy tone of irony to the celebration of The Ball Rolling Up. Like you were meant to notice and be aware that the crew of the Wurst basking in their newfound riches was good for them personally but also a fucked-up reflection on how the setting operates.

And there was little tiny baby steps towards acknowledgement of systemic issues in JY that seemed promising, but all ultimately fizzled out.

Fig being overwhelmed by her responsibilities as a working musician and owner of a part of Hell? She orders her demonic underlings and indentured souls to help her put on a hella sweet concert and she goes quintuple platinum and her old agent is totally seething.

Gorgug is being failed by an educational structure that won't allow and doesn't even want him to succeed in the way he aspires to? Zac rolls insanely well so no he isn't, he's doing great, everyone should take four times the coursework.

Riz has to do a ton of shit to get into college because as a poor person he has to run to where others walk? Jokes are occasionally made about him being in a lot of clubs but that's never once examined or otherwise touched on between the the third and final episode, with the resolution in the epilogue being his mom going "hey kiddo wherever you end up you'll do great, just as long as you get enough sleep and take regular breaks to eat ice cream!".

Fabian trying to live up to the pressure of his legacy and maintaining his social status at school? Bill has a genuinely moving conversation with Fabian in the finale, indisputably one of the highlights of the season and a moment that in spite of everything I found incredibly powerful, where he tells him that he would love him even if he weren't a Maximum Legend, but it ends on "maybe we can have both" because as Brennan himself noted Lou was rolling so well that it was actively strangling the theme of his arc so that it ended up just being Fabian occasionally feeling a bit frustrated about the pressure while effortlessly succeeding to the point that not even Fig's catastrophic bardic put a dent in his popularity, but not enough for it to be a full case of tragic imposter syndrome.

Kristen failing cleric class? Kristen deserved to fail cleric class.

The issues with Fabian and Gorgug's arc was just luck and a flaw in the downtime mechanic. The others went deeper and man I really wish more had been done there.

[ravixen]

hello! i just read you svt forgetting about date thread and its so good! Would like to request for the remaining members reactions if possible 🥹 thank you!!!! 🫶🏻🫶🏻

svt + forgetting your date (pt 3)

➔ reaction || requested

➔ warnings: none || 0.9k words ➔ notes: general, fluff ; yep! excited to get this series completed and out of the way. if you liked the reactions, please reblog :) for any new followers, please make sure to read my pinned post.

SEUNGCHEOL: he often jokes that money can solve the world's biggest problems, and for the most part, it's true...when the problem is jeonghan's desire for fancy items. but when the problem is him not showing up to a date that he planned? he doesn't think expensive gifts will placate you, especially when he wakes up to missed calls and text messages that quickly go from confused to annoyed. he's in the middle of typing an excuse when you call one more time, and he answers with a sheepish laugh of your name. "um, I can be on the way in like 10, 15 minutes? it doesn't take me long to get ready." he's already rolling out of bed and pulling clothes out of the closet, but you sigh into the phone and that stops him in his tracks. "we've already missed the train," you say, and with a start, he realizes just how late he is. "even if you somehow make it here within the hour and we catch the next one, the lines will probably be too long. wouldn't be worth it." oh, this sucks. he's the one who got you all excited about a first-come, first-serve festival a few hours away, and he didn't deliver. "let's get breakfast and come up with a new plan then. we can't go there, but we have all day to do whatever you want."

SOONYOUNG: his ambition, an attractive trait on its own, comes with the tendency to over-estimate his capabilities. for example: when he got drunk during lee youngji's show and immediately headed to practice after. at the time, you watched the video of his tipsy dancing with an amused smile. his work ethic was admirable...and kind of funny in a way. now? you don't think it's very funny at all. you tap your foot as you stare at your text thread, where two hours ago he said that work was wrapping up and that he had time to freshen up before coming to your date. well, he's late. right when you were about to text him for an update, he calls you. "hey!" there's a muffled crash and a mumbled swear before his voice is back. "I'm so, so sorry. the shoot ended, but they asked for a short interview and I thought we had time. and we did! but I think I fell asleep and forgot to set an alarm and—" he huffs, zipping something up. "I can make it there in twenty minutes!" you check the time, frowning. "with traffic, it's probably closer to half an hour. why don't we re-schedule, soonyoung? I'll just go home." "no, but you cleared your schedule for today! why don't we meet up somewhere halfway, hm? I want to see you at least."

WONWOO: he's a runner (he's a track star), and he uses those long legs to book it down the street, trying his best to ignore the judgmental glances of passing strangers. faintly, he can make out your figure in front of the restaurant, your phone in hand as you scroll. when he skids to a stop in front of you, you don't look impressed, but that's better than looking angry, he supposes. he doubles over with his hands on his knees, taking gasping breaths and spitting out excuses for his lateness. the only thing you say in return is, "they gave up our dinner reservation," which makes his heart sink because you made the reservation months ago. with how popular it is, he had to bring out the celebrity card, and even then, he barely got on the list. "do you want to try the place across the street?" he offers his hand and a weak smile that you only glance at. "and spend the entire time knowing that we could've been over here instead? no, thanks." you show him your screen. "let's go here." it's closer to the apartment, thus in the direction he just came from, but he'd take driving back over you giving him the cold shoulder all night.

JIHOON: "you stood me up," you say when he finally picks up the phone. and then you laugh and tell him that it's not a big deal—it's just a maplestory date, after all—but he hears the disappointment in your voice and he knows that it was more than simply meeting up in a silly video game. it was about making time for each other for the first time in forever, about being on call for as long as you can, about laughing as you watch him fall off the platform for the nth time in a row. it was about the fact that he made a promise and broke it for such a stupid reason. he looks at the time. "when are you planning to sleep?" he asks, already opening the game launcher and sliding on his headphones. "I don't have anything tomorrow. why?" he hums. "let's go farm those rare items you wanted." it must've been the right thing to say because you gasp, "really? it's going to be such a waste of time, though...are you sure?" of course he's sure. being with you, regardless of what you're doing, is rarely a waste of time. plus you were venting the other day about how no one wanted to help you farm. "load up. I'm waiting."

[aibidil]

we gotta stop telling moms* to learn to ask for and accept help

this is a pseudo-mental-health bullshit way of subtly individualizing a multilayered structural and societal (often classist) problem wherein people in general, parents especially, mothers specifically, and neurodivergent mothers to the extreme, are left to fend for ourselves in ways that are frankly unprecedented in the history of human beings

I'm sure there are people who struggle to ask for help. (I've never been one of them.) What I'm saying is, even if they could learn to, it wouldn't solve anything!

Let's look at the assumptions behind "you need to learn to ask for help!"

That there's someone to ask. Who tf are we meant to be asking? If you live in a culture where families have scattered, you might not have any family nearby. Maybe you're lucky enough to have a partner, but if so, I feel like we can already assume you're asking for help from them, and them from you. (If you're not, that's a whole separate issue.) But often the overwhelm isn't such that an equitable division of labor between two parents can solve the problem. I have one non-partner family member nearby whom I can ask for help, and that actually feels pretty lucky.

That people you ask will agree to help. I recently messaged the entire school community list begging someone to drive one of my kids home on Wednesdays, figuring that many people must be going in that direction anyway and surely someone would be willing to stop the car and let my kid out at the end of my street. When I didn't get any responses from the wider community, I sent a smaller plea to the parents in my kids' classes. Nothing! Nada!

That our problems are such that others can (easily) help. There's a tragic het script that's like "I don't bother to ask him for help because I end up doing more work to get him to help than it would've been to do myself" (and yes that's fucked), but that's not even what I'm pointing to here. There are so many ways that the structures of our society make it so that people can't get help from others. School pickup, for example: most schools have policies that only parent/guardians or someone given prior permission can pick up students. If a parent is unexpectedly in a jam, this makes finding help a lot trickier and probably involves calling the school and trying to grant last-minute permission. Helping a kid with homework, for example: No matter what I do, teachers email/call me. This means that if I assign this task to my partner or some other person, I have to constantly be an in-between who is like, the arbiter of information. Going to the pharmacy: once I went to the pharmacy to help a neighbor with a kid who had been vomiting for 12 hours straight, and it was so difficult. First I had to pick up their insurance card, write down the kid's name, dob, etc. I still didn't know half the answers to things they asked me as I painstakingly eventually managed to pick up this kid's prescription.

That you have money to pay for outsourcing. Often, when it comes down to it, the only way our society seamlessly allows for help is through monetizing the tasks. It's possible to hire housecleaners or a nanny, for example. You can pay for grocery delivery. But (even if you're totally fine with becoming an employer, which I've never been) is that financially within reach for most people? No!!!

That the tasks that are hardest for you are tasks that can be outsourced. With adhd, my biggest chore struggles are getting myself to water the plants and getting myself to fill the pill organizers. These are not the easiest chores to get help with! I mean, even laundry would be easier, as you could chuck it all into a giant bag and hand it over to a service to be washed. But plants? They're all over my house and on different watering schedules. The pill organizers? That's controlled substances (Adderall, baby) and it's confusing with multiple times of day, etc -- who is going to take that on? Even my partner is too worried to get it wrong.

That, even if you have money, the service you need exists. I really want help with food preparation, but I have MCAS and specific dietary needs. Also, I don't want help with dinners (my partner does that) so much as I want help with snacks/lunch. I know what I would make if I had the energy to. There are no services in my area that could help me. I guess I could hire a personal chef, but I can't even begin to afford that and even then, many wouldn't work bc they're not all willing to work with different dietary needs. I tried finding something I could order by mail, but there's nothing that's a great fit and it's all too expensive for me.

The problem is not that moms don't know how to ask for and accept help. Every time we say that, we reinforce the idea that the problem is an individual one, that the fault lies with moms. It's a structural one, and it doesn't. Many of us are well aware of how to ask for help. If we aren't asking, it's because we know it's futile.

*The choice to gender this as "moms" is a conscious one, even though it also applies to some men and nb people. In my view, it really is a gendered problem that overwhelmingly affects women who are mothers. Because of that, generalizing to "people" or "parents" seems to me like it would be watering down the problem, at best, or erasing the gendered component of the problem, at worst. We also shouldn't say "you need to learn to ask for help" to dads, nonbinary parents, and non-parents—but we generally don't say that to those groups anyway! The vast majority of the time, I see this being said specifically to mothers. Moreover, the response that dads get to asking for help is often different. A dad asking for help strikes people as going above and beyond and is therefore more likely to trigger people to actually help him. Think about dads whose wife goes out of town and all these people bring him casseroles. Our society is often really good at giving some help—but only in extreme cases (emergencies like acute sickness or hospital stays, grief, ….a dad alone with kids for some reason, etc), and moms asking for help with mundane things simply does not count as a justification for help in most people's minds.

[doberbutts]

Please feel free to ignore this ask if you feel it would bring any drama towards you-- that said, I am curious, why do you have a mostly negative view of protection dogs? Honestly, not sure where I stand. Idea wise, I don't really care, *however*... the amount of people with "working dogs" that I feel have absolute no idea what they have or how to safely manage their bitesport dogs is high enough, that I imagine there's just as high a percentage of people with "protection dogs", which makes me veeeery uncomfortable. I like the idea of having a dog that would genuinely be able to protect me, but at the same time, I view them the same as a weapon, and the idea of other people having one *who should have no business handling one* makes me. Eugh. I hope that makes sense.

I have a mostly negative view towards *personal* protection dogs. Not all protection dogs, just PPDs.

The reasoning is multifaceted but the largest portion is due to the fact that many people who say they want a PPD actually want a gun. They have an idea in their heads about what PPDs do and what they are capable of and that is honestly mostly fantasy and nonsense in this era. If [general] you are so concerned about being attacked that you need a dog to bite someone at a moment's notice, what you need is to take some self defense classes, get your conceal carry license, and buy yourself a suitable weapon.

Put simply, an aggressor that sees a dog at your side (esp of guardian breeds known for this sort of temperament) and still chooses to attack is prepared for the dog. Some quick work with a gun or a knife and you have just spent 5-10k on a dog's corpse and have no ability to fight back. All the training in the world does not make a dog immune to bullets or blades between the ribs. What will you do when your dog is dead and your aggressor is still coming for you?

Then you have the sticky situation of the fact that even in castle law ans stand your ground states, while it is legal for YOU to kill someone who is attacking you, your dog is not similarly protected. You may not be jailed, but a dog that bites or kills in defense of handler is susceptible to being taken and euthanized for being a dangerous dog. Once again you have just spent thousands of dollars on a corpse.

Unfortunately there are plenty of charlatans out there willing to take your money to train your dog and they may or may not do good work- though in my experience it can be difficult to find someone who actually is capable of doing good work and even harder to afford that person as they know their value is very high. But most do not warn people that they are throwing a lot of money at a problem that can be solved with less than half the amount of cash and not have to live through the experience of your would-be assailant killing your dog in front of you.

Lastly, it is a largely unregulated industry, so there is no standardization of training, no safety precautions, and no consequences when something inevidibly goes wrong. There are no certifications to prove quality. There is very little recourse for those who are harmed by the practice of bad actors. Anyone can claim they know what they're doing and while that is a repeating problem with all dog training- because it's not regulated at all in this country- there is a significant difference in danger of someone who's bad at training teaching a dog how to sit vs someone who's bad at training teaching a dog how to attack people.