#support class woes

[suolainensilakka]

Hey guys. Ffxiv Terra

[sagaciouscejai]

debating whether manual labor or office work is "harder" or "worse" is like... idk.

People have different preferences in their own type of work. Not all work in each camp is the same, and the two camps have a good chunk of overlap at times, especially with modern work requiring you to interact with customer bases or fill in positions or be multi-faceted on a baseline regardless.

Then, factor in how much different a "bad job" in one position is compared to a "good job" of the same job. The quality of the work space, the co-workers and the management and the clientele and the product and the pay. Even more so factor in the slow poison of capitalism and greed, especially over time and it's variable levels of decay based around how new a company is and its leadership starting up.

Lots of factors to compare and contrast. Even boiling it down to the basics of "physical labor" and "office work" like the criteria of what's better or worse in that case wouldn't really fit the reality of what people are living. How many points does the hell of breaking your physical body go compared to being tortured mentally by a distinct lack of physical activity for large swathes of one's day. Does the dim lighting of a storehouse compare to the blaring florescence hovering above cubicles?

IMHO arguing about this is fine but it probably shouldn't be taken so seriously, and not to the level of exclusion from fucking labor discussions. We are all trying to fucking deal with the hell of our work being profiteered by those above us and our works actually feeling like something worth doing in the first place. You need everyone on board, even if the needs and worries and woes of these types of work are very disparate.

[moe-broey]

Playing Etrian Odyssey feels exactly like the oreo rage comic

[unsat-and-strange]

huh whod have thought signing a contract ive literally regretted for years and doing a job i actually hate would come in useful for a fanfic of all things

[mostlysignssomeportents]

Your car spies on you and rats you out to insurance companies

I'm on tour with my new, nationally bestselling novel The Bezzle! Catch me TOMORROW (Mar 13) in SAN FRANCISCO with ROBIN SLOAN, then Toronto, NYC, Anaheim, and more!

Another characteristically brilliant Kashmir Hill story for The New York Times reveals another characteristically terrible fact about modern life: your car secretly records fine-grained telemetry about your driving and sells it to data-brokers, who sell it to insurers, who use it as a pretext to gouge you on premiums:

https://www.nytimes.com/2024/03/11/technology/carmakers-driver-tracking-insurance.html

Almost every car manufacturer does this: Hyundai, Nissan, Ford, Chrysler, etc etc:

https://www.repairerdrivennews.com/2020/09/09/ford-state-farm-ford-metromile-honda-verisk-among-insurer-oem-telematics-connections/

This is true whether you own or lease the car, and it's separate from the "black box" your insurer might have offered to you in exchange for a discount on your premiums. In other words, even if you say no to the insurer's carrot – a surveillance-based discount – they've got a stick in reserve: buying your nonconsensually harvested data on the open market.

I've always hated that saying, "If you're not paying for the product, you're the product," the reason being that it posits decent treatment as a customer reward program, like the little ramekin warm nuts first class passengers get before takeoff. Companies don't treat you well when you pay them. Companies treat you well when they fear the consequences of treating you badly.

Take Apple. The company offers Ios users a one-tap opt-out from commercial surveillance, and more than 96% of users opted out. Presumably, the other 4% were either confused or on Facebook's payroll. Apple – and its army of cultists – insist that this proves that our world's woes can be traced to cheapskate "consumers" who expected to get something for nothing by using advertising-supported products.

But here's the kicker: right after Apple blocked all its rivals from spying on its customers, it began secretly spying on those customers! Apple has a rival surveillance ad network, and even if you opt out of commercial surveillance on your Iphone, Apple still secretly spies on you and uses the data to target you for ads:

https://pluralistic.net/2022/11/14/luxury-surveillance/#liar-liar

Even if you're paying for the product, you're still the product – provided the company can get away with treating you as the product. Apple can absolutely get away with treating you as the product, because it lacks the historical constraints that prevented Apple – and other companies – from treating you as the product.

As I described in my McLuhan lecture on enshittification, tech firms can be constrained by four forces:

I. Competition

II. Regulation

III. Self-help

IV. Labor

https://pluralistic.net/2024/01/30/go-nuts-meine-kerle/#ich-bin-ein-bratapfel

When companies have real competitors – when a sector is composed of dozens or hundreds of roughly evenly matched firms – they have to worry that a maltreated customer might move to a rival. 40 years of antitrust neglect means that corporations were able to buy their way to dominance with predatory mergers and pricing, producing today's inbred, Habsburg capitalism. Apple and Google are a mobile duopoly, Google is a search monopoly, etc. It's not just tech! Every sector looks like this:

https://www.openmarketsinstitute.org/learn/monopoly-by-the-numbers

Eliminating competition doesn't just deprive customers of alternatives, it also empowers corporations. Liberated from "wasteful competition," companies in concentrated industries can extract massive profits. Think of how both Apple and Google have "competitively" arrived at the same 30% app tax on app sales and transactions, a rate that's more than 1,000% higher than the transaction fees extracted by the (bloated, price-gouging) credit-card sector:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/06/07/curatorial-vig/#app-tax

But cartels' power goes beyond the size of their warchest. The real source of a cartel's power is the ease with which a small number of companies can arrive at – and stick to – a common lobbying position. That's where "regulatory capture" comes in: the mobile duopoly has an easier time of capturing its regulators because two companies have an easy time agreeing on how to spend their app-tax billions:

https://pluralistic.net/2022/06/05/regulatory-capture/

Apple – and Google, and Facebook, and your car company – can violate your privacy because they aren't constrained regulation, just as Uber can violate its drivers' labor rights and Amazon can violate your consumer rights. The tech cartels have captured their regulators and convinced them that the law doesn't apply if it's being broken via an app:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/04/18/cursed-are-the-sausagemakers/#how-the-parties-get-to-yes

In other words, Apple can spy on you because it's allowed to spy on you. America's last consumer privacy law was passed in 1988, and it bans video-store clerks from leaking your VHS rental history. Congress has taken no action on consumer privacy since the Reagan years:

https://www.eff.org/tags/video-privacy-protection-act

But tech has some special enshittification-resistant characteristics. The most important of these is interoperability: the fact that computers are universal digital machines that can run any program. HP can design a printer that rejects third-party ink and charge $10,000/gallon for its own colored water, but someone else can write a program that lets you jailbreak your printer so that it accepts any ink cartridge:

https://www.eff.org/deeplinks/2020/11/ink-stained-wretches-battle-soul-digital-freedom-taking-place-inside-your-printer

Tech companies that contemplated enshittifying their products always had to watch over their shoulders for a rival that might offer a disenshittification tool and use that as a wedge between the company and its customers. If you make your website's ads 20% more obnoxious in anticipation of a 2% increase in gross margins, you have to consider the possibility that 40% of your users will google "how do I block ads?" Because the revenue from a user who blocks ads doesn't stay at 100% of the current levels – it drops to zero, forever (no user ever googles "how do I stop blocking ads?").

The majority of web users are running an ad-blocker:

https://doc.searls.com/2023/11/11/how-is-the-worlds-biggest-boycott-doing/

Web operators made them an offer ("free website in exchange for unlimited surveillance and unfettered intrusions") and they made a counteroffer ("how about 'nah'?"):

https://www.eff.org/deeplinks/2019/07/adblocking-how-about-nah

Here's the thing: reverse-engineering an app – or any other IP-encumbered technology – is a legal minefield. Just decompiling an app exposes you to felony prosecution: a five year sentence and a $500k fine for violating Section 1201 of the DMCA. But it's not just the DMCA – modern products are surrounded with high-tech tripwires that allow companies to invoke IP law to prevent competitors from augmenting, recongifuring or adapting their products. When a business says it has "IP," it means that it has arranged its legal affairs to allow it to invoke the power of the state to control its customers, critics and competitors:

https://locusmag.com/2020/09/cory-doctorow-ip/

An "app" is just a web-page skinned in enough IP to make it a crime to add an ad-blocker to it. This is what Jay Freeman calls "felony contempt of business model" and it's everywhere. When companies don't have to worry about users deploying self-help measures to disenshittify their products, they are freed from the constraint that prevents them indulging the impulse to shift value from their customers to themselves.

Apple owes its existence to interoperability – its ability to clone Microsoft Office's file formats for Pages, Numbers and Keynote, which saved the company in the early 2000s – and ever since, it has devoted its existence to making sure no one ever does to Apple what Apple did to Microsoft:

https://www.eff.org/deeplinks/2019/06/adversarial-interoperability-reviving-elegant-weapon-more-civilized-age-slay

Regulatory capture cuts both ways: it's not just about powerful corporations being free to flout the law, it's also about their ability to enlist the law to punish competitors that might constrain their plans for exploiting their workers, customers, suppliers or other stakeholders.

The final historical constraint on tech companies was their own workers. Tech has very low union-density, but that's in part because individual tech workers enjoyed so much bargaining power due to their scarcity. This is why their bosses pampered them with whimsical campuses filled with gourmet cafeterias, fancy gyms and free massages: it allowed tech companies to convince tech workers to work like government mules by flattering them that they were partners on a mission to bring the world to its digital future:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/09/10/the-proletarianization-of-tech-workers/

For tech bosses, this gambit worked well, but failed badly. On the one hand, they were able to get otherwise powerful workers to consent to being "extremely hardcore" by invoking Fobazi Ettarh's spirit of "vocational awe":

https://www.inthelibrarywiththeleadpipe.org/2018/vocational-awe/

On the other hand, when you motivate your workers by appealing to their sense of mission, the downside is that they feel a sense of mission. That means that when you demand that a tech worker enshittifies something they missed their mother's funeral to deliver, they will experience a profound sense of moral injury and refuse, and that worker's bargaining power means that they can make it stick.

Or at least, it did. In this era of mass tech layoffs, when Google can fire 12,000 workers after a $80b stock buyback that would have paid their wages for the next 27 years, tech workers are learning that the answer to "I won't do this and you can't make me" is "don't let the door hit you in the ass on the way out" (AKA "sharpen your blades boys"):

https://techcrunch.com/2022/09/29/elon-musk-texts-discovery-twitter/

With competition, regulation, self-help and labor cleared away, tech firms – and firms that have wrapped their products around the pluripotently malleable core of digital tech, including automotive makers – are no longer constrained from enshittifying their products.

And that's why your car manufacturer has chosen to spy on you and sell your private information to data-brokers and anyone else who wants it. Not because you didn't pay for the product, so you're the product. It's because they can get away with it.

Cars are enshittified. The dozens of chips that auto makers have shoveled into their car design are only incidentally related to delivering a better product. The primary use for those chips is autoenshittification – access to legal strictures ("IP") that allows them to block modifications and repairs that would interfere with the unfettered abuse of their own customers:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/07/24/rent-to-pwn/#kitt-is-a-demon

The fact that it's a felony to reverse-engineer and modify a car's software opens the floodgates to all kinds of shitty scams. Remember when Bay Staters were voting on a ballot measure to impose right-to-repair obligations on automakers in Massachusetts? The only reason they needed to have the law intervene to make right-to-repair viable is that Big Car has figured out that if it encrypts its diagnostic messages, it can felonize third-party diagnosis of a car, because decrypting the messages violates the DMCA:

https://www.eff.org/deeplinks/2013/11/drm-cars-will-drive-consumers-crazy

Big Car figured out that VIN locking – DRM for engine components and subassemblies – can felonize the production and the installation of third-party spare parts:

https://pluralistic.net/2022/05/08/about-those-kill-switched-ukrainian-tractors/

The fact that you can't legally modify your car means that automakers can go back to their pre-2008 ways, when they transformed themselves into unregulated banks that incidentally manufactured the cars they sold subprime loans for. Subprime auto loans – over $1t worth! – absolutely relies on the fact that borrowers' cars can be remotely controlled by lenders. Miss a payment and your car's stereo turns itself on and blares threatening messages at top volume, which you can't turn off. Break the lease agreement that says you won't drive your car over the county line and it will immobilize itself. Try to change any of this software and you'll commit a felony under Section 1201 of the DMCA:

https://pluralistic.net/2021/04/02/innovation-unlocks-markets/#digital-arm-breakers

Tesla, naturally, has the most advanced anti-features. Long before BMW tried to rent you your seat-heater and Mercedes tried to sell you a monthly subscription to your accelerator pedal, Teslas were demon-haunted nightmare cars. Miss a Tesla payment and the car will immobilize itself and lock you out until the repo man arrives, then it will blare its horn and back itself out of its parking spot. If you "buy" the right to fully charge your car's battery or use the features it came with, you don't own them – they're repossessed when your car changes hands, meaning you get less money on the used market because your car's next owner has to buy these features all over again:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/07/28/edison-not-tesla/#demon-haunted-world

And all this DRM allows your car maker to install spyware that you're not allowed to remove. They really tipped their hand on this when the R2R ballot measure was steaming towards an 80% victory, with wall-to-wall scare ads that revealed that your car collects so much information about you that allowing third parties to access it could lead to your murder (no, really!):

https://pluralistic.net/2020/09/03/rip-david-graeber/#rolling-surveillance-platforms

That's why your car spies on you. Because it can. Because the company that made it lacks constraint, be it market-based, legal, technological or its own workforce's ethics.

One common critique of my enshittification hypothesis is that this is "kind of sensible and normal" because "there’s something off in the consumer mindset that we’ve come to believe that the internet should provide us with amazing products, which bring us joy and happiness and we spend hours of the day on, and should ask nothing back in return":

https://freakonomics.com/podcast/how-to-have-great-conversations/

What this criticism misses is that this isn't the companies bargaining to shift some value from us to them. Enshittification happens when a company can seize all that value, without having to bargain, exploiting law and technology and market power over buyers and sellers to unilaterally alter the way the products and services we rely on work.

A company that doesn't have to fear competitors, regulators, jailbreaking or workers' refusal to enshittify its products doesn't have to bargain, it can take. It's the first lesson they teach you in the Darth Vader MBA: "I am altering the deal. Pray I don't alter it any further":

https://pluralistic.net/2023/10/26/hit-with-a-brick/#graceful-failure

Your car spying on you isn't down to your belief that your carmaker "should provide you with amazing products, which brings your joy and happiness you spend hours of the day on, and should ask nothing back in return." It's not because you didn't pay for the product, so now you're the product. It's because they can get away with it.

The consequences of this spying go much further than mere insurance premium hikes, too. Car telemetry sits at the top of the funnel that the unbelievably sleazy data broker industry uses to collect and sell our data. These are the same companies that sell the fact that you visited an abortion clinic to marketers, bounty hunters, advertisers, or vengeful family members pretending to be one of those:

https://pluralistic.net/2022/05/07/safegraph-spies-and-lies/#theres-no-i-in-uterus

Decades of pro-monopoly policy led to widespread regulatory capture. Corporate cartels use the monopoly profits they extract from us to pay for regulatory inaction, allowing them to extract more profits.

But when it comes to privacy, that period of unchecked corporate power might be coming to an end. The lack of privacy regulation is at the root of so many problems that a pro-privacy movement has an unstoppable constituency working in its favor.

At EFF, we call this "privacy first." Whether you're worried about grifters targeting vulnerable people with conspiracy theories, or teens being targeted with media that harms their mental health, or Americans being spied on by foreign governments, or cops using commercial surveillance data to round up protesters, or your car selling your data to insurance companies, passing that long-overdue privacy legislation would turn off the taps for the data powering all these harms:

https://www.eff.org/wp/privacy-first-better-way-address-online-harms

Traditional economics fails because it thinks about markets without thinking about power. Monopolies lead to more than market power: they produce regulatory capture, power over workers, and state capture, which felonizes competition through IP law. The story that our problems stem from the fact that we just don't spend enough money, or buy the wrong products, only makes sense if you willfully ignore the power that corporations exert over our lives. It's nice to think that you can shop your way out of a monopoly, because that's a lot easier than voting your way out of a monopoly, but no matter how many times you vote with your wallet, the cartels that control the market will always win:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/03/05/the-map-is-not-the-territory/#apor-locksmith

Name your price for 18 of my DRM-free ebooks and support the Electronic Frontier Foundation with the Humble Cory Doctorow Bundle.

If you'd like an essay-formatted version of this post to read or share, here's a link to it on pluralistic.net, my surveillance-free, ad-free, tracker-free blog:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/03/12/market-failure/#car-wars

Image: Cryteria (modified) https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:HAL9000.svg

CC BY 3.0 https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/3.0/deed.en

[thatsmybook]

A few times, I've heard Lisa and Rojda talk about how Young Royals is about the class system and a queer Prince, but also, it's relatable because not only do the cast look like teenagers, they act like teenagers in today's world. So it's also a show about teenagers. With that in mind, I'd like to talk about Simon Eriksson, working class, immigrant, and mixed race student at Hillerska, falling in love with the Prince.

Simon, in S1, deliberately kept any problems about Sara and his life at Hillerska hidden from his mum because he did not want to burden her. He lied to reassure her when she'd get worried about Sara and equally made decisions to help Sara's wellbeing at school. It seemed that he was taking care of his mum and sister when his dad left and after the abusive relationship that seemed to have really affected the whole family. This is why he doesn't share anything bad that he's going through with his mum. He's trying to protect her. He always has.

As to the comments he is getting. I think he is reading them because often they concern his family and are from the people in their town. That, along with the phone calls at night and hate-mail mentioned by Linda at the court hearing in S3 ep1, this means that he's on hyper-vigilance about threats to him and his family. So, my theory is that he is monitoring his comments and engaging to try to defuse things. But just like in all 3 seasons, his actions often lead to more problems.

This is a 16 year old kid, the youngest in his family, doing things an adult should be doing. This is very relatable for many working-class single parent families. Something to add about first-generation kids of immigrant families, having an extra layer of working to help the family navigate the country and society they're in.

Also, as to the comments, there have been many real life incidents, unfortunately , of teenagers getting hate comments online from their peers and bullied to the point of taking their own lives. Simply telling them not to read the comments may not have worked for them. (Yet so many reactors to this season think it's that simple).

Simon is getting a volumous amount of hate comments, which started right after the sex video was released in S1. At that point, the comments were in the print media.

He needs actual support, less obliviousness from the adults in his life about what is happening to him (that includes the Royal Court), and understanding about the actual effect of comments on his mental health from everyone around him. He is a victim of actual hate, and when I hear about any child going through that kind of regular abuse, my heart goes out to them.

Seeing how supportive Simon's dad could be in this 3rd season in his conversations with Sara, we can see how much Simon actually misses his dad. Because had he had a relationship with him, without the baggage of Sara's need for distance, he would have probably noticed that Simme needed help and been quite good at it, when he could manage it.

However, we as the audience seem to be blinded by Wille's more important problems, partly because the show is largely from his POV, but also because his pressures seem bigger. As a result, I've seen fans come down on Simon for not putting his life's woes in perspective to support Wille more. We start to see big cracks in their relationship and start to feel that they just won't work out.

But, they're also just kids in their first relationship. Miscommunication is completely normal at that age. They've only just been spending actual time with each other this season and getting to know each other. Yet they are dealing with adult problems, and so many of us fans are shouting at the screen - talk to each other! I feel like, if I were one of them, there is so much weight on me that I'd be too scared to open the floodgates and actually tell my boyfriend what's happening because I don't want to scare him. And no wonder they spend most of their time making out. It's the easiest part of their relationship and what gives them actual joy at the moment.

So I give grace to these characters and kudos to the creators of the show, for showing ACTUAL teenagers dealing with real life problems, amplified for drama because of the dichotomy of being a Prince and a commoner. But, I don't judge ANY of the characters when I apply the same analysis I've given here to Simon to all the other four characters. What this show requires of us adults is empathy for their plight and maybe a closer look at the teenagers in our lives. What it does for the teen audience is show them that they're not alone when they mess up or are dealing with life pressures. We as a society won't judge them. We will work to understand them and share their burdens.

[kiryoutann]

Before reading, please check series masterlist to read the warning(s), disclaimer, and to make sure you’re on the right chapter. Minors do NOT interact.

WHEN YOU WERE A CHILD, the world was a small, uncomplicated place. Mom and Dad don't have much money to travel abroad and their jobs only allow for little leisure, so the furthest vacation spot is a beach four hours' drive from your home city. School fills your days with lessons, friends, and the promise of weekend sleepovers. Every day, you stroll down the same street and greet your neighbors by name. Happiness was as close as your mother's freshly baked blueberry pie.

But now? When your world becomes wider and the reach of your hand becomes longer, it seems that happiness finds further hiding places. It grieves you that childhood was too brief; that bubble of safety from the world's woes and tribulations burst before you could even appreciate it.

The five-year-old you looked in the mirror, twisting your tiny feet to see the new shoes from all angles. Despite your repeated protests that you preferred the blue one, your mother purchased the bright pink one—she said it matched her favorite dress, and mother knows best, so you don't have to bother thinking about what you wanted. You shrugged to yourself; at least it's better than your old one.

Walking down the hall, you found your father. He's not in his usual play clothes – he's dressed for work, eyes crinkling as he smiles. "My little princess, you look so pretty!"

You beamed at his praise, chubby cheeks glowing. Nothing makes your heart sing like Dad's smile. You spin around like a princess in a fairy tale, showing off your shoes by stomping gently on the wooden surface.

“Mom bought it for me. It's not blue, but I like it!”

Dad chuckled. “Well, at least she spent my money on my favorite girl.”

Your mother emerged from the kitchen, your lunch bag in hand. “I saw them on sale at the store and just knew they'd be perfect for school,” she says proudly. Your father turned to you, opening his mouth to say something but, Mother interrupted. “We'd better get going or she'll be late for class.”

Dad sighs, mumbling a “yes, I know,” and kneels to sweep you into a tight hug. Your secret handshake is special – finger guns with “pew pew” noises, then knuckles bumping before more hugs and kisses. Your mother rolled her fondly eyes. “You two are always conspiring, sharing your little secrets. Now say goodbye, Daddy has to get to work."

You dislike it when Dad has to leave for work—in fact, you prefer him to Mom. But, Mom said he had to go or else there would be no food on the table for dinner; Besides, Daddy will definitely come back home and you can play with him again. You waved, forcing a smile to look as happy as possible.

"Bye, Daddy!"

"See you soon, princess." With a wave of his hand, your father answered and vanished behind the wooden door.

As Daddy's car pulls away from the curb, you hear Mom walking over to where the car keys are kept. You take a deep breath before exhaling slowly, but that strange tightness in your chest persists—one that usually occurs when it's just Mom and you. She opened the door and told you to go to the car. You followed her in silence, eyes fixed on the pattern on your new pink shoes.

Sliding into the backseat, you peer out the window. The car engine started, and the radio played the same playlist. You watch the buildings and trees move backward. Mom glances at you in the rearview mirror and corrects you about your slumped posture, saying it's an ugly look for a young lady. You sat up straight in your chair and muttered an apology. Satisfied, your mother returned her attention to the road.

Secretly, you wish it could be your dad driving you to school instead. He's more fun, telling silly stories to make you laugh, and doesn't mind your messy crayons or clothes that don't match perfectly. Your mother always finds fault with anything that is unclean or out of place.

Looking up at the clear sky, you hope the sun will soon be above, indicating that lunchtime is approaching. Lunchtime means it's a few hours until sundown, and dinner will soon be served.  You want to quickly see Dad and hear whatever stories he has during the day—that is, if he comes home. Lately, work has been keeping him from home more and more. However, if he's too busy, then tomorrow will do—Sunday sounds fun. He never missed a Sunday with you.

The weekend comes quickly, and you can barely contain your excitement when Dad takes you to the park Sunday morning. You walk hand in hand down the busy sidewalk, you chat a mile a minute about school. Laughter and barking greeted you both.

A fluffy golden retriever catches your eye, and you tug Daddy's hand, pointing excitedly. “Can we get a puppy, Daddy? Please? I'd take such good care of it, I promise!”

Your father chuckled, then shook his head. “You know how your mother feels about furry friends making a mess in the house.”

Disappointed, you scruff your shoes in the dirt. Dad never refuses what you want, no matter how ridiculous it is, unless it contradicts Mom. Unfortunately, the majority of what you desire is always something your mother despises. You continue walking.

Then he points – an ice cream cart! “Can I have one?” You ask, only to remember. "Mom said no sweets before dinner."

Dad crouches to meet your downcast eyes. “But Mom's not here. And you and me, we're partners in crime, right? I won't tell if you won't. What do you say we keep our sweet treat just between us?”

Gasping for joy, bubbles of laughter escaped your lips. "Okay!" Dad got you cones, of course, chocolate ones, and you swung your clasped hands and gawked at all the colorful, melted options. There's no better way to spend a Sunday than taking a stroll with Dad in the sunshine.

Monday night, however, was spent with you lying in bed with a fever ravaging your little body. Through the haze, you hear raised voices carrying down the hall—Mom scolding Dad for letting you have that ice cream.

“I can't believe you disobeyed me, Peter! One ice cream and now she's sick as a dog.” Her shrill voice pierces your pounding head.

“C'mon Anna, the girl's allowed a treat now and then.” Dad's calmer rumble does little to quell your mother's fury.

“If you'd listened to me from the start, this never would've happened. But you always think you know best.” Their arguing grows more heated, and you curl into a tight ball, wishing you could disappear.

Your mother's booming footsteps grew farther away as their conversations ceased. You open your eyes. When your door creaks and you turn around, the light from the corridor peeks through a tiny opening, and your father's form fills the frame. He sits next to you with a strained, contrite expression on his face.

“Hey, honey,” he started. “I'm sorry our secret got out. Mom's just worried about you being sick.”

You try to smile, though it comes out as more of a grimace. “S’okay, Daddy.” You said, and he stroked your damp hair tenderly; concern etched deep.

“Jesus, you're burning up. How about a story to take your mind off feeling bad?”

As if on cue, you remember – “The Nutcracker, please!”

With a kind grin, your father got up to get the cherished book. He takes a seat next to you, acts puzzled as he flips through a book and clears his throat.

"Now let's see, how did this story go again?" You chuckled at his attempt to divert your attention from your fever.

Soon later, he starts reading aloud with a low, comfortable voice. Sometimes, he stumbles over long words or loses his place, but each time he simply smiles sheepishly before continuing on. His favorite part is the dialogue, as he frequently adopts a different voice to portray different characters. You find yourself entranced, following each magical adventure.

For a little while, you can forget about the uncomfortable heat covering your body and Mom's angry shouts. In these quiet moments with your father, nothing else matters but his gentle company. In this once kinder world, he is still your father and you are still his favorite daughter—his one and only. Even if getting an ice cream is what makes you sick, you would do it all over again just to share this time with him.

By the story's end, your eyelids grow heavy enough, but not quite heavy. Dad chuckled, closing the book. “Still awake, little love? You must be feeling better.”

Your lips curve into a smile, glazed eyes glistening as flushed cheeks rise. “Mom signed me up for ballet classes,” you mumble sleepily.

A gasp escaped his lips, his forehead shot upwards emphasizing the already existing wrinkles. He looked at you with irises the same color as yours. You chuckle from his reaction, but your smile fades when his features swim and blur before you like figures in a dream. His gaze was always so kind, looks darker than you recall. Stubble shadows his jaw. When he smiles now, it doesn't reach as far.

He said your name—but it sounded foreign, it felt wrong. Why can't you see him clearly anymore?

“My little princess, you’re going to be the greatest ballet dancer the world has ever seen.” You wanted to answer, to hold this moment with him forever; but heavy eyelids won the battle and ultimately dragged you down. As the darkness enveloped you, Dad's hazy face was the last thing on your mind.

Thin curtains block the dreary morning light as you begin your daily ritual of waking up. The city has just woken up below; fog still hangs on the streets of London as you pad barefoot to the kitchen, the hardwood cold under your feet.

Filling the kettle, you set it to boil and retrieve your favorite chipped mug from the shelf. Your hand reaches for a packet of instant grounds—two scoops of it go inside, followed by a splash of cream. After lifting the whistling kettle, you poured in the boiling water slowly before taking a tea spoon to stir. The sound of the drizzle striking the glass was amplified by the apartment's quiet, and a small clink! sound is added each time your spoon meets your porcelain mug.

Lifting the mug, you breathe deep its comforting aroma before taking a careful sip, sighing as warmth spreads through your body. Coffee in hand, you turn to the task of packing your bag, put the essentials: water bottle, warm up shorts, warm up sweater, leg warmers, two pointe shoes, skirts, and a pouch containing deodorant, hair spray, comb, pins , and band aids.

Feeling quite satisfied, you finish your coffee and rinse the mug before leaving it to dry. You go shower and do your skincare routine. Pulling out your clothes drawer, you retrieve the leotard and tights, sliding the familiar fabrics over still-damp limbs.

Before the full-length mirror, you start to stretch. First position – feet turned out, heels together, arms graceful at your sides. Middle split – breathe in, reach for your toes, feel the burn in your thighs. Forward fold, palms flat on the floor, spine lengthening. After feeling warmed up for the day, you slowly got up and grabbed your bag towards the door.

The city was already starting to get busy, with the hustle and bustle of commuters making their way to work. The aroma of freshly baked pastries and brewing coffee wafting through the air. You quickened your footsteps on the cobblestone streets.

When the train door opens, you rush out, clutching your bag tight. Racing up the stairs, you burst through the exit and meet the cold air from the rain. You rubbed your hands against your arms in a desperate attempt to warm yourself. Overhead, heavy clouds hung low. You set off down the sidewalk at a brisk pace.

But, as your building comes into view, you slow down—memories from last night fill your head. It was just here—under the awnings of that little café—that you first took shelter from the rain with him.

Simon. His name whispers through your mind like fog swirling around lampposts. If only the place was still open, maybe you would come in for a sweet warm drink instead of that crowded pub. Must've been nice, you think—it must've been nice to chat between sweets, enveloped in comfort that stretches time to be longer. Maybe he won't be so guarded and you'll get more than a name and a job—a promise to meet tomorrow at breakfast, for example.

Realizing you had completely stopped walking, you shook your head as embarrassment settled on your cheeks. Why do you dwell on such fantasies? Despite his kindness, Simon is just a stranger with just a name, one of many faces in this city that you will never meet again.

With a sigh, you continued your walk and disappeared behind the large doors of the opera.

The heavy doors creaked open as you pushed inside, warmth enveloping your cold body. Long hallway echoed with the conversation of the dancers who had arrived, sitting cross-legged on the cold floor while exchanging a joke or two with each other. You turn into the dressing room. Hanging up your coat, you saw a familiar sight—girls chatting and gossiping as they got ready.

You sat down at one of the dressers, placing your duffel bag at your feet. The sound of a zipper being opened sounded in the air; you bent down and reached for your pouch. Then, you pull out your trusty lip balm before applying it to your lips and gently massaging in the colorless formula.

Just then, a girl came and stopped at the door frame, panting. “It's up! The casting announcement is on the board!”

Squeals of excitement and joy were heard as they rushed to see who got what role. You hurriedly closed your balm, returned it to the pouch before getting up from the chair following the others. They had gathered at the end of the hall, jostling to see a piece of paper stuck to the board.

Air fills your lungs slowly when you inhale. It felt like your hammering heart was going to drop to your stomach as your legs started to swing. The pessimistic side of you says to turn around—why bother? It said tauntingly, you know which role you ended up having. But the hopeful side—the little girl still full of dreams stored somewhere in your ribs—insisted on peering and feeling.

As you stepped into the crowd of dancers, they turned around and some started smiling at you. One of them, Jasmine, approached you after calling your name.

“You did it! You got the role!”

As she hugged you, you scanned down the long list. Your eyes freeze on the main role. The Swan Queen. Beside it is printed in big black letters, your name. The Swan Queen.

You detach yourself from Jasmine's embrace, muttering excuses as you flee down the hall to the toilet. Step by step opening each stall to make sure the space is totally empty, you then lock yourself in one of them and sink into the closed toilet lid. Your mind is racing with a plethora of feelings as your eyes are fixed on the sections of tile plaque.

Joy, pride, disbelief... But underneath it all lies a hollow ache you can't place. Why? Isn't this what you've always wanted, to to become more than just another dancer in the group, to stop at precisely the thirteenth, and somehow take on the role of the Swan Queen—the one who shines the most on stage? Perhaps it's the self-conscious part of you, believing that the director must have made a mistake and mistook you for someone else.

Or perhaps this emptiness was once occupied by the never-ending quest for approval. In truth, that person no longer exists; you have no one left to tell this good news to. The chairs in the crowd were empty.

The cost of keeping everyone at a distance, indeed.

You clutch on your leotard, the fabric wrinkling in your tight grip. Gazing up at the ceiling and inhaling again, you make the decision to push up on unsteady legs and get out of the stall.

The hallway seems louder than before. Every footstep and whisper amplified in your mind, eyes tracking you as you pass—all judging, wondering. A flush creeps up your neck. You speed up your steps, hoping to quickly get out from under their scrutinizing gaze. However, no matter how hard you try, your ears cannot be deafened by the snatches of hushed conversation that follow.

“Can't believe they chose her; she's so soulless on stage.” Your throat constricts, and your hands are clenched into pale fists.

Claudine's piercing stare cuts through the crowd as your eyes meet. She rakes her gaze over you slowly, as if trying to decipher what the director found so special. You lowered your eyes, hurriedly passing to the safety of the empty dressing room. Grabbing your bag with shaky hands, you flee once more to the practice studio, desperate to lose their judgment.

The studio door's knob turned, and as you pushed slightly to get a glimpse inside, the hinges creaked. With the coach and pianist, the director was engaged in a serious discussion. He gives you a quick glance and gestures for you to enter.

“(Y/N), it's so wonderful to have you here. I know this role is in excellent hands with you.” His kind words did little to calm your fraying nerves, but you took the crumbs of his appreciation.

More dancers arrive behind you, their excited chatter filling the hallway. Risking a glance over your shoulder, you catch sight of familiar faces: Jasmine, Sophia, Eloise, long-faced Marie—surely she's not used to not being the main star, and you feel like you've taken her place even though you're not good enough. You swallow hard and turn back, placing your duffel bag in the studio's corner.

The director clapped his hands to get everyone's attention. “Bravo to each of you for earning these coveted roles through your talent and dedication. Now, let us begin our work to bring Tchaikovsky's magic to life for our audiences. Places everyone, we'll start from the beginning!”

Your shoulders rise as you inhale a deep breath. Swan Lake. First time becoming the Swan Queen.

Does the director know that his gaze carries a heavy weight? The more sighs he lets out, the more you suffocate, as if the air has been tainted with butane and you've reached the vertigo stage. His eyes followed your every move, but it was his lips that showed dissatisfaction. Something isn't up to his expectations, and it's not the techniques and poses your ballet teacher has been drilling you in since childhood. You are deficient in something that you are unaware of.

The director calls to a halt, praising and giving notes to the other dancers before turning to you. You brace yourself with a deep breath.

“Your technique is truly flawless as always. But I wonder, could you try injecting just a bit more... feeling?” he began. “You portray her innocence and loneliness beautifully. But what is missing is the glimmer of hope she finds in Prince Siegfried's promise to free her.”

Hope? The girl had lived most of her life as a swan; what silly hope did she still have and seek in a man? As if their hearts have the ability to keep a promise. Swan Lake wouldn't be Swan Lake without the prince declaring his love for another woman and Odette jumping off the cliff from the realization that her dreams had ended in vain. Is it not more fitting that she feels only emptiness—the result of years of loneliness leeching any warmth or longing from her soul?

You tell yourself that, if not merely to cover up your poor performance. The director is many years older than you and has directed and seen many ballets throughout his life. If anyone knows how to bring a character to life, it's him.

It begs the question, though, of whether a cursed being like her seems capable of wishing for miracles or fairy tale things like love. Can a withered flower, beaten down by countless rains, still hold the memory of the sun in its crumpled petals?

“I'll do better.” You said.

The director gives a pitying smile; you felt small beneath him. “Good.” Then raising his voice, “Well done everyone today. Let's call it a day and start again tomorrow fresh!"

Snatching up your bag, you rush towards the exit before anyone can speak to you. With your head down, you push through the doors and into the night. Breathing in trembling, you let your legs carry you down the well-known pavement. The sights and sounds of bustling London blur around you.

You shouldn't have believed that girl. You shouldn't have given that dreamy girl the chance to lead a version of herself that has grown far beyond her—because you know her judgment means nothing, just a limited view of the world through rose-tinted glasses. She is that way because a liar once said that she would make a great ballet dancer, and she stuck to it like a devoted disciple to the words of her God.

It was stupid, perhaps a misplaced self-confidence. With your every step, the negative voices in your mind grow louder, jeering relentlessly at your foolishness. This was a mistake from the start. As if you could ever do Odette justice. Best tell him you're stepping down; let Claudine or Marie have the role they deserve. Your heart is heavy, weighing you down to the floor. 

You almost pass by without noticing, but there, through the haze, glows the warm orange light of that pub. The one Simon and you ducked into that stormy night, where you shared pleasantries over pints of bitter. As you watch the door open and close for the newcomers, you halt.

You're not sure which Satan incited. But when you push open the pub door, warmth immediately envelopes you, scents of ale and smoke mingling with the bustle of chatter. A lively folk tune played on the sound system as patrons laughed together in the booths and around the bar. Steeling yourself, you approached awkwardly.

The bartender looked up, his eyes widening briefly before his lips curved into a flirtatious smile. "Well hello gorgeous, what can I get for ya?"

Warmth floods your cheeks and you shift from foot to foot. “Um, do you have anything non-alcoholic?” You said, awkward voice breaking easily. Why did you come in here again?

He raised an eyebrow but maintained a friendly smile. “Sure do, love. Give me a mo.” As he turns around to prepare your drink, you glance around helplessly.

Faces blurred in the dim light—all engaged in lively conversation. You sit alone at the bar like you're waiting for a friend while watching everyone else meet theirs. A feeling of loneliness overtakes you – what were you thinking coming here?

Bartender returns, sliding your drink across with a wink. “On the house. Let me know if you need anything else, yeah?”

Giving a mumbled thanks, you take a sip acting busy. As you sit alone nursing your drink, you believe you understand why. Deep down, beneath all the self-doubt and shame, is a glimmer of truth you loath to admit – you desperately seek companionship, if only for a moment.

And the only person close enough for you to consider a friend is a masked stranger you will never see again. That's pathetic; you're pathetic. Clinging to the irrational part to watch Simon walk through that door. He claims he's a regular here—his “I'm here often enough” seems to make you hold out for the chance of running into him again.

Twenty minutes pass in a haze, and Simon still hasn't appeared. Maybe he's not a regular after all. You finally glance at your phone—it's time for your usual subway.

Signaling the bartender, you place some cash on the bar as a tip. “Thanks again,” you murmur, then gather your coat and slip out into the chill night.

“Sorry,” you mumble when you bump into a figure about to enter.

“No worries, love,” a British-accented voice replies smoothly, and you glance up, thinking it's someone. A stranger—tall, broad shoulders, but not Simon. Perfectly coiffed hair and skin as smooth as porcelain. He shot a charming smile at you. “Off somewhere?”

Instantly on alert, your eyes start looking for a way to get away from him. “Just heading home, thanks.”

Making a sidestep, his arms extended to block your path. Your mind's alarm goes off. His gaze burned as it swept over you, lingering in places it had no right to be before he licked his lips. You felt a cold sweat run down your back.

“Don't be like that, darling. I just want to chat. Buy you a drink, maybe?” His smile grows, and the sick glint in his eyes shows how much it amuses him to see you trembling.

“Sorry, I—”

“I believe the lady said she’s not interested, mate.”

A gruff, familiar voice cuts through the haze. You whip your head around to see Simon standing there. His face is half obscured by his black mask, but you'll recognize that steel gaze everywhere. For some reason, your heart gradually calms down in your ribs.

“And who the fuck are you?” the other asked angrily, puffing up his chest. A daring move, you think. His too-tight t-shirt reveals his consistent gym muscles, but if Simon is his opponent, you can be sure he's no match.

“Just not a fan of creeps harassing women. Now do yourself a favor and fuck off before I make you.” Simon threatened.

The color drains from the guy's face when he sees Simon's seriousness. He walked away, swallowing his wounded pride with a huff. The pressure recedes from your rigid frame as you watch the figure leave before turning to Simon.

"You hurt at all?" he asked, doing a scan of you to check for himself.

You shake your head, then manage a shaky “No, I'm fine. Thank you.”

Simon looked at you, then looked behind you towards the pub. When he turns back to you, his eyebrows raise slightly questioningly.

“You were in there your own?”

The warmth from his question traveled across your cheeks, striking a contrast with the night breeze. You didn't dare to meet his eyes, choosing to settle on your shoes instead. Despite having come here just to meet him, feeling under his judgment is like getting a shot of adrenaline into your legs—so much so that you want to run to get away from him.

“I, um…” Words fail you beneath your embarrassment.

How pathetic you must look—a lone girl nursing a drink with no companions, seeking solace in other people's conversations. You can't, however, just reveal your total lack of friends. Your mind searched frantically for a convincing reason.

“Just… needed to clear my head after a long day of practice. Thought the atmosphere might help.”

Even to your own ears, the lie falls flat. You didn't know if Simon noticed. Though you're pitiful, he doesn't furrow his brow or look at you that way. He asks no questions at all, not even about poor attempts at lying, and he doesn't press people on matters they would rather leave unsaid. Simon doesn't pry; you think that's his good quality.

Simon looked up at the dark sky instead. “Getting late, this is. I'll walk you to the tube.” He nodded, gesturing down the empty sidewalk.

Thick clouds rolled low. The two of you make your way towards the subway station, passing one by one the buildings constructed from buff-colored brick. Simon is striding beside you, his long legs eating up the pavement with ease. Secretly, you steal glances at his broad figure against the lamplight. Your eyes follow the line of his shoulders under his leather jacket—the way it molds into muscular arms.

This is different from your first meeting. There's no need now for nervous small talk to fill the quiet; you're not much of a talker, and Simon also finds more peace in silence.

Simon's presence feels more companionable than awkward. Warmth bloomed in your ribs as your lips curled into a small smile before it disappeared again. You both walk in wordless sync before you become bored and break it.

“I didn't really expect to see you again.”

Simon glances down at you, his brows quirking questioningly. Did you sound ungrateful? You rush to explain. “I mean, it was all like a chance thing, running into each other like that. Figured it was just... a one-time thing, you know?”

He thought about your words for a moment. “Funny how things work out sometimes.”

Up ahead, the glow of the station sign begins to appear. You bit the inside of your cheek as you slowly slowed down your pace, but you made sure it was unnoticeable. Your journey's end draws near, but you hope this togetherness can last longer.

Summoning your courage, you try, “Were you meeting someone at the pub? Before…” Your words trail off, but he seems to understand.

“Nah, wasn't meeting anyone,” he said casually. “Just fancied a drink, is all.”

You nodded, acting satisfied, but actually feeling a little disappointed. It seemed that he was in fact a frequent visitor, coming and going on any given evening; it was just for a drink, like before he met you. Meanwhile, you cling to the prospect of another chance to meet like a lifeline. As the station came into full view, your eyes fell, brewing more embarrassment and desperation in your stomach. Maybe he has someone waiting for him. What were you thinking, letting yourself hope?

Yet, though small, the rebellious part of you refuses to let this end.

"What do you usually drink?" You ask again, grasping for any excuse to extend your time, no matter how little.

“Bourbon,” he replied gruffly. “Kentucky, usually. Good drop.”

Twenty-three years old, but this discussion is still foreign territory for you. Your fingers can count the few times you've tasted alcohol—each occasion marred by your mother's voice in your head, warning of its evil. It's rather comical, considering how it once became her loyal companion for several years—that damned thing became the only thing she looked for after coming home from work and gulping it down flat on the living room sofa to dull her broken heart. You cannot yet judge her as a hypocrite or someone who has learned from her mistakes. As if a single glass would transform you into some fallen woman. It was always all or nothing with her; there was no concept of moderation.

Such inhibitions are not for Simon, though. A man of the world who has seen and done things that you could scarcely fathom. For him, a pint after work is as regular as taking a breath.

All too soon, you reach the stairs leading down to the station entrance. Your feet stopped when he did. Turning your body to face him, you gathered your courage and looked up. His eyes meet yours, and you see him about to open his mouth behind his surgical mask. No, you can't bear to hear that final goodbye.

“Do you..” You started. “Like anything else to drink, besides bourbon? I probably have… something at my place.”

There was a change in his gaze before he returned to his usual guarded gaze. Your cheeks screamed on fire at the implication that you didn't quite mean to make. Such an invitation should be the last thing a girl like you offers to a stranger she's only met twice, particularly at this hour. To your defense, though, he's now an acquaintance, and desperation influences people to do the unthinkable. The nights are getting colder and your lonely apartment won't do.

It seems that your question surprised him too. Simon scanned your face carefully before releasing the tension.

“Tea.”

When Simon replies with a single gruff word, you can't help but smile, ducking your head to hide it behind loose tendrils of hair. Lifting your eyes once more, you find him staring at you. Two people engaging in a silent game of deciphering, each trying to unravel the secrets of the other piece by piece.

“Tea,” you repeat softly, as if savoring the taste of the word.

Fingers twisting together, you steel your nerves before turning toward the stairs to lead the way down. You hear his footsteps fall solidly behind you. Not daring to look back out of fear that this dream will shatter, you mentally urge your feet faster.

At the platform's edge, mist curls between the rails like grasping fingers. Simon was standing right next to you. Slowly, the lights of an approaching train emerge, growing brighter by the second. With a weary hiss, the sliding doors open in front of you in welcome. You turned to Simon, then stepped aboard, and he followed, as you already knew.

SUPPORT ME THROUGH KO-FI! CHECK MY WRITING COMMISSION. SHARE YOUR THOUGHTS HERE.

[many-shades-of-violence]

as your college roommate(s)

✢ content warnings: none

✢ characters: Smoker, Law, Corazon, Doflamingo, Shachi & Penguin

Smoker, majoring in Criminal Justice, embodies the essence of a "no-nonsense roommate," maintaining a room that reflects military precision in its impeccable organization and strict "no clutter" policy. Unleashing his wrath is not advised.

A punctual roommate, Smoker is always on time for everything, from classes to laundry, showcasing his commitment to discipline and order.

Beyond his room's physical discipline, Smoker takes on the role of the de facto organizer of the shared home. His talent for planning and coordination extends to home logistics and meticulously planned road trips.

During finals, Smoker transforms into a reliable study partner, demonstrating a disciplined approach that proves invaluable for those seeking constructive criticism during group study sessions and exam preparations.

Law

Law, the quiet and mysterious roommate, immerses himself in his own world surrounded by medical textbooks and anatomy diagrams, reflecting his major in Medicine.

A go-to person for minor injuries and health concerns, Law's medical knowledge becomes particularly appreciated during stressful exam seasons or, for some, PMS woes.

Law's hidden quirky sense of humor occasionally surfaces, catching roommates off guard with unexpected jokes and sarcastic comments, often shared in passing in the kitchen.

While Law may not actively organize study sessions, his room remains a haven for consultations, offering a quiet space for focused discussions despite the closed door.

Corazon

In university, Corazon studies art, transforming the room into a mini art gallery with his side adorned with paintings, sketches, and various craft projects.

Hosting small gatherings for art sessions, Corazon's free-spirited nature influences roommates to discover their own creative sides, fostering an atmosphere of self-expression.

Corazon assumes the role of peacemaker within the roommate group, mediating conflicts and promoting a harmonious living environment.

During exam season, Corazon's calming presence transforms the room into a serene space. As a sought-after study companion, he breaks down complex topics and, if unable to assist with content, ensures study breaks are accompanied by snacks.

Doflamingo

Doflamingo, majoring in performing arts, infuses the room with his flamboyance, turning it into a vibrant and bold space with colorful decorations and ever-changing styles.

The eccentric and flamboyant roommate, Doflamingo's outgoing personality doesn't overshadow his surprising focus when tackling studies, often burning the midnight oil on ambitious projects.

The room becomes a hub for extravagant parties, establishing it as the go-to spot for social gatherings on campus.

Doffy's unconventional study methods include impromptu motivational speeches and mnemonic devices. Those who can't handle the drama are advised to steer clear to save themselves from potential headaches.

Shachi and Penguin

Shachi and Penguin, nursing majors and childhood friends, bring a laid-back and easygoing vibe to the living space, filling their rooms with comics, CDs, and musical instruments.

The dynamic duo turns mundane activities into adventures, infusing a playful energy into everything from grocery shopping to doing laundry.

Despite their carefree demeanor, Shachi and Penguin are incredibly supportive friends, always ready to assist with assignments or lend an ear during late-night chats.

Their laid-back attitude extends to studying, making the experience enjoyable. With Shachi's logical approach complementing Penguin's creative thinking, they offer a well-rounded study experience as deadlines approach.

[honey-crypt]

What do you think Elliott’s family is like? What would happen if they came to the Valley?

a/n: this is such a good ask!!!

warnings: alcoholism, neglect, bad parents, mention of death

★ elliott - family woes (with a dash of elliott x reader) ★

pt. 1 - who are the cunnighams?

★ elliott’s family, the cunnighams, is what people would consider a stereotypical upper class nuclear family.

★ his father, conrad, is an investment banker (think wolf of wall street) who had very little involvement in his children’s lives, other than to reprimand them or hand them some money to get them to go away. he was the breadwinner, too focused on chasing the next investment to participate in silly things like going to elliott’s poetry nights.

★ his mother, makenna, is a socialite, too busy hosting events for the fellow ladies of the community or getting drunk off champagne to properly parent. yet, on the rare occasion when she did express love and affection towards elliott, he always felt gross after the fact because that meant she was too drunk to function.

★ elliott has an older sister, eleanor. she’s the golden child of the family, always striving to please their parents so she could get attention. ever since they were kids, eleanor threw herself into academics and extracurriculars that she believed would impress their parents, such as mock trial and key club. she, to their parents, is the successful one out of the two children; after all, she’s the one who graduated with summa cum laude, the one went to medical school and became a heart surgeon. nonetheless, eleanor loves elliott and vice versa, despite everything.

★ because of his parents being too wrapped up in “other important things” to parent, elliott and his sister were raised by a nanny, an old irish woman named siobhan. elliott considered siobhan to be his true family, as she always encouraged him to express his creativity and always made time to attend his events like poetry night. sadly, she passed away when elliott was in his late 20s, which was the catalyst to elliott leaving home to make a name for himself as a writer.

★ when elliott told his family that he was moving out to pursue his writing career, his father laughed in his face and called him a bloody idiot for thinking he could make it as a writer. his mother was too busy nursing a hangover to criticize him for his choice. however, eleanor was supportive; she embraced him and whispered in his ear to escape “this hellhole of suburbia” and that she would always support him. so elliott sold off anything of value that he didn’t need and with that money, he relocated somewhere where he could embrace his inner hemmingway, a little place called pelican town in the idyllic stardew valley

pt. 2 - the cunninghams visit stardew valley

★ elliott had been living in the valley for about two-ish years and he was on cloud 9 with the life he cultivated

★ he was happily married to (y/n), stardew valley's local farmer and the person he felt head over heels for the moment they entered his cabin with a basket of pomegranates, and his book camelia station was doing well with elliott finishing up his first ever book tour

★ life was perfect... until his family paid him a surprise visit

★ he hadn't been in contact with his father or mother since leaving but he occasionally exchanged letters with his sister, the two of them updating one another on major milestones in their lives

★ conrad and makenna were the picture of faux kindness, subtly jabbing at elliott's spouse for being so rural while praising them for building such a successful farming empire

★ elliott could feel his mother's disappointed glare when she came to the conclusion that elliott got married without informing them but he honestly didn't give a damn

★ (y/n) did their best to be cordial with elliott's parents, they knew that they were major assholes (more so his fathers) so they focused their attention on getting to know eleanor

★ since he last spoke to his sister, elliott was informed that she found out that she was pregnant a few months ago and was now sporting a prominent baby bump

★ (y/n) offered eleanor some fresh produce from the season as a gift for her baby when makenna chimed in about not needing produce from "a little farmer from bum-fuck-nowhere" when they had access to the finest produce

★ elliott... just loses it; he completely loses it and yells to his parents about how shitty they were, how they were never involved in his life or eleanor's unless they did something that bettered their public image, and that they could insult him all they wanted but they could not nor would not insult the love of his life

★ conrad and makenna expected eleanor to come to their defense but she instead sides with elliott, sharing identicial sentiments and how she regrets letting her need for their approval get in the way of having a relationship with her little brother

★ elliott then promptly kicks his parents out but lets eleanor stay, holding back tears in his eyes while he wraps his arms around his spouse

★ eleanor later apologies for bringing their parents, she wanted to visit elliott alone after hearing about his marriage and the success of camelia station but conrad and makenna intervened

★ in return, elliott apologies for not inviting her to the wedding and the two make up, much to the joy of the farmer who finally gave eleanor that basket of produce for her

bonus - the aftermath

★ after that ordeal, eleanor would later visit the valley once a month to spend time with her brother and her sibling in-law; then with her husband jackson and her baby elias when she gives birth

★ elliott may have lost his parents but he found a new family in (y/n) and his sister's little family, working hard to dismantle the standards set by their parents and becoming a doting uncle to elias

★ and soon... he became a parent of his own, promising his newborn baby that they would have a life full of love and wonder and promising to himself that he wouldn't repeat his parents' errors

[remy-lupin]

Unrequited Love: One character harbors feelings for another who is unaware, leading to moments of silent longing and missed opportunities (with added hints for how person B could slowly realize person A's feelings):

1. person A has been secretly in love with person B for years. They always find ways to be close, like sitting together in classes and sharing lunches, but person B remains oblivious, focusing on their own life and relationships, leaving person A in a constant state of silent longing. (person B starts noticing how person A's eyes light up whenever they're together and begins to wonder if there's more to their friendship.)

2. person A helps person B with their schoolwork, staying up late to tutor them and offering endless support. Despite person A’s growing feelings, person B only sees them as a helpful friend, often talking about their crushes, unknowingly breaking person A’s heart. (person B begins to realize that person A never seems to date anyone and starts connecting the dots about why.)

3. person A and person B are coworkers, and person A often stays late just to spend more time with person B. person B, however, is always busy discussing their weekend plans with other colleagues, missing the signs of person A's affection. (person B starts to notice how person A's mood changes when they talk about other people and begins to question why.)

4. person A and person B share an apartment, and person A does little things to make person B’s life easier, like cooking meals and leaving encouraging notes. person B appreciates the gestures but thinks person A is just a considerate friend, never realizing the depth of person A’s feelings. (person B finds a love note person A accidentally left behind and begins to piece together their true feelings.)

5. person A accompanies person B to social events, always by their side but never the center of attention. person B enjoys person A’s company but treats them like a safety net, unaware of the romantic feelings person A harbors. (person B starts to notice how person A's presence at these events always makes them feel more secure and wonders if there's more to it.)

6. person A listens to person B’s relationship woes, offering a shoulder to cry on and advice. Each conversation leaves person A with a mix of hope and despair, knowing they are the perfect match for person B but never daring to say it. (person B realizes that person A's advice is always deeply insightful and starts to wonder why person A seems to understand them better than anyone else.)

7. person A and person B have been friends since childhood. person A treasures every shared memory and moment, but person B talks excitedly about their dates and future plans, never seeing person A as more than a lifelong friend. (person B finds an old photograph of them together and notices how person A's expressions have always been full of affection and starts to question their past interactions.)

8. person A writes love letters to person B but never has the courage to send them. Instead, they keep the letters hidden, hoping one day person B will notice them. person B, meanwhile, remains unaware, caught up in their own romantic pursuits. (person B accidentally stumbles upon the letters and begins to realize the depth of person A's feelings.)

9. person A and person B work on a project together, and person A’s heart races every time they meet. person B enjoys the collaboration but is preoccupied with someone else, missing the adoring looks person A gives them. (person B starts to notice the way person A looks at them when they think person B isn't watching and begins to see person A in a new light.)

10. person A stands in the background at parties, watching person B laugh and dance with others. person B smiles and waves at person A occasionally, grateful for their presence but never realizing person A's silent longing to be more than just a friend. (person B starts to feel a sense of longing when they see person A in the background and begins to question why they always feel more at ease when person A is around.)

[arainbowofchaos]

Love Vs Expectations

pair: Jungkook x reader

genre : angsty as fuck

warnings:  toxic relationship

word count: 1,2k

summary: You're in an unhealthy relationship with the man you've longed for, but you see it as better than having no relationship at all.

[A/N]: I’m sorry this is so angsty forgive my toxic ass

You're 28 years old; you don't have any time to waste. You need to create a life that reflects who you are, but you're not sure who that person is anymore.

You practice self-care and beauty routines to avoid regrets when you're older, but you used to go days without eating just to see if it could ease the pain in your heart. You're a hypocrite because you're addicted to a pain far more terrible than ever before. Now you've fallen deeply in love.

You managed to find someone even more damaged than you. However, the first time you met him, he made you believe that he had control over his emotions, that he was stable, confident in himself and in life in general. And you, who were afraid of everything, threw yourself into his arms to find comfort from all your woes.

He didn’t like it when you acted childish, but you met him at 19, so you were a child. Thus, you became more reasonable and mature in an effort to please him, and you lost your zest for life.

He doesn't make it clear that he'll never offer marriage or a baby, but after 8 years, you've come to the realization that he'll never make a move. You convince yourself that you don't care because he's the one you want forever. But deep down, you're full of doubts because why were you so eager to offer him exclusivity when he can’t commit fully to you?

You thought you were smarter than that; you didn’t think you would fall for someone who wouldn't treat you as you deserve. However, you fell head over heels in love with him without any control, and now, no matter how much you suffer, you're stuck.

While desperately trying to rediscover who you are, you reconnected with the passions from your teenage years that you had set aside to seem more grown-up. You enrolled in classes to learn and nurture your soul, all in an attempt to find yourself once again. You yearn to travel, meet people, and truly live, as you're exhausted from merely surviving.

He's not pleased. He understands toxicity, so he pretends to support you, not stopping you but gradually losing his spark. He doesn't smile anymore, and he doesn't make an effort with your friends. He silently makes you pay for showing interest in anything other than him.

So, you feel guilty, and you propose the idea of both of you embarking on a journey, leaving everything behind—your job, friends, family, and obligations. He's inclined to say yes to keep you by his side, but even this suggestion terrifies him. He desires your exclusive company, yet the prospect of commitment and potential pain holds him back. As a result, you stood at the edge, urging him to join the leap, hoping you could be together. Yet, he sadly holds back, and you're left with a heavy heart, uncertain of your next step.

Should you jump alone?

Jungkook's voice interrupts the flow of your thoughts, "Want to watch a movie?" he asks, nonchalantly, as if you hadn't been arguing just a few minutes ago.

You shake your head to decline. You don't want to watch TV because you know that you'll eventually end up cuddling on the comfort of your couch. You'll naturally rest your head against his chest, listening to the beats of his heart that will sync with yours. You're aware that feeling him so close could make you crumble and erase all your threats. Everything you just told him, that ultimatum you gave, all of it would mean nothing if you give in now.

"Come on, baby, come into my arms. I can't stand to see you like this," Jungkook pouts, moving dangerously close to you, and you retreat until your back hits the wall. You feel trapped, like an animal blinded by the headlights of a car, blinded by the beauty of the man in front of you. His large doe-like eyes look at you with tenderness, his pink and tempting lips beg for your forgiveness. And you could, you could give in; it wouldn't be the first time. But every time you do, you lose a bit more of your self-esteem.

"I'm sorry, baby. You know I love you, I'll never love anyone like you," lies, you think to yourself. Your jaw clenches, preventing you from screaming. You only hear those three words for your birthday or when you make a scene. He's so stingy with his words and feelings. You only get his "I love you" at the cost of your tears and pain.

You've had enough; you don't want to give in. Even though all you long for is to embrace him, to feel his warmth envelop and comfort you, you understand that you'll lose all credibility. He'll never put in the effort to truly invest and build with you.

"You're a diamond, so precious to me. Let me make it up to you. I'll do better in the future, I promise," he smiles widely and continues moving towards you. He's saying everything you want to hear, proving that he could be more generous with his words all the time. He could be perfect, but he chooses to be mediocre, and it's your fault, you've let him be that way from the start. But you were so young and in love, so naive and vulnerable. You just wanted someone to make you feel whole, and he kept his promise. Now without him, it feels like you’re nothing.

"I want you so much," he whispers into your ear now; you let him come too close. Tears escape your eyes, trailing slowly down your warm cheeks. Jungkook wipes them away with his thumbs and places a gentle kiss on your forehead. "You're so beautiful," he says softly. He never finds you as beautiful as when you're broken like this.

Jungkook starts kissing your neck, and you don't do anything to push him away. What's the point? You'd lose in this game. Because your body is made only for him, forever. He was the first to learn how to make you feel good. You're convinced that no one will ever be able to touch you like he does. His scent makes your head spin, and you moan as he leaves a trail of hickeys on your neck. He wants to remind you that you belong to him and only him, forever. Even if he never commits fully. Even if he sleeps with others. You are his.

As he lifts you up and carries you in his arms to your bedroom, calling you with sweet words and caressing your hair, you allow the weight of guilt to evaporate. You're doing your best; you’ll be stronger next time you promise yourself, and maybe he will decide that he only needs you just as you need him. You cling to his neck tightly; you don't want to let him go. Ever.

[pumperpup]

Jeff's life was a well-oiled machine, timed to the rhythm of dumbbell clanks and protein shakes. As a top fitness trainer with a chiseled physique, he was the epitome of health and discipline. But life had a surprise in store, one that would turn his well-structured world upside down.

It started one morning when Jeff, famed for his washboard abs, noticed his belly was... different. Not the usual "I-ate-too-much-pizza" different, but "Why-does-it-look-like-I'm-three-months-pregnant" different. A visit to the doctor, and several bewildering tests later, the impossible was confirmed: Jeff was pregnant.

At first, Jeff thought it was a practical joke. But when morning sickness hit him like a freight train, reality sunk in. His gym buddies were in disbelief, watching their role model swap deadlifts for ginger tea and saltine crackers.

Jeff's journey was nothing short of hilarious. His cravings were unpredictable and fierce. He once halted a training session to devour a jar of pickles. His mood swings were legendary, turning from drill sergeant to weepy mess in the blink of an eye. His once immaculate gym attire was replaced by baggy sweatpants and oversized t-shirts.

Despite the challenges, Jeff's spirit never waned. He started a blog: "Dad-Bod Diaries," chronicling his journey. It was an instant hit. People couldn’t get enough of his humorous take on pregnancy woes: from his struggle to tie his shoes to attending a prenatal yoga class, where he awkwardly outstretched among expectant mothers.

As his due date approached, Jeff’s perspective on fitness and life evolved. He learned to listen to his body, trading high-intensity workouts for gentler routines. He began to appreciate fitness as a journey rather than a destination, a mantra he passionately shared with his clients.

The big day arrived with its own set of comedic misadventures. Jeff went into labor in the middle of a spin class. Panicked, he was whisked away by his gym buddies on a gym bench-turned-stretcher, creating a spectacle as they clumsily navigated through the busy city streets to the hospital.

Jeff's delivery room was a circus of laughter and tears. His gym friends, who had become his support system, were there every step of the way, providing comic relief and emotional support. When Jeff finally held his baby, the room erupted in cheers. It was a moment of pure joy and triumph.

Life post-pregnancy was a new adventure for Jeff. He was now not just a trainer but a role model for embracing life's curveballs. His classes were more popular than ever, infused with his newfound wisdom and humility. He even started a "Baby and Me" workout session, integrating his child into his fitness regime.

The "Dad-Bod Diaries" continued, now filled with anecdotes of juggling fatherhood and fitness. Jeff's story was a testament to the unpredictable nature of life, and the beauty found in rolling with the punches. He had not only transformed his body but also his heart and mind, inspiring countless others along the way.

And so, Jeff's journey continued, one laugh, one lift, and one diaper change at a time.

[hopepaigeturner]

I like the idea of Madam Delacroix being Sophie's friend and she loves and supports her.

Sorry for the wait my love!

I 100% need this in Benophie season.

The one thing that really irked me in the books is when Sophie says

"You are the very reason I exist, the very reason I was born."

And I realised that the reason this gave me the ick is because...it's true?

Unlike other Birdgerton heroines in the book, the things that literally define Sophie are her trauma and her relationship to Benedict.

Yeah we know that she likes to read but...not what she reads, why she reads etc.

Other Bridgerton heroines are 'more' than just their romantic relationship.

E.g. Kate has the relationship of a sister and that is shown to be significant.

E.g. Penelope has Whistledown and is a sister, and is a best friend.

E.g. Lucy has a best friend, another significant relationship, and even a brother.

And ofcourse the Bridgerton girlies are all sisters or have best friends.

Sophie has nothing. She has no friends. She has no family. No significant relationships apart from...Benedict?

Yes, she has Posy but actually, Posy is barely in the book and is not treated as a 'sister' or 'significant' relationship like Edwina, or Felicity. And even tho JQ shows her getting on with the Bridgerton sisters in the book, it is not as 'significant' as Hermoine or how Penelope and Eloise are presented.

And it's made even worse for me because Sophie is constantly described like a fairytale. E.g. In To Sir Phillip with Love she is described as "ethereal". Yet again shoving the point home to me that she is literally made for Benedict.

And so when I started An Offer from An Avid Reader (my S4 speculation). The first thing I did was add her relationship with Madame Delacroix. And it linked with my ideas around Sophie finding freedom through the relationships she builds.

And the more I write, the more I see Madame Delacroix being a perfect character to utilise in S4. Two working class girlies sharing wine and woes over the years. Beautiful.

I know what I've said might be a bit controversial as I know that book line is so beloved in the fandom but...like. There's a reason I didn't include it in my version of the Sofa scene. 🤷‍♀️

[ereardon]

My Girl [Chapter 15][Jake "Hangman" Seresin x OC]

Summary: Jake Seresin could be the answer to all of your dating woes. He’s the full package: steady job, mature, dependable, attractive to a fault. The polar opposite of every guy your age and he’s everything you’ve ever wanted in a partner. But there’s one roadblock: he’s a single father to four-year-old Ellie. Jake is looking for a level of commitment you’re not quite sure you’re ready to give, and he’s not willing to bring someone into his daughter’s life who isn’t there for the long haul. And even if you are stepmom material, is Jake ready to let someone back in his life while still mourning the recent loss of his late wife? 

Pairing: Jake “Hangman” Seresin x OC [Lawyer Natalie West]

WC: 2.8K

Warning: Age gap, cursing, angst

Series masterlist here

Jake got to the studio thirty minutes early to make sure he could get a front row seat. He wanted Ellie to see him front and center when she was on stage. He wanted her to know that she had him in the crowd, no matter what. That he would always be there supporting her.

He wanted to be enough. 

It all started two weeks earlier. Bradley, Phoenix and Bob had plans to go with Jake to Ellie’s dance recital but then they had gotten called up to a mission that overlapped directly with the recital. 

“I’m sorry we can’t make it to your recital, Princess,” Bob said, squatting down next to Ellie where she sat on the couch. “Wish we could be there.” 

“It’s OK Uncle Bobby!” Jake felt small tears prick his eyes and he turned away, feigning a cough. Phoenix shot him a look from where she sat next to Ellie on the couch, one full of knowing and pain. 

“Can we get a sneak peak?” Bradley asked, ruffling Ellie’s hair from behind the couch and she laughed. “Show us what we’re missing, honey.” 

Ellie hopped up off of the couch and started to twirl around on bare feet in the living room. Behind her, Bradley, Bob and Phoenix watched with rapt attention and Jake stepped forward at one point, hand out, and Ellie took it, using him as a stable point to cling to as she twirled in circles. 

The trio on the couch erupted into cheers and applause as Ellie smiled in Jake’s arms. When he set her down, she looked up at him softly. “Will you be there, Daddy?” 

“Of course, peanut,” he said gently. “Wouldn’t miss it for the world.” 

“Is Nat still coming?” Ellie asked and Jake’s face fell. Ellie’s dance class had been planning its annual recital for months, and he had originally planned to go with Natalie. Ellie had been ecstatic, rambling on about her sparkly costume to Natalie, who always listened with careful and wholehearted attention. 

Jake shook his head slowly. “I don’t think so, baby.” Ellie’s smile turned into a quick frown. “But I’ll be there. And I promise we can go out for ice cream afterward.” 

She gave him a small grin. “With sprinkles?”

Jake nodded, catching Bradley’s eye as he gave him a sad smile. “Anything you want, honey.” 

***

“Are you liking New York any better?” Peter popped a chip into his mouth and then offered you the bag. You reached one manicured hand in and emerged with a few tortilla chips, dropping them into a small pile near your laptop.

“Eh, it’s fine,” you replied and he laughed. 

“There’s eight million New Yorkers out there waiting to fight you for that statement.” 

You rolled your eyes and chuckled. Peter had quickly become the person you trusted the most on the New York team, and therefore the only person you roped into late nights at the office. But it was nice not having to do the late nights alone. And having Peter around cut down on the paperwork exponentially. “It’s just overrated, let’s say that.” 

“I’m hurt,” he said, one hand over his heart and the giant Patagonia logo on his grey vest. 

“You’re from fucking New Canaan,” you retorted and he laughed loudly. 

“Busted.”

You leaned forward, grabbing a folder, your hand accidentally skimming Peter’s. You pulled back immediately, but he was a bit slower to react. 

“Hey, you never told me what happened with Jake,” he said softly. 

That had been five weeks ago. While you trusted and liked Peter, you were a strong believer in keeping state and church separate for the most part. He didn’t need to know the gory details about your personal life, and vice versa. But the truth was, while you were in New York, he was the closest thing you had to a friend. Cassie was likely asleep, it was well past her bedtime, and she had already given you all the advice she could on the situation. It was in your hands now. 

“Sorry, not to pry.” 

You shook your head. “It’s OK. Um, we broke up.” 

There was a pause. Peter’s blue eyes searched yours. “Shit, that sucks, I’m sorry.” 

You drew in a shaky breath. Even weeks later you still felt the pain like it was fresh every time Jake crossed your mind, which was constantly. “It’s OK. I mean it isn’t, but that’s what you’re supposed to say, right?” 

“You’re supposed to say whatever you actually feel,” he said and you looked up in surprise. “What, I can’t say profound shit?” 

You laughed. “You can, it just doesn’t do well for your street cred.” 

“My street cred was ruined the night my bodega guy saw me crying over a girl ghosting me on Bumble,” Peter said and you winced, causing him to chuckle. “Cringe, I know.” 

“Just a little.” 

Peter leaned back in his rolling chair, crossing one ankle over his knee. “So why did you and the pilot call it quits?”

You sighed. “I thought about what you said, about asking myself what I wanted. And the truth is, I want Jake to be happy. And I just know that I can’t make him happy. Not right now at least. And he deserves better than someone who strings him along, always saying it’ll get better or it’ll be the right time soon. My ex was like that and I stupidly believed him. I didn’t want to drag Jake through the mud in the same way that Sam did to me.” 

“But you still love him?” 

“It’s complicated.” You pushed down on your laptop, closing it softly. 

“But it’s over?”

“Yeah,” you said quietly. “It is.” 

Peter nodded and then looked out at the stack of paperwork that had dwindled significantly since you two had entered the conference room hours before. “Looks like it’s time for us to pack up. I’ll walk with you downstairs? It’s late, don’t want you heading back alone on the street at this time.”

He waited by the elevator bank as you packed up your YSL tote bag at your desk. It hurt every time you saw it, but Ellie’s drawing from the day she had come to the office with you still hung near your monitor. It was a marker drawing of the day the three of you had gone to the zoo. You looked away before it made you cry. 

Downstairs, Peter held open the glass door and the two of you said goodnight in tandem to the doorman. He gave a wave, and the warm June air pulled you into an embrace on Broad Street. 

“I’m this way,” you said, hooking a finger over your shoulder and pointing uptown. 

“Let me walk you.” 

You shook your head. “That’s OK, it’s just two blocks.” 

“Please?” he said and you smiled. “I wouldn’t feel comfortable leaving you alone this late downtown.”

“OK.” The two of you set out at a slow pace North on Broad Street. You and Peter had stayed late in the office a handful of times in the past, and he had never once insisted on walking you to your hotel. 

Once the bright lights of the hotel were in sight, you looked up at Peter. He was tall, and his face was set in a pensive frown. “This is me,” you said, stopping under the awning near the marble stairs. The lobby was lit up, glowing from the inside, but empty. You snuck a peek at your watch — it was almost two in the morning. “Thanks for walking me. Want me to wait while you get an Uber?” You knew for a fact that Peter lived in the West Village, which had a shit option for trains from FiDi. 

He shook his head, stepping in closer. Before you knew it, Peter’s hand was on your neck, his face closing in on yours, his lips grazing your own. 

Peter was a good kisser: soft and gentle. No tongue off the bat. His hand was warm on your neck, his fingers gentle where they pressed against your skin. 

But when he pulled back, he saw tears welling up in your eyes. 

Kissing Peter only served to show you what you had lost with Jake. That even something that five years ago would have been a whirlwind kiss was now reduced to mediocre. Everything paled in comparison to the way it was with Jake. 

“Shit, I’m sorry,” he said, dropping his hand. “I just thought … Fuck, I shouldn’t have done that.” 

You reached up and wiped away your tears and then dropped your hands and pulled Peter’s into your own. “Hey, it’s OK. I’m sorry, too. I hope I wasn’t giving you any wrong signals. It’s just, I’m not over him.” 

Peter shook his head. “No, I know that. Fuck, I thought, I don’t know what I thought. I’m sorry, Natalie.” 

You gave him a small smile. “Don’t be. You actually made me just realize something.”

Peter gave you a questioning look and you simply leaned forward, kissing his cheek, before disappearing into the hotel lobby. 

You had a flight to catch.

***

“And next up we have Mrs. Bell’s class!” 

Cheers erupted from the crowd and Jake grinned as Ellie’s dance class made their way on stage. Ellie was third from the left, slightly off-center, and she smiled widely when she spotted Jake in the front row. He gave her a tiny wave and a grin as the music started up. 

Out of the fourteen girls in the class, it was obvious Mrs. Bell had put the ones who understood the routine in the front. In the back row, three of the girls flailed their way through the song, all arms and legs, no rhythm. Jake had to stifle down a few laughs along the way, but Ellie did excellent. 

Halfway through the routine, Jake watched Ellie break character, her smile growing wider, one hand risen in a tiny wave. Her eyes were glued to the back of the studio, and he turned around in his seat to see what she could possibly be waving at. 

Perhaps the better question would be who was she waving at. 

Jake’s heart threatened to jump out of his chest. His breath quickened, his pulse was sky high, his hands started to sweat. Anyone looking at him would have thought he had seen a ghost.

You were standing near the closed doors, a wide smile on your face, wearing a white linen dress that flowed to your ankles, blonde hair down and curled, your eyes locked on Ellie. You gave her a small wave back before darting into one of the rows in the back and sitting down for the rest of the performance. 

Jake couldn’t concentrate, but he forced himself to stand and clap once Ellie’s class finished their dance. He had to hold himself together enough not to turn around and look for you in the back. Not to sprint down the aisle and search through every folding chair until he found yours. 

Instead, Jake faced forward, his mind spinning as he watched the other classes routines, counting down the seconds until the lights went up and he could find you in the crowd. 

Finally, the lights came off dim and Jake shot up in his seat, one of the first to stand. But once he turned around, everyone else was standing, too, blocking his view of the back row. He sighed and made his way out to the hallway, looking for Ellie. He spotted Mrs. Bell first, with her bright red hair, and watched as she opened a side door, all of the little girls in their tiny tutus spilling out into the hallway. Jake recognized Ellie’s blonde curls immediately, making his way toward her. 

“Daddy!” She flung her arms around his neck where he knelt down to hug her, and Jake wrapped his daughter in his arms. 

“You did so great, Princess!” he murmured, pulling back from the embrace and smoothing a hand over her hair. “I’m so proud of you.” 

Ellie practically vibrated she was so elated. “Daddy, I saw Natalie! She was by the door.” 

Until the words left her mouth, Jake had wondered if he had imagined you. How ethereal and beautiful you had looked, standing there. A part of him had almost been able to fool himself into thinking that you were simply a mirage, a daydream. 

Until he felt a tap on his shoulder. 

“Nat!” Ellie jumped up and down and Jake watched as you bent over, sweeping her into your arms, matching grins on both of your faces. 

“Hi peanut,” you said softly. “You did amazing!” 

“You came!” Ellie was practically shouting and you laughed. 

“Of course I did,” you said. “I promised, didn’t I?” 

She nodded frantically then looked at Jake. “Yes, but Daddy said you might not come.”

Jake’s heart did somersaults in his chest as you raised your eyes to his finally. “Well, I’m here now, pumpkin. And I’m really glad I came. You did great.” 

You placed Ellie back on the ground and looked up at Jake. “Hi Jake,” you said quietly, leaning over and pressing your lips to his cheek. Barely grazing his skin, but his fingers reached out automatically and breezed over your waist. 

As you pulled away, Jake’s hope sank a little further. It took everything in his power not to reach out and pull you to his chest, plant his lips on yours, let his hands roam the expanse of your back. He was desperate to feel you beneath his fingertips again. Remember what it was like to hold you and kiss you and know that you were his. 

You no longer belonged to him, and he knew it. 

There was a beautiful sadness that had enveloped you. It had been six weeks since the fight. Almost three months since you left for New York the first time. And Jake still longed for you every waking minute of his days. Seeing you there, standing next to Ellie, her small hand enveloped in yours, was too much of a reminder of what he had lost. 

He couldn’t believe you had come back like you said you would. That you had even remembered. 

He didn’t realize that you were the kind of person who would always keep a promise, no matter what. 

“Did you see my twirl?” Ellie asked you excitedly and you nodded sweetly. 

“I did, peanut. You were great. Do you want to keep dancing? Maybe try tap?”

“Don’t give her any ideas,” Jake groaned and you chuckled. The sound of your laughter was a thousand rainbows raining down on his ears.  

“Sorry,” you whispered. There was a moment of silence while you looked at Jake and he gazed back. Those seconds told you everything you needed to know. He still loved you. And you knew that you still loved him. But did he know it?

Jake broke the silence by clearing his throat, Ellie’s hand warm in your own. “I promised Ellie I would take her to get some ice cream,” Jake said quietly. “Um, would you like to join us?” 

“That sounds lovely, but I can’t. I’m sorry.” Your eyes met Jake’s and there was nothing there but a flood of sadness. An overwhelming sadness that threatened to bury him. An avalanche of emotion. 

You squatted down and rested your hands on Ellie’s small arms. 

“Have a good time, sweetie. I’ll see you soon, OK?” 

Ellie looked up with hopeful eyes and nodded silently, her curls bouncing. You leaned forward and pressed a kiss to the top of her head before standing, adjusting the strap of your purse on your shoulder and turning to Jake. Jake looked at you with the same matching hopeful eyes as his daughter, but with another dash of something. 

Remorse. 

To his surprise, you stepped forward and wound your arms around his neck, pulling him into a hug. Jake pulled you in tightly, his arms binding you to him for a second, trying desperately to memorize how you felt pressed against him, before you leaned back, dropping your arms from his neck, a miserable look tattooed on your face. 

“Bye, Jake,” you whispered and his mind flitted back to that night six weeks before when you had said the same thing as you reversed out of the driveway, tears flooding your eyes. 

Jake held Ellie’s hand as he watched you walk out into the parking lot and be enveloped by the setting sun until the skyline was so bright he couldn’t make out your figure anymore, his vision bleached in shades of orange and red, until he couldn’t see or hear anything, the only thing keeping him grounded was the soft feeling of Ellie’s tiny hand in his, tugging him along, pulling him ahead, giving him purpose. 

***

The sound of your heels clacking on the shiny floor sounded like gunshots. 

Every step you took should have elevated your heart rate, but it didn’t. You felt like a marathon runner, despite never having run more than a mile at a time in your life. You felt unstoppable in a weird way. 

Determination was like that. So was resignation. 

Through the glass wall — why were all the fucking walls glass in this place, you wondered — you could see Patrick sipping a drink by the window, his back to you. 

He turned around with the sound of the door slamming shut. 

“Natalie?” His voice was thin and surprised. “I thought you were in New York until the twentieth.” 

“Came back early,” you said. 

Patrick raised an eyebrow. “On whose authority?” 

“Mine.” 

He let out a sharp laugh. “And who says you have the authority?” 

You smiled. “I did, when I quit.” 

“What?” He was incredulous.

“I quit, Patrick,” you said, leaning forward and pressing your hands to the enormous wooden desk, eyes hardened and locked on his watery ones. “I’m not going to be a pawn in some sick game you’re playing that hinges on bigotry. Finance used to be an Old Boy’s Club and we all knew it, but things are changing. Someday, and I hope it’s soon, you’re going to have to fess up and realize that this is no longer the workplace you started in. You’re going to get what’s coming, Patrick. Maybe I’m just the first woman to stand up to you and say it.” 

His eyes shifted around in anger or fear, you couldn’t decipher which. 

“I took a job with Parker Lane.” They were the firm’s largest competitor. “And I told them all about you and your non-questions about my future and family life and they found it very interesting.” 

Now you knew what you saw in his eyes. Rage. Pure, unadulterated rage. Patrick sunk down into the plush leather chair behind his desk, almost sputtering in anger.

“I’ll see you around, Patrick,” you said, lifting off of the desk and turning toward the door. “Oh, and Patrick?” Your hand was on the doorknob as you turned around to look at him. He was seething. “I did some digging and it turns out I’m not the first person you’ve made veiled threats to about employment matters. Expect some paperwork on your desk from Chairman Bill for that on Monday. I wouldn’t get too comfortable in that chair. Might not be yours for too long.” 

The hallway had never looked so wide, so free, so thrilling as it did on your way out. 

You got in your car and hit ignore on the GPS when it asked what route you’d like to take home. 

You knew exactly where you were going. 

A/N: Patrick can suck it! Also there is hope on the horizon for these two 🥰 And shoutout to @blue-aconite for the recital idea from a very sad, but sweet Jake x Natalie dream xx

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[mildlybizarrecorvid]

Time to learn about OCs, class

So if you've not seen my post about Thirlens either track that down or tell me how to link a post, because the ones discussed here are Thirlens.

They'll be introduced with pronouns, but that's just what they use in English, they've still got their own stuff going on.

Alice (she/her) is the child or Simon (he/him) Elizabeth (she/he) and Edmund (xe/xem). And that situation ended up being a bit of a mess. Ya see, even though this world had gotten to the point you didn't need income or a fancy job or anything, there was still a great deal of prestige placed on government work. Meanwhile, Simon's an ambitious lil fecker, so he's acting as a bit of a workaholic. At first, things are still alright on the homefront, but Elizabeth begins to feel like Simon's focusing more on himself then the overall family unit. This eventually results in a big 'fuck you' moment, before Elizabeth joins some space exploration program (this is sci-fi, it's slightly less insane for them). Shortly after, his ship disappears and Simon feels like that's all his fault (justifiably). Unfortunately, he goes entirely the wrong direction, going all "oh woe is me, my partner is dead by mine own hand, whatever shall I do with myself" while there's still like. A whole other partner and a child who just lost someone too. Simon's kind of a jerk, as you can likely see. Edmund eventually leaves him, and while custody is shared, Simon has the larger share because of the prestige of his government work.

As Alice starts to grow up, she becomes interested in also working in similar fields, due to the fact that one parents been missing most of her life, one vaguely supports her no matter what, leaving the last box unchecked the dumpsterfire who keeps getting promoted (yeah he ends up leading a coup). Around the time he's about the third most important official a mission comes up to see if some planet would be decent to conquer (Thirlens aren't typically warlike, but Simon's up to some late 20th century CIA shit). It's earth, and Alice volunteers for the hope of parental pride, and gets shipped off.

Shortly after she arrives, she wanders into a restaurant with Dialtone (first OC I discussed, please do tell me if I can link posts or something) and speedruns what she thinks is friendship, because she's new here. Dialtone is then kidnapped by thugs from her original place of employment, rescued by Alice, and they end up being roommates.

[foreverlogical]

Georgia’s new school censorship laws have claimed their first known victim. Cobb County elementary school teacher Katie Rinderle was fired for reading her class a book she bought at a school book fair, because the book’s message of accepting and embracing differences offended some parents.

According to the Southern Poverty Law Center, Rinderle had offered her fifth grade gifted program students a choice of books to read and discuss, and they chose Scott Stuart’s “My Shadow is Purple,” which you can check out here. The book centers on a child who looks at their mother’s pink shadow and their father’s blue shadow and doesn’t identify fully with either. Their shadow is purple, and they have traits in common with each of their parents. At a school dance, the child is pressured to choose pink or blue, but ultimately, other kids speak out to say that actually, their shadows aren’t pink or blue, either—they’re yellow, brown, red, green.

Rinderle, who is obviously an excellent teacher, then had her students discuss the book’s themes and write poems about their own shadows.

“My shadow is white, an underestimated thing,” one student wrote. “When mixed with colors, it can do amazing things but left by itself it’s kinda bland.” Another wrote, “My shadow is purple and now I do know that everyone’s different and not to be woe [sic] when my heart glows and tells me to see it’s fine to be me.”

Following complaints from a small number of parents—and despite other parents vocally supporting her—Rinderle was investigated, told to resign or be fired, and fired.Campaign Action

Two days after she read “My Shadow is Purple” to her class, Rinderle was summoned to the principal’s office twice for meetings. “When I asked why this book was available in our school’s recent Scholastic Book Fair, especially if it was not deemed ‘appropriate,’ there was not a clear answer that could be given,” she told the SPLC. “When I asked if there was a specific list of books or topics that were not allowed in inclusive libraries, the principal stated, ‘No.’ When I asked if there was a rule or policy I was unaware of, she told me she wasn’t sure and she believed it was just considered ‘divisive.’ She told me parents were ‘talking’ and had emailed to complain.”

That message came through repeatedly: The rules are vague. It doesn’t matter, because we’ve decided you broke them.

In a recorded investigative meeting, Christopher Dowd, the district’s director of employee relations, said, “Not every topic will be specifically in black and white on topics [you] can and cannot teach which is why the language allows for a broader spectrum on ‘issues’ to navigate.” In other words, you’re guilty if we decide you’re guilty.

The 2022 Georgia laws under which Rinderle was fired give parents broad rights to demand the removal of class and library materials and censorship of class discussion. Like most such laws passed in recent years targeting public school curricula and teachers, the Georgia laws are broad and vague enough to allow almost anything to be the subject of a complaint. That in turn means that teachers have to censor themselves because they never know when they’re going to get in trouble. After all, Katie Rinderle was fired for reading a book sold by the book fair at her school.

That vagueness is a weapon that will never be wielded equally. District administrators have the discretion to take some parents’ complaints seriously and not others. They have the power to fire some teachers and let others off with a warning. And factors like race and membership in other marginalized communities will always be at play in those decisions.

In the recorded conversation with the teacher, Dowd also repeatedly referred to “inappropriate topics” and “pornographic” material. Now, you can read “My Shadow is Purple” yourself. There is nothing remotely pornographic about this book, which in fact is aimed at children younger than Rinderle’s fifth graders. What is “inappropriate” about it is that it tells kids they don’t have to fit firmly into a gender binary. That’s all. Nothing sexual. Nothing explicit. Just, “It’s okay not to be pink or blue. It’s okay to like traditionally masculine things and traditionally feminine things.”

As administrators investigated and questioned and castigated Rinderle, they communicated to her that there was “a revolt against you.” She wasn’t told about support from her students’ parents, although it was out there.

“My daughter was very worried about her teacher and suspected that all wasn’t well,” one parent said, “as it was not normal for Ms. Rinderle to miss consecutive days of school. “Emotionally, she was distraught when her class was informed by the school counselor that Ms. Rinderle was gone for good,” the parent said. “My daughter broke down in school and had to have a private session with the school counselor to work through her emotions. Ms. Rinderle’s class was one of the highlights of her school week. In her absence, my daughter described the class experience as ‘chaotic’ and ‘lacking direction.’ She no longer enjoyed it.”

Teacher turnover is known to be a problem for students, something that disrupts learning. Losing your excellent teacher under mysterious circumstances in the middle of a school year? That’s traumatic for kids. And then being told that your teacher was fired for teaching that it’s okay to be different? Well, that’s one way to ensure that LGBTQ+ kids stay deep in the closet, terrified, with serious mental health consequences.

What happened to Katie Rinderle is horrific, and she is rightly fighting her dismissal with the help of her union, the Georgia Association of Educators. It’s important to put it in the broader context—from the damage it does to kids and specifically LGBTQ+ kids to how this is part of a broader campaign against public education. Teachers are leaving the profession because they’re being called groomers and indoctrinators, because they fear parents' reactions to teaching about race in U.S. history, and because, “We are constantly being questioned by people who do not have degrees in education.” This is why the percentage of teachers who feel respected has plummeted over the past decade.

Republicans are passing laws that empower parents not just to say their own kids can’t read certain books but that those books have to be taken out of schools entirely. But again, in practice, it’s only some parents and some complaints (right-wing ones, to be specific) that wield that kind of power. This isn’t about one book or one teacher. In the relatively short time since the new wave of school censorship laws were passed, we’ve seen so many cases, like the 1998 Disney movie about Ruby Bridges removed from schools in Pinellas County, Florida, because of a parent complaint. A textbook company removed mentions of race from the Rosa Parks story after looking at the books being banned in Florida. The College Board backed down to Florida Gov. Ron DeSantis’ demands on an Advanced Placement African 

American Studies class, then realized it had emboldened a bully when he started coming for AP Psychology, too.

This is a right-wing effort to kill two birds with one stone: to weaken schools by painting them as sites of harm to children and driving teachers out of the profession, and to keep bigotry socially acceptable in this country and maintain a white, straight, conservative power structure as a natural state of affairs beyond questioning. While it’s partly a matter of convenience for Republicans, these things are truly linked. Public education as a public good, a place for all kids to be educated in ways that benefit our society and the nation as a whole, is served by inclusion and support. Done well, it does promote equality beyond the classroom. And that’s a key part of why it’s coming under such ferocious attack from the right.