#Metro Luxury Cars

[cycas]

HOW are those shitty cars. Young enough to not be rustbuckets, old enough to be mechanical rather than software-driven. Affordable! Reliable! Careful manufacturers, careful owners! With stereos and aircon!

If your bumper sticker says 'my other car is a 1985 Austen Metro in Crappy Red, it only has MW radio because FM was an option' THEN you have a shitty car.

debating if it would be funnier to have a bumper sticker saying "my other ride is a [exact make and model of the car the sticker is on]" or "my other ride is a [equally shitty but different car]"

[dtwdetroitcar]

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[hrrtshape]

insane, dream-like things that were normal in my better cr . . . in other words, what it was like being part of the 1%

i never carried cash : i didn��t need to. if i ever found myself in a situation where cash was required, idk, a farmer’s market or bribing someone, i’d just apple pay!?

i never waited for anything : reservations were booked months in advance. lines were always skipped. at clubs we just walked right in. theme parks? VIP passes only. i have never stood in a queue longer than 90 seconds in my life...or...in my better cr.

my closet was bigger than a new york apartment : and everything was colour-coded. yep. yep !!!

i never read price tags : not because i was being reckless, because i simply did not need to know. it was always fine.

if i wanted something, i got it : saw a dress in a magazine? had it by the next morning. craved a specific croissant from a bakery in paris? it was flown in. life had no delays.

luxury was so normal i had to actively remind myself it wasn’t : by the 13th day, i would have moments, small ones, where i’d be like, " wait, not everyone has their own perfume custom-blended by a french artisan? " and then i’d move on.

the ‘poor kid’ still had a trust fund. . . they just had less in it.

errands? what errands? dry cleaning, post office, buying toothpaste. these were not my problems.

skincare was medical : not just a ‘good moisturiser’ situation, i mean dermatologist-designed, prescription-only, lab-created serums. my facials involved lasers. my face was someone’s full-time job.

my mom had a florist on retainer : fresh-cut flowers appeared in my room like magic. i never asked for them. they just were.

celebrity run-ins were painfully normal : “oh yeah, we had dinner next to tilda swinton last night.” “who?” WHO?

we never parked our own cars : valet, always. i had a friend who didn’t even know how to use a parking metre.

there was no such thing as ‘saving up’. in those two weeks i never thought, “hmm, should i buy this now or wait till christmas when i get 50 euros from my grandma?” PFTTTTT.

everyone had a ‘family office’ : financial advisers, lawyers, accountants. my money was managed. someone in my school had three.

coffee orders were wildly specific : not ‘latte with oat milk’ specific. i mean custom-roasted beans, flown in from a single farm in costa rica, brewed at a precise temperature, delivered in a monogrammed cup.

doctors made house calls : i have not seen the inside of a waiting room. ever. feeling sick? someone arrived.

vacation homes weren’t a flex, they were a given : there’s the paris apartment (1st arrondissement, obviously), the villa in lake como, the chalet in gstaad. the only real estate question was, “are we summering in capri or st. barths?

your signature scent is impossible to buy : it’s either a discontinued hermès perfume from the ’70s that you miraculously still source, or a custom blend from a perfumer who only takes five clients a year.

flying commercial is a horror story, not an option : tsa? baggage claim? delays? these are foreign concepts. you had a netjets membership at the very least, but most likely, you have a family jet with an interior designed by someone who also did a yacht.

your tastebuds have standards : your daily coffee comes from a faema e61, your eggs are from a private farm, and your idea of a snack is burrata flown in from puglia that morning. did i mention my private school had michelin chefs?? yea.

you own art. like, real art : not prints. not posters. actual, museum-worthy pieces that are either inherited or sourced through galleries that don’t even have websites.

most people don’t know what anything costs : a gallon of milk? no idea. a metro ticket? couldn’t tell you. you swipe, tap, sign, and never check.

you don’t shop in stores like normal people : you go to private showrooms, have pieces sent to your home, or shop off-runway. waiting in line… horrendous.

i’ve had a ‘house account’ somewhere : a boutique, a jeweller, a tailor. places where you don’t pay on the spot, just ‘put it on the account’ and settle later.

i was taught how to eat properly : which fork for what course, how to use a butter knife, the correct way to hold a wine glass. it’s not something i learned. it’s something i absorbed from watching adults at endless dinners, benefits, and polo events.

i don’t remember learning how to ski or ride horses : because i was doing it before i was fully conscious. i have childhood photos in full equestrian gear, little skis strapped to my feet in gstaad or zermatt. it’s just something i always did.

an art education by osmosis : grew up hearing adults talk about rothko, basquiat, and duchamp in casual conversation. dragged to the louvre and the tate before i could even read. instinctively know the difference between an original and a print.

i have a family lawyer on retainer : and not because i ever committed a crime. they exist to handle things. NDAs, reputation management, keeping your name out of the papers. they know where the bodies are buried, metaphorically (or not).

most families’ wealth is so old and so layered in offshore accounts that even they don’t fully understand it : trust funds? sure, but also shell companies in the caymans, art holdings in geneva, real estate portfolios under LLCs. money isn’t in banks. it’s spread across continents.

most parents’ have had affairs with each other for decades, and it’s not even a scandal anymore : it’s just part of the ecosystem. marriages aren’t about love, they’re alliances. the wives turn a blind eye, the husbands keep it discreet, and the real betrayal is talking about it.

i’ve been name-dropped in a deposition : it was a divorce case. i was never involved, but my name was adjacent to power, so it got dragged in. the case was settled out of court, of course.

most families has multiple passports : not for fun, not for aesthetics. because sometimes you need an exit strategy. a villa in capri, a château in france, a penthouse in dubai. doors are always open, should you ever need to disappear.

i’ve seen actual generational feuds play out in real time : my parents have enemies. their parents had enemies. the grudges go back decades, and nobody even remembers what started it.

i grew up around people who have gotten away with actual crimes : white-collar, mostly. insider trading, fraud, tax evasion. but sometimes things darker. people go to rehab, people “retire early,” people take extended trips to monaco until things cool down.

i’ve seen billionaires (and their kids) break down over the pettiest things : a bad seat at a gala, a misplaced monogram on their jet, a slight from someone whose family has less money than theirs. the richer they are, the more fragile they get.

my family has a pr strategy : this is largely because my mom is a ceo of a billion dollar company. and everything is managed. what photos are released, what stories are planted, which journalists are “friendly.” nothing is random.

i know that philanthropy is often just money laundering with better optics : charities set up for tax reasons, “foundations” that quietly funnel wealth back into the family, billionaire donations that conveniently coincide with favourable legislation.

i’ve seen people lose their fortunes overnight : one wrong deal, one lawsuit, one scandal that sticks, and suddenly, the private jets are getting repossessed. the real old money…they watch from a distance. they never risk everything.

i know that some billionaires don’t actually have liquid cash : they’re over-leveraged, playing financial gymnastics with their own net worth. yachts, art, mansions. but the second they need actual money? suddenly, things get complicated. this is why everyone in my school donated possessions instead of actual money.

met people who don’t own their clothes : couture is loaned, jewellery is borrowed, yachts are rented to themselves through shell companies. it’s all about optics. they don’t need to own when they can access.

heard rich kids joke about things that would make normal people physically ill : laughing about tax evasion, casually mentioning private rehabs like summer camp, making bets on stocks that could ruin lives.

met billionaires who are bored of being rich : the thrill is gone. the yachts, the jets, the parties. it’s routine. they start chasing danger. high-stakes gambling, extreme sports, secret societies. anything to feel something.

[mintmatcha]

Inevitable Things: chapter six

Aizawa x reader fic

cw: cisfem reader, no quirks, office au, miscommunications, slow burn. full tags available on AO3 (linked in masterlist)

previous chapter | masterlist | next chapter

Fridays are also the only day where you don’t go directly home after work. Instead of catching the late night Orange line, you snag the Blue and take it down, down, down, right out of the city and it’s the almost surreal serenity of the suburbs. Street lights and cars turn into trees as the sun dips low. Only the ambient sounds of your music and the wheels on the tracks keep you company as you pass familiar stops, all the way to the end of the line.

From there, you walk: down the dark sidewalks, across the one lane roads, stopping only in the little diner along the way. It’s hours later when you finally make it to the doorstep. Before you can knock, the door is ripped open.

“You’re late.” The shortest woman you’ve ever seen stands there, hands on her hips and glasses shoved to the top of her nose bridge. Her scrubs are baggy, but clean, with the name of her service stitched on the pocket: UA Palliative. “I thought you were hit by a car.”

“Sorry, sorry.” you try to laugh her concerns off.

“And you’re sweaty.” Nurse Chiyo clicks her tongue at you as she hands you a face mask. “You should really let him send a car.”

A car would be faster, but you can’t justify someone footing that bill when your metro card has money on it. “The exercise is good for me.”

The woman scrunches her face and gestures to the bag you’re holding. The bottom of the brown paper is practically see through with grease. In the other, you have two styrofoam cups, taken from the diner down the road. “And that food is good for you too?”

“It’s a friday treat.”

“Just don’t feel bad if he’s not hungry,” she sighs with the weight of someone who knows. “Towards the end, the appetite tends to dwindle.”

You slip on your face mask and slip off your shoes. Toshinori Yagi’s home drips with old money; subtle detailing mixed with hints of extravagance, it's the air of wealth with none of the gaudiness. The halls are sparsely decorated, only the occasional artwork and statue to keep you company as you walk to the back of the home, past the luxurious, yet almost never used kitchen and through the abandoned living room. There, in the middle of it all, hangs an oversized picture of Yagi back in his acting days.

If it was anyone else, it might seem egotistical, but the man on the wall might as well be a completely different man, a Yagi from another universe. Bound solely in brightly colored latex, this Yagi grins ear to ear, flexing an obscenely thick bicep for the camera. The Hollywood cameras and actors are a blur in the background. It’s from the set of his first All Might movie-- the one you’ve seen hundreds of times. The longer you stare, the more jagging it is. At 55, Yagi is twice the man that he was in his twenties, but a quarter of the size. All of the important pieces are there -his smile, his laugh, his energy- but there’s a part of him, always locked away in a time where this picture was taken.

You press on into the study. This room is a stark contrast from the rest of the house; it’s cluttered, all flat surfaces stacked with magazines and printed articles. Coloring pages litter the floor, in between broken crayons and pencils.

In between it all is a stick of a man, dirty blonde hair buzzed short enough you can see the shape of his skull. He’s pouring himself over some reading, tired eyes tracing the page with a monotonous haze. He’s lost weight again; you can see it in the sharp dip of his cheeks.

“Happy Friday.” You rap on the door frame and he jolts up in surprise. Hand over heart, he laughs in delight, even though he knew you were coming. “How are you?”

“I thought-” He inhales. You can’t remember all of the details of what’s happened to him, but you know one of his lungs is practically nonfunctional and the other struggles keeping up. “You’d be celebrating your birthday.”

“You remembered.”

“Of course.” He pushes up to stand, but you wave him back down. “You should be. Out with friends.”

“I’m happy where I am, sir.” You place everything on the table in front of him and then retreat to your side, your drink still in hand. Once you’re far enough away - six feet- you take off your mask. “Chocolate Peanut Butter shake and extra crispy fries, just for you.”

It’s his favorite. No, it doesn’t have the nutrition he should be getting, but… well, he’s going to die no matter what. Let the man have a fucking milkshake. He takes it in both hands, like he’s cradling an award or a piece of gold.

The first time cancer struck him, Toshinori Yagi decided to leave acting and do something with his money. He didn’t have a family to take care of -- and his sister is independently wealthy-- so he invested in medical technology. He hired a team that knew better than him, put some of them through school, and grew a rather successful business from the ground up, no formal training of his own. Now, ironically enough, he’s wealthier than ever, and still pouring it into product development.

“You do too much.” He picks the darkest fry of the group and crunches down on it.

It’s the least you can do. Isolation is taxing; you don’t mind sacrificing a bit of time and $19.76 for a quick meeting and meal. You settle down in your usual spot- a fluffy velvet chair in the corner of the room- and take a long sip from your own drink.

“How are things with Shouta?”

You choke so hard it goes up your nose. How did he know? Did the interns figure it out and pass along the word to the whole office? How are you going to explain to your boss that you’ve sexted his colleague? Or did Aizawa tell him? Oh, what if he shared those pictures--

“Wh-what about him?”

Yagi gives you a strange, tired look, brow knitted with a kind concern. “You called me- about his employee?”

You physically sigh with relief; no one knows. Everything is good; you need to stop panicking. Aizawa won’t share the pictures; it’d ruin his career faster than it’d ruin yours. Besides, he’s apparently embarrassed of you, so why would he even show you off? “Oh, well, everything’s good. Kaminari is back in the office.”

Your boss chews a single fry for a long while. A melancholic twang stirs inside you. No, you haven’t known him as long as some people, but over the years you’ve gotten attached. He’s a fair man, a good one too. Watching him waste is… it’s hard. Plain and simple. On the books, you say that you visit for work, but it’s honestly a social call, something to quell your worries.

“He wasn’t very happy when-- I called,” Yagi draws in from his nasal tube as he talks sometimes and it cuts his words short.

“Yeah, I know.” That’s an understatement. You chew on your straw as you try to decide how to respond. “Aizawa had some choice words for me afterwards.

The look on Yagi’s face tells you that he already knew that. Word always makes it back to the big boss one way or another; even sick, he always has his fingers in every pie.

“Don’t let him-” He runs out of breath in a weird spot. “Push you around. He’s a strong personality.”

That’s an understatement too. You wish you could stomp your feet and demand for his removal, but unfortunately Aizawa is very, very good at his job. Besides, you don’t especially want him fired. Maybe just… a series of paper cuts everyday for the rest of his life. Or that his train never comes on time. Nothing serious.

“Trust me- I won’t.” You throw an arm up and flex. “I can put up a fight.”

“No fighting.” The man tries to give you a stern look, but it just looks a bit silly. As demanding as it sounds, it's like being scolded by a grandfather; there’s too much affection between you for anything to feel threatening. “Don’t wage any wars in my office.”

“No promises!” you tease. “Ready to go over reports?”

He smiles back, those hollow cheeks pulling into tiny apples. “Of course.”

…

It’s late when you finally make it home. Yagi had forced you into a car, calling it a birthday gift, and the drive was long and quiet. The driver turned on some soft music, songs with the tinkle of piano, and you almost dozed off by the time he rolled into your apartment complex.

You kick your heels off and strip out of your work clothes as you enter your apartment, letting everything stay where it falls. In the wake of Touya, your place is pretty much empty, with the carpet still pressed in spots where lamps and tables used to be and a jammed lock that won’t click closed. The less time you spend here, the better. You throw yourself onto the couch -something too big to take, apparently- and flick on the television. The usual mindless garbage you like is already on; perfect background noise as you play on your phone.

There’s nothing super new going on. Couple of group chat notifications. Nemuri had texted you to check in-- so did Hizashi. And-

Aizawa’s unopened messages stare at you. There’s no reason to read those texts, right? It’s just mindless sex talk. In fact, he probably doesn’t want you to ever see those texts again.

…Unless he said something important. Maybe he had told you to play dumb at work! Oh, that would open its own can of worms, but at least it would explain why he said to forget everything-

Wait, that wouldn’t make sense. You two were alone at that point. He could have been normal or said something like ‘wow, love your tits!’ or--

Ugh. He wouldn’t say that! Ugh!

You pull on your messaging app again. You need to get this over with.

-> I bet you looked so pretty when you came.

The preview still makes your skin prick with unwanted excitement. The lust nipping at your ankles isn’t easy to ignore as you tap the button and open the conversation. The immediate visage of your words, your drunken musings and flirtations, makes you physically cringe. Luckily, the new messages take up enough space to keep you from seeing your own nude visage.

The first response hits you like a truck.

-> Do you have any idea what I’d do to lick your fingers clean? What I’d do to smell your perfume on your skin?

The thrum of your heartbeat goes funny for just a flash of a moment and you have to shake off any semblance of arousal. No-- you do not like this. There’s absolutely nothing sexy about that thought! You don’t want the warmth of his tongue or the tickle of his breath against your pulse point, or that little bit of scruff against your lips-

The video is below the first message. It’s paused on an out of focus still, but you can make out the golden touched skin of his stomach and the blur of hand. Heat flickers in your core at that, but you tense your legs and try to ignore it.

Get yourself together. It’s just a fucking jerk off video. You scroll right by it.

-> Look at what you do to me. It’s all for you.

There’s a couple of minutes between that text and the final one.

- >I think you fell asleep. Talk in the AM.

And… that’s it. Nothing else.

That told you nothing, other than the fact that Aizawa Shouta is just like any other man: a horny freak. A sexy, amazing texter of a freak, but still a freak regardless! When you move, you can feel the wetness between your legs spread against your pussy lips.

You turn over and try to focus on the medical drama that’s onscreen. Ugh. Ugh! You're over this man and his fucking bipolar attitude and his work bullshit and his, his, his….

The click on the wall ticks away.

His kind of alluring demeanor.

You turn back to your phone. Maybe the video has an answer. Yeah.

The volume on your phone thrums with audio, low and deep, when you click the image. It takes you a second to realize it’s a groan- unabashed and loud- and you swear it resonates deep down into your own lungs.

This video is aimed a bit higher than the other and is shot from farther away, probably resting on a desk from the looks of it. It feels silly that you ever confused him with Touya. Shirt clutched between his teeth, Aizawa’s skin is a deeper color, completely untattooed, and his chest is filled out with weight. A broad, thick hand is white knuckle tight around his cock, glazed and dripping with wetness. It’s thick, oh god, it’s thick, and he’s holding it so tightly that it must hurt. Your jaw aches at the sight of it. Everything about him is wide//, from his cock to his thighs to his slightly soft middle.

A bead of precum rolls from his tip as he slowly drags his hand up and back down. His entire body jumps and twitches with the sensation, a red blush tickling down his chest and another moan on his lips, muffled by the fabric of his black shirt. He makes the same sound again, this one softer, almost affectionate--

And you realize something that feels like a punch to the gut.

He’s saying your name.

Heat flushes your body. Oh, you can barely breathe out of fear you’ll miss something. With a high, tight sound, Aizawa’s body goes stiff, but his cock kicks as he comes undone. Spend splatters down his chest and onto his black shirt, pearl string after pearl string. Just like everything about him, it’s too much.

And then the video ends.

You digest this for a long moment. Then, you watch it again. And a third time.

There's a tremor in your hands as you put your phone down. Okay, that didn't give you any information, but it- well-

Fuck, it was hot. Really fucking hot. Unfortunately, terribly, awfully, horrendously hot. You want to scream and kick and rub your clit just a little, because all you need is a little friction and you'll cum for him again--

No. You can't give that victory to him, not again. Even if Aizawa will never know about it, the universe will.

You grip the remote and turn up the television's audio, trying to shift your focus on to the interpersonal drama on the screen. You’re stronger than this. The little thing between your legs does not dictate your behavior!

You don’t jack off that night.

Or the following night.

Or the following.

No, you resist. You punish yourself for even entertaining the idea of cumming to the idea of him again.

Monday morning you are unsurprisingly cranky when you settle into your desk. Kicking off your shoes and booting up your computer, you stretch in your chair and try to pop the kink in your shoulder. Thirty must be catching up with you, because you didn’t sleep well all weekend. Every muscle in your back is bunched, but the little bits of movements seems to be helping-

“Jesus fucking christ, I'm sweating through my fucking shirt.”

Bakugo's accent slips out as he gripes, pulling his shirt collar away from his neck as he walks. It’s easy to forget that he and Izuku grew up in the same hometown, but when he’s genuinely pissed, that homecooked Southern twang comes out. You look up to see what's gotten him so aggravated before nine. Sweat dampens his hair and glitters his skin. Oh, and he's right, that white shirt is absolutely clinging to his middle, into that tight, tiny, toned, slutty little waist of his--

Oh, god. You slam your foot into the edge on your desk in hopes the pain douses whatever horny monster had overtaken you. Is this just life now? Practically drooling over every man with a pulse? Bakugo Katsuki is gay and very much not your type-

“You okay?” Izuku gives an awkward laugh. He and Denki are apparently right behind Bakugo, equally worn. Well, almost equally. Denki doesn't seem to be sweaty at all, despite his puffing. “You're like, making this weird face.”

Shit. Quick-- lie. “Cramps.”

“Damn, hate that,” Kaminari grips his stomach in sympathy. The other guys share an uncomfortable glance.

“So-” You change the topic. “Why are you guys..?”

“The elevator is shot.” Bakugo hooks a thumb behind him towards the stairs. “Had to carry this fuck ass bed up to the fifth floor for that meeting today.”

The investor meeting: even though Toshinori Yagi is wealthy, the newest bed prototype still needed outside funding. These fine millionaires require occasional proof that their money is being used well, so once a quarter they get jammed into the nicest room in the building and get a rather boring lecture from the important department heads. You usually sit in and try not to nod off when Enji starts in with the accounting information.

“The entire elevator?” You lean back in your chair and try to see. Sure enough, some technician is fumbling away at the buttons. “No one tell the ADA.”

“Actually, the ADA is a law, not a governing body,” Izuku chirps. “It's enforced by the DOJ, EEOC, and, oddly enough, the DOT-”

“How do you know this shit?” Denki says.

“Healthy curiosity,” Izuku tries to say.

“‘cause he's a fucking genius.” Bakugo says at the same time, louder and more confident. “Using that big head of his all the time.”

Izuku touches his temples with a concerned frown. “You think my head is big?”

“Massive.” Bakugo elbows his lover, all saccharine smiles. “It works for me though.”

Kaminari snorts and the other blonde throws him an icy glare.

“What? You gonna make a joke about massive head?”

Kaminari throws his hands in the air and rolls his eyes, surprisingly annoyed at the jab. “I was going to joke about his head working for you, but whatever! Ruin my fun.”

“As much as I love head jokes-” you interject. “I do need to get work done.”

Kaminari turns to you with the sweetest of smiles, so syrupy that everyone else recoils a bit with suspicion. “Like what?”

“Getting everyone’s powerpoints together, printing out our reports, putting those reports into actual human words and not engineering garbage, greeting our guests-- blah, blah, blah.” Just talking about it makes your head ache. “Plus the other daily reports and---- Kaminari, no.”

“You don’t even know what I was going to ask!”

“You were going to ask me to do your work again!” you say.

“Come on, please?” He puffs his bottom lip out like a kicked dog. “I have to leave early this week and -”

“Denki, you’re so fucking stupid.” Bakugo groans. He starts to leave and the other two follow behind. “I'm too tired for your shit today.”

“There’s a gay joke hidden in there.”

“I'm going to report you to fucking HR.”

“See you at lunch?” Izuku asks from over his shoulder. You shake your head-- you’ll probably just sneak one of the forgotten italian ice cups from the freezer when no one’s working. There’s so much to do and not quite enough time.

--

You’re solving that little frozen treat into your mouth when Aizawa makes his appearance. It’s strange to see him so late in the day; pure embarrassment must be keeping him away. His usual sunny yellow sweatshirt means you can’t even pretend not to see him when he rounds the corner.

Aizawa is as he always is; a bit scruffy and properly annoyed. His expression is neutral, if not a bit sour, but the crinkle in his brow is tighter than ever. The bunch to his shoulders only gets higher when he spots you.

This is really the guy that's been tearing you apart? Really? Why couldn't you have fallen for Hizashi or Enji or-- anyone else that isn't wearing a neon hoodie in the office.

“You should really take a proper lunch.” Those deep bags under his eyes are darker than usual, almost purple; he must be drained, but he’s been avoiding the coffee machine. A twang of sympathy hits you-- lack of caffeine might actually kill the guy.

When he walks towards you, you're reminded of how pretty he is, even without proper sleep. High cheekbones, smooth olive tone skin-

Your fighting spirit almost fades, but the post it note taped to your monitor catches your eye. Be mean. Yes, that's right.

“Well, uh. What do you want?” Your tone is a bit snappy.

His eyebrows twitch up in momentary surprise, but Aizawa recovers quickly.

“The elevator won’t be fixed until tomorrow.” He raps his knuckles against the wood once. “Move the investor’s meeting from the top floor.”

“Say please.”

Aizawa is half turned and midstride when he realizes what you said. He looks back at you, brow knit.

“Excuse me?”

“I said.” You hit the spacebar with a bit too much force. “Say please.”

“I-” You expect him to fight or argue, but he just sighs, hands on his hips in defeat. “You're right. I'm sorry, I shouldn't demand things. Can you please move the investor’s meeting from the top floor down to the ground floor? Thank you.”

That was more sincere than you expected. Your stiff upper lip almost wobbles. Almost.

“No.”

He gives you the most deadpan stare you’ve ever seen. “What do you mean, no?”

“I said no.” You push back from the desk and let your wheeled chair roll away. “There’s no reason to move it. The room upstairs is already set up for the meeting-- full demo bed included. I’m not moving everything.”

A muscle tightens in his jaw. Seems like that good attitude is on a short fuse. “There's a second demo. I'll have the boys wheel it into the meeting room on this floor-”

“It’s a less finished model though, right?”

“That's…” Aizawa huffs. You know you’re right and so does he. “Yes. Sure. A less complete model, but it’s still leagues ahead of what they saw last time- ”

“We shouldn’t use it.” You have no right bossing him around, but you try to embody Bakugo and his cunt-like behavior. “They are going to see the best we have to offer. Besides, the fifth floor meeting room is bigger and nicer-- and it's already set up.”

“I-” He leans forward, arms crossed on to your desk. It’s not threatening, but rather humble, as he meets your eye. The silver healed skin of his scar catches the light differently than the rest of his face. “It’s four full flights of stairs.”

“And you can walk.”

A beat passes. Then another. Aizawa stares at you, dark eyes hooded with exhaustion.

“I have never, ever thought of you as a cruel person.” He doesn’t blink the entire time he speaks, deep, endless black eyes boring into yours. “But time and time again, you show me that side of you. “Well-” You don’t blink either. “I’ve always thought you were awful.

“Fuck you,” he grits out, quiet but with an edge. His lips are curled so high you can see his gum line.

You should let it die here. Let him walk away. Escape with your dignity.

But your teeth and tongue are sharp, and the look on his face is only sharpening their edges, so follow the instinct and go in for the kill. As you stand, you lean on to your hands and push yourself face to face to Aizawa. Unabashed, unafraid, unblinking.

“You wish you could.”

His face collapses. Then, it hardens again, even tighter and more disgusted than usual. The flat ridge of his nose is crinkled with a snarl, eyes narrowed so thin they're practically closed. When he pushes away to stand, Aizawa jams his hands into his sweatshirt and flexes his jaw, up and down like he's chewing on every insult and curse he wants to throw your way. He opens his mouth to speak, then closes it again with a deep exhale.

“Fine.” He says through closed teeth. “Fifth fucking floor.’

And with that, he turns and marches off back down the hall.

By the time you breathe again, you realize your hands are quaking. The adrenaline is still pumping through your veins, rushing your heart faster and faster. This must be how a marathon runner feels when they cross the finish line-- because this is victory.

Sorry, Yagi. War has been waged.

You did say no promises.

[damiansgoodgirll]

Jude x reader where he buys reader a birthday gift and reader REALLY doesn’t like him spending money on her and her reaction isn’t the greatest and jude gets all pouty until he sees her wearing it one day.☺️

jude bellingham x reader

spoiling you

you weren’t used to the fancy lifestyle your boyfriend jude was used too. you were a normal girl, grew up with a normal life, normal friends and your parents had normal jobs. you learnt how to appreciate the small things you had and, the high cost of living nowadays, the value of money and how money weren’t everything but, for some people were everything and more.

you were born in a normal town, not a big city like jude was, you weren’t used to the way people would dress in big cities and how they would show off their expensive cars and outfits. not only you weren’t used to that, you simply didn’t care.

jude learnt how you preferred a box of chocolates instead of a box of jewels, the way your smile shined everytime he got you a new book instead of a new expensive bag, how you preferred home cooked meal instead of spending thousands of money in a fancy restaurant, how you didn’t care about taking the metro or the bus instead of having a private driver.

but, deep down, he wanted to spoil you in more ways and what better occasion or your big birthday?

he had everything in mind. he saw a beautiful chanel bag, classy and elegant just how you were to him and he decided to gift you that. but when he walked into the store he also saw a beautiful chanel bracelet that would go amazing with your outfits and he decided to add that too at the gift.

he thought it wasn’t enough though, he wanted to spoil you with more than a bag and a bracelet. he wanted you to see how it really felt being able to have luxurious things. so he decided to match everything with a diamonds necklace, a very expensive one.

he put everything in a white bag so you wouldn’t suspect anything.

and when the party was over and it was only the two of you, that was when he decided to give you your gift.

“happy birthday love” he smiled as he handed you the bag.

“jude…we talked about this” you said.

“i know i know, but i wanted to give you something anyway” he teased “come on, open it” he said as you were both sitting on the couch.

your expression was between shocked and confused when you saw two chanel boxes and a tiffany one.

“jude? what is this?” you asked him, a little confused.

“your birthday gift! come on, open them, you’re gonna loved them” he was so happy and excited that you couldn’t say no to that face.

he was right - you liked the bag, the bracelet and the necklace, you only thought it was too much for you.

“jude i - i don’t know what to say…this is too much, like way too much, you shouldn’t have…” you said.

not the reaction he wanted but the reaction he was expecting.

“i know…i just wanted to spoil you, you never let me spoil you so i used your birthday as an excuse” he explained, looking at you with his big puppy eyes “if you don’t like them i can always return them…”

“what? jude i love them, all of this…it’s just…i didn’t expect it. you spoil me every single day, with your love and the things you do for me, that’s enough for me because i love you…” you said smiling at him.

“i love you too…” he kissed your lips “and i know you’re gonna find an occasion to wear those” he whispered and you nodded, too lost in his big eyes.

and the occasion came only two days after your birthday party. you were both invited to a business dinner and for the first time in your life, you thought about wearing those expensive things that jude got you for your birthday.

the moment he saw you coming down from the stairs wearing a beautiful long dress, hi heels, the black chanel bag he got you, the bracelet wrapped around your wrist and the necklace falling right into your cleavage, he thought he died and came back. you looked stunning and he fell in love with you more and more.

[1americanconservative]

A storm in the Arab world:

* The Muslim blogger, Hoda Jannat, is shocked by what she has learned about Gaza since the war began. *

In a bold post, she describes what she has learned from the war process and reveals the good and comfortable life Gaza residents and Hamas leaders practiced thanks to the consideration of israel

The post exposes the hypocrisy of the Hamas organization, the so-called condition of the Gazans was so bad before the war,

And this is how she advertises:

1. Suddenly we discovered that in the Gaza strip, where 2 million people live, there are 36 hospitals. There are Arab countries with a population of 30 million that don't have so many hospitals.

2. Surprisingly, we found out that Gaza receives free water, electricity, gas and fuel from Israel. Of course, there is not one Arab citizen anywhere else in the world who does not pay for water, electricity and fuel.

3. Suddenly we discovered that Gaza receives 30 million dollars a month only from Qatar. And $120 million a month from the UNRA. And 50 million dollars a month from the European Union. And 30 million dollars a month from America. There are Arab countries drowning in debt and can't find anyone who can give them even a million dollars.

4. Suddenly we discovered that there is no "siege" on Gaza and all the goods are flowing there and the borders are open. The Gazans traveled to Egypt and from there around the world.

5. Unexpectedly, we discovered that Arabs live better in Gaza than in many Arab countries.

6. Suddenly we discovered that our brains have been programmed by the lies of the media of the Muslim brothers.

7. Suddenly we discovered that the children in Gaza are not children as we usually imagine as children, but children of terrorists with artillery and suicidal belts who have been specially trained by Hamas.

8. Suddenly we discovered that the schools, hospitals and mosques in Gaza are organized terror headquarters and ammunition warehouses with Hamas underground tunnels.

9. Suddenly we discovered that in Gaza there is an underground Hamas "metro" that stretches over 500 km, that Israel can only envy.

10. Suddenly we discovered that the so-called doctors and teachers in Gaza turned out to be active Hamas terrorists.

11. Suddenly we discovered that rockets and mortars are held in children's rooms in Gaza.

12. Suddenly we discovered that Hitler and his book "Main Campf" were very popular in Gaza, and the translation into Arabic was in almost every home in Gaza, or a portrait of the author.

13. Suddenly we discovered that the Gazans live a luxury life, with multi-storey mansions with swimming pools and premium German cars.

14. Suddenly we discovered that there is no Israeli siege in Gaza because it still bordered by its Muslim sister Egypt.

15. Suddenly we discovered that most of the "citizens" in Gaza support Hamas and other terrorist groups, voted for Hamas in democratic elections and celebrated the massacre on October 7th.

16. We suddenly discovered that so-called reporters and journalists in Gaza working for western media CNN, AP, Reuters and others turned out to be Hamas terrorists who participated in the massacre on October 7.

17. Suddenly we have discovered that the so called 'peace activists' and 'ICO workers' of the UN, Red Cross and WHO, have turned out to be Hamas terrorists and corrupt.

18. Suddenly, we have discovered that each of the Hamas leaders is a billionaire and richer than President Trump, with a net worth of $4-5 billion each.

In conclusion, the Muslim blogger revealed the mask of hypocrisy of Hamas in Gaza in a series of tweets that shook the Arab world.

https://twitter.com/oliaklein/status/1739171908636029154...

[maestrita]

Some context on the LA fires

I'm seeing a lot of non-California people make shitty comments about million dollar mansions and how they have no sympathy for those rich people, and I'd like to clarify something. The average home price for a regular-ass house in the LA metro area is just shy of a million dollars. I live in a regular-ass starter house in the suburbs, with a very small yard in a working-class neighborhood. My grandmother bought it over 50 years ago because the family couldn't afford to stay in New York anymore and California was cheap back then. What she paid for it back then would buy a nice car today (but not a luxury car). As of January of last year, it was supposedly worth around $900,000 *and* that was accounting for a lot of serious work that was needed (asbestos remediation, bathrooms needed to be gutted, 50+ year old carpet needed replacing, etc). Many of the homes in my neighborhood are occupied by families like mine - they've been here forever, or they're the kids of people who have and who would never have been able to *buy* out here nowadays. Yes, some people are fabulously wealthy and losing vacation palaces, but many of the neighborhoods that are burning are also full of regular-ass people, and the remains of a lot of older, working-class neighborhoods are probably about to be bought out by predatory developers for pennies on the dollar.

People I know who have evacuated or been standing ready to do so include a hairdresser, a port worker, a librarian, someone who works in the sewers, and some very *not rich* behind the scenes creative types.

Edit: I double-checked the paperwork and in 1972, this house cost significantly less than a 2023 Toyota Tacoma.

[msternberg]

Arab blogger Hoda Jannat (Hoda_jannat) felt that something is not right in the news she is being fed by the media. So she set herself for a real fact-checking mission. And here are the results, translated from Arabic:

1.Suddenly we discovered that Gaza, which is inhabited by 2 million people… has 36 hospitals,” Jannat wrote.

“There are Arab countries with 30 million citizens and do not have this number of hospitals.

2.Suddenly we discovered that Gaza was getting water, electricity, gas, and fuel for free from Israel.

Of course, there is no Arab citizen who does not pay water, electricity and fuel bills.

3.Suddenly we discovered that Gaza was receiving $30 million a month from Qatar alone, and $120 million a month from UNRWA, and $50 million a month from the European Union, and 30 million dollars a month from America. There are Arab countries drowning in debt and cannot find anyone to help them, even with one million dollars.

4.Suddenly we discovered that Gaza was not besieged, and all goods were entering it, as were foreigners and people of foreign nationalities. Its residents were traveling to Egypt and from there to the rest of the world, and Fafo is the biggest example.

5.Suddenly we discovered that Gaza was living better than many Arab countries…and its people were living better than many Arab peoples.

6.Suddenly…we discovered that our minds were besieged by a programmed lie…by the (Muslim) Brotherhood media.”

7. Suddenly we discovered that the children in Gaza are not children as we usually think, but children of terrorists with machine guns and suicide belts who underwent special training by Hamas.

8. Suddenly we discovered that the schools, hospitals, and mosques in Gaza are organized terror headquarters and ammunition warehouses with Hamas’ underground tunnels.

9. Suddenly we discovered that in Gaza there is an underground “metro” of Hamas that stretches for 500 km, which Israel can only envy.

10. Suddenly we discovered that the supposedly doctors and teachers in Gaza turned out to be active Hamas terrorists.

11. Suddenly we discovered that rockets and mortars are kept in children’s rooms in Gaza homes.

12. Suddenly we discovered that Hitler and his book “Mein Kampf” were very popular in Gaza, and its translation into Arabic was in almost every home in Gaza, or a portrait of the author.

13. Suddenly we discovered that Gazans live a life of luxury, with multi-story mansions with swimming pools and premium German cars.

14. Suddenly we discovered that there is no Israeli siege on Gaza because it still borders its Muslim sister Egypt.

15. Suddenly we discovered that most of the “citizens” in Gaza support Hamas and other terrorist groups, elected Hamas in democratic elections, and celebrated the massacre on October 7th.

16. Suddenly we discovered that what is called journalists in Gaza who work for Western media like CNN, AP, Reuters, and others turned out to be Hamas terrorists who participated in the massacre on October 7th.

17. Suddenly we discovered that what is called ‘peace activists’ and ‘workers of international human rights organizations’ of the UN, the Red Cross, and WHO, turned out to be terrorists and corrupt people of Hamas.

18. Suddenly we discovered that each of the leaders of Hamas is a billionaire and richer than President Trump, with a net worth of 4-5 billion dollars each.

[aurinkos-toybox]

subway

dolls aren't allowed to control or manipulate any "thing" larger than themselves.

our doll took trains often. a city as big as this one, many errands forced it to spend time navigating the labyrinth of transportation maps afforded to it. after a while, the most common errands became second nature, as did the metro rides that facilitated them: down the stairs, swipe at the turnstile, wait at the platform, board, wait, de-board, exit at the turnstile, up the stairs, and onward.

spending time on the train was a gentle respite for our doll. it saw a world, vast and colorful, it wished to explore someday. strange buildings and rolling hills, signs pointing to a million different lives possible for the city's other inhabitants. an urge to jump out wherever she pleased to explore, even for a few minutes or an hour if it felt brave, had to be latently suppressed each trip.

it's stop had arrived. out of the metro car, down the stairs our doll went - crisscrossing other travelers on their way out of the platform. this was one of it's usual trips - an errand to obtain a new chess set, a pair of French candles, a half-dozen package of tinned fish, a luxury notebook with a proprietary typeface - to a familiar vendor. the shop's owner recognized the doll, sometimes slipping a thank-you note alongside homemade chocolate samples after ringing up it's shopping list.

the bag was heavy on the doll. before stepping back towards the platform, it hesitated: the weather was unusually sunny, gentle rays of light shining down on a park designed alongside the multi-story row of shops that felt like a third or fourth home to our doll. and so it spent a few minutes sitting down on the grassy knoll, enjoying the chocolate and stuffing the shopkeeper's note into it's blouse pocket. a row of orange colored bikes stood in a rack at the park's entrance, free to use with a deposit refunded when the bike was returned from use. it sighed, gazing out further into the horizon to acres of park yet to be explored.

dolls aren't allowed to control or manipulate any "thing" larger than themselves.

[stlivingla]

Townhouses for rent with parking in Koreatown

Finding the perfect rental property can be challenging, especially in bustling areas like Los Angeles. However, Stlivingla makes it easier for you with its premium townhouses for rent with parking in Koreatown. Offering modern amenities and convenient access to everything Koreatown has to offer, these townhouses are perfect for families, professionals, and anyone looking for a blend of comfort and urban living.

Why Choose Townhouses in Koreatown? Koreatown, or "K-Town," is a vibrant neighborhood in Los Angeles, known for its cultural diversity, dynamic lifestyle, and excellent connectivity. Choosing a townhouse here comes with numerous benefits:

Prime Location Koreatown’s central location makes it easy to commute to nearby areas like Downtown LA, Hollywood, and Beverly Hills. It’s a perfect place for professionals and families who want the convenience of being near the city’s best amenities.

Parking Convenience Parking in Los Angeles can be a headache, but Stlivingla’s townhouses come with dedicated parking spaces, saving you from the daily stress of finding parking spots. Whether you own one car or multiple, these townhouses cater to your needs.

Modern Lifestyle and Amenities Stlivingla ensures that the townhouses offer everything a modern renter desires, including spacious interiors, updated kitchens, and community features like landscaped gardens and recreational spaces.

Access to Entertainment and Dining Koreatown is a foodie’s paradise and entertainment hub. From world-famous Korean BBQ spots to trendy cafes and karaoke lounges, there’s never a dull moment in this lively neighborhood.

Features of Stlivingla’s Townhouses Here’s what sets Stlivingla’s properties apart:

Spacious Floor Plans The townhouses are designed with comfort and functionality in mind. They feature open layouts, multiple bedrooms, and ample storage, making them ideal for families or roommates.

Private Parking Facilities Dedicated parking spaces are a game-changer for anyone living in Los Angeles. Stlivingla ensures that all its townhouses include secure and convenient parking for residents.

Modern Interiors Enjoy updated kitchens with modern appliances, stylish bathrooms, and energy-efficient lighting. These townhouses are designed to provide a luxurious yet cozy living experience.

Pet-Friendly Options Stlivingla understands the importance of pets in your family. Many of their properties are pet-friendly, ensuring that your furry friends feel at home too.

Proximity to Public Transportation For those who prefer public transit, Koreatown offers excellent connectivity with metro lines and bus routes.

Benefits of Renting with Stlivingla Exceptional Customer Service: Stlivingla is committed to providing a seamless rental experience with quick responses to inquiries and maintenance requests. Flexibility in Leasing: Choose from flexible lease terms that fit your needs. Transparent Pricing: No hidden fees—everything is upfront and straightforward. Explore Koreatown Living in Koreatown is an experience like no other. From bustling nightlife to serene parks and a strong sense of community, this neighborhood offers the perfect blend of urban and residential living.

Nearby attractions include:

Wiltern Theatre for live music and performances Koreatown Plaza for shopping and dining Hancock Park for outdoor activities How to Rent a Townhouse with Parking in Koreatown Getting started is easy. Browse available properties on Stlivingla’s website or contact their team directly for personalized assistance. Their experts will help you find a townhouse that fits your lifestyle and budget.

Conclusion When it comes to townhouses for rent with parking in Koreatown, Stlivingla offers unmatched quality and convenience. With prime locations, modern amenities, and dedicated parking, these townhouses provide the ultimate living experience in Los Angeles.

[mayra-quijotescx]

Made it to and from the gallery on public transportation today, proving to myself It Can Be Done and I am a Strong and Independent Possum Who Need Not Get In A Car.

And I am satisfied with the knowledge that I can do this and it's only (i know, i know) like 2.5-3 hours out of that day.

but good lord.

(whining under the readmore)

Every step of the journey felt like a goddamn song by Muse from the aughts with how unsubtly and copiously it beat me around the ears with how profoundly shitty our society is.

first of all, we have a 7-mile trip taking an hour and 15 minutes each way in a major city. Even in other parts of the US, that's rightly regarded as absurd. Local Route is once every 30 minutes and mandatory to reach Trolley, on which I spent most of my journey, and from Trolley I had a fifteen-minute walk through one of the most desolate neighborhoods within the Loop to reach Gallery.

METRO has a $1.25 fare expectation of riders (having a Q Card helps because then you can stretch that fare across multiple buses instead of having to dump change at every bus you get on.) It also wastes an exorbitant amount of its budget (probably more than it gets from the fares itself, though I can't prove it) on hiring fare inspectors, whose sole purpose is to swan about on our laughably tiny trolley network harassing anyone who looks poor to make sure they paid before getting on the trolley, and to write them $75 tickets if they didn't. (I carry an extra Q Card in case this happens in front of me, and have had to intervene in such a way three times in the last year. And I don't go outside much.) Coming and going, there were three hanging about in each trolley car I was in, so I felt like I had to be vigilant the whole time.

By the time I reached [Trolley drop off point] on the towards-gallery part of the trip, I was glad for the 15-minute walk ahead of me because it meant I could clear my mind from what was a very loud trip... until the walk took me from the bail bondsman mini-district into the area directly around Gallery, which is getting flipped up into a dumping ground for new real estate investment properties despite having no nearby grocery stores, no immediate-vicinity bus routes, one food place (costly brunch joint that may or may not be a side hustle of Close Proximity Bail Bond Office #2), and downright fuckall else. There's a hastily-kludged bike line if that sweetens the deal, which I walked in for the final stretch due to the sidewalklessness of it all.

There are a couple of other gallery/studios embedded amid the runaway construction of Generic Luxury Apartment Block No One Can Afford #8953-8957, and one mostly built Generic Luxury Apartment Block No One Can Afford, lazily named "The Artist" after the class of people least likely to be able to make rent there. Lest one accuse it of being a mere unoriginal clone of 50 other similar giant boxes found in the turbogentrified Greater Heights/Montrose area, there's a small piece of genuine vintage railroad track installed out front between the sidewalk and the pothole-studded road. The piece of track leads to nowhere and connects nothing. It's too obvious to write a poem about.

I would be hopeful that all this runaway development would at least bring more people to the vicinity of Gallery and the nearby studios, but again, these look like additions to the investment/tax dodge portfolio for some rich jackoff who's like as not to have never set foot in Houston, not places that real people are going to be able to live in.

Anyway, I'm home safe, and was at least able to immediately launch myself into the shower after sweating buckets from 30 minutes of walking around in 75F weather in February, which I won't dwell on because I might get fully seized by a climate doom spiral if I do : )

[qalbofnight]

THE 'DEFINITION' OF 'CLASS'

The definition of class defined by so called "high class" casteists is surely not the real one, Class was never about expensive stuff ,black glasses,branded shoes ,high billing restaurants, having ones own luxury house and car,

Class is about walking on a street to get to the nearby for some groceries or something while exploring the way along, class is about kind gestures towards each person you see on the road no matter to what financial status they belong ,

Class is about sitting in a metro/ rickshaw beside a person who is not as maintained as you are but still having a normal kind feeling instead of being hesitant to be around.

Class is to follow your own ambitions without thinking about what the world will say ,class is to put off your shoes on road and walking barefoot cause it's hurting without having a second thought of what the world will say.,

Class is to not get fished in the trap of trends and normalise being not part of a rat race, instead having a sip of your coconut juice while watching a sunset while the world would be still chasing one another for being classy.

.....,

CLASS IS A HUMBLE MINDSET IT HAS NOTHING TO DO WITH LUXORIOUS LIFESTYLE,ACCENT AND DEMANEOUR.

[foultalequeen]

The Lululemon Murder

Brittany Norwood and Jayna Troxel Murray worked at the Lululemon Athletica store located at the Washington D.C suburb of Bethesda, Maryland. Brittany had a history of shoplifting though there is no specific reason, according to the known criteria, she wasn’t a Kleptomaniac.  In my opinion, she was somewhat addicted to Luxurious items but could not afford them. Everyone in her family was well off (engineers, etc.) but she might have felt that asking for money is embarrassing or humiliating; therefore, she resorted to stealing items instead. Moreover, thrill or adrenaline rush that she felt while doing so might have played a role of maintaining factor, too. Jayna caught Brittany red-handed stealing a pair of pants on March 11, 2011, and told her she was going to report her for stealing and other things she had shoplifted prior to this event. As a result, she enticed Jayna (victim) back to the store after they had already closed, claiming that she had forgotten her wallet at the store, was carrying her metro card and money, and so on. And there she killed Jayna by hitting her with various store items; the victim sustained 330 injuries and died on the 331st hit. Then the assailant went on with her plan by sabotaging the crime scene, destroying evidences, parking victim’s car 3 blocks away, then she came back and continued with self harming in order to make it look like a case of assault and robbery.

[redsamuraiii]

9 Things About Trains in Japan by The Smart Local Japan

Pic by hss.ogura.hiro

1. Seats Can Be Rotated

Pic by shika_crash/

If you have motion sickness from facing the opposite direction of the train movement, you can rotate. 

Or if you commute in a group of four, you can rotate to face each other. Just remember to talk softly.

2. Some Trains Have Open Doors Button

Pic by Free Materials

Some trains have buttons at the side of the door, both outside and inside the train to open the doors manually.

I remember standing like an idiot waiting for the door to open until a salaryman helped to push the button. 😂

3. Stack your tickets when transferring from local train to Shinkansen

Pic by Kodomo Okage Tetsudō

When alighting from local train to the Shinkansen gantry, stack both your local train and Shinkansen tickets on top of each other and insert into the gantry.

Retrieve them once you passed the gantry. If you use prepaid cards like Suica or Pasmo, put in the Shinkansen ticket first and tap your card on the panel.

4. Eating in Trains

Pic by Hantani Sadahiko 

You can eat in Shinkansen and Express trains but not in local and rapid trains. There’s a reason why Japanese trains are super clean.

From personal experience in taking local trains, drinking is fine but eating is not, especially if the food has a strong smell.    

5. 5 Types of Trains

Pic by Japan Guide

Bullet Train (Shinkansen) - goes straight to destination. 

Limited Express (Tokkyu) - stops at 1-2 stations along the way.

Express (Kyuko) - stops at 2-3 stations along the way. 

Rapid (Kaisoku) - stops at every few stations (3-5 stations) along the way.

Local (Futsu) - stops at every station like the typical metro.

They are rough estimates as to how many stops they make along the way, depending on which line and how far is it traveling.

I took limited express from Kansai Airport to Shiga Prefecture where my hotel is, it stops at Osaka and Kyoto, the busy stations.

6. Types of Seats

Pic by robin inizan

On the shinkansen and limited express trains, seats are sorted into 4 categories:

Reserved (Shitei Seki) - guarantee you a seat

Unreserved (Jiyu Seki) - sit anywhere in the unreserved cars

Green Car (Gurin Sha) - more space and leg room

Gran Class - with gourmet meals

Pricing are different for each. You may read the article here to know more.

7. Sightseeing Trains

Pic by Hagi Tourism Association Official Site

While the 5 trains mentioned above is to get you from point A to B, there is a luxury train for you to admire the scenery and is not as crowded.

Because the train takes longer travel time than the 5 trains above and it does not go to the cities where crowds of officer workers usually go.

This the train where you can eat and drink to your heart content. Different prefecture has different luxury trains which you need to find out.

8. One Cabin Train

Pic by hss.ogura.hiro

The One Man Train (Wanman Ressha) that you often see in Studio Ghibli type of anime taking place at the countryside.

They can be found on less traveled path or train line leading elsewhere from the usual tourist attractions and big cities.

There is no train conductor to collect your ticket so you have to deposit the ticket into the collection box near the exit.

9. Tickets are collected after the ride

Pic by y.y_official

To prevent passengers from reusing their tickets, used tickets are collected after your ride at the alighting station.

You can keep the stub as a souvenir but you have to inform the station staff so they will stamp or punch a hole to prevent reusing the ticket.

[detroitairportmetrotaxi]

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