#Retired Persons

[hyperblue]

terry: i used to make really poor choices about my life, so now I'm redeeming myself by being batman

dick, who is always five seconds away from killing himself when he has to be batman: what an... interesting way of seeing things

tim, who can not EVER be allowed to be batman: huh.

[pencilscratchins]

i have reached the part of the steddie hyperfixation where i make them domesticated men in their 50s. having a blast! (twitter) [ID in ALT text]

[s0fter-sin]

trans!soap taking his baby and running away from his rich abusive husband

(cw angst, financial abuse, single threat of child abuse, single mention of transphobia)

he's owned soap for years, since he was a teenager; paid for his medication and all his surgeries and tied them so deeply, soap’s lost hope of ever getting away. he gets even worse when soap falls pregnant. he was always controlling; blowing up at him if he spent too long out of the house or did something without telling him. but he becomes utterly possessive during the pregnancy

soap knows it has nothing to do with his safety or the baby's

he knows he sees his baby as an investment; another being he can control and hold over him

he gets worse and worse but there’s nothing soap can do. there's been nothing he can do for a long time. then a few months after the baby is born, soap doesn’t watch his tone closely enough and his husband threatens to drop his baby in punishment for it

soap doesn't think. he doesn't plan

he takes his baby and runs

he sneaks out of the servant's quarters of the sterile mansion he's been forced to live in for almost a decade and walks down the street without a backwards glance; his baby the only thing in his arms. he knows all of his husband's cars have trackers, all of them in his name since he never lets soap drive or go anywhere by himself, so he walks far enough to be out of view of the mansion's cameras and steals one. it doesn't have a car seat and all he can do is clutch his baby to his chest as he drives

he doesn't know where he's going beyond away

he doesn't know what he's going to do; he doesn't have any money, no supplies for his baby, he doesn't even have water for himself so he can reliably breastfeed him. he's terrified his husband will find them; he’s always felt omniscient, always everywhere and seeing everything he did. if he didn’t have eyes somewhere, he paid someone who did and they always dutifully reported back to him

soap just keeps his eyes forward. just keeps driving and driving, lost to the road and numb until the low gas light pops up on the dash and it all hits him at once

he turns into a gas station he can't pay for, in a car he stole, and parks behind it and his baby immediately starts getting fussy

he can't even call him by his name sometimes; too afraid to get attached, too afraid to lose him. as if he doesn’t love him more than life itself

even throughout his pregnancy, as happy as he was to finally have a baby, he didn't know if he could carry to term and that fear just let his husband dig his claws in even deeper; paying for extra scans he could never hope to pay for, favours on top of favours so he would aways owe him and isn’t he such a loving husband? taking soap in when his parents kicked him out for being trans, looking after him for all these years? you can’t even take care of yourself john, you’d still be a woman without me, john, what is this tantrum about john-

soap tugs his shirt up to let his baby feed, drops his head back and cries

he can't stop it; wails loud and uncontrolled, chest heaving with his sobs enough that it sways his baby, occasionally breaking his latch and he can't even do this right-

he can't save him

a light knock sounds on the window and soap flinches, curling over his baby to protect him from his huband's cruel hands

but it's not his husband outside the window

soap blinks tears from his eyes and looks at the large stranger standing beside the car. a neck gaiter covers his mouth and it should be off-putting… but something about him stops the feeling in its tracks. the stranger takes a half-step back and lifts a chilled and sealed water bottle, pressing it towards the window

soap quickly swipes his face clean and rolls down the window. "sorry 'bout that," he apologises with a choked laugh, the careful front he’s built over the years cracked and bleeding

the stranger gives a dismissive but somehow not diminishing shrug. "long day?" he asks

"could say that," he gives a shrug of his own and pats his baby's back as he makes a disgruntled noise, unconsciously swaying him

he politely keeps his gaze up on his face. "looks like you could use a break."

soap's breath hitches, anxiously darting his tongue out over his bottom lip. "could say that," he repeats uselessly and takes the water with a quiet “thanks,”; his throat dry and screaming for it after crying so hard

the stranger hums, watching him down the bottle and soap doesn’t notice his eyes drifting to the backseat and footwell of the passenger side. doesn’t notice the slight tension in his fists at what he sees. "how long you been runnin', lad?"

soap freezes, the water settling in his stomach like a stone. he swallows thickly and the bottle falls from his lips

"not long enough."

the stranger just nods, looking idly back down the highway

"you know, this place is connected to a garage,” he starts, nodding back to a building attached to the station without taking his eyes off the road. “lotta people drift through 'ere on road trips; too many to keep track.”

soap frowns slightly, shifting his hold on his baby

“funny thing is, plenty of 'em just abandon their car when they break down. like yours,” he adds and finally turns back to him with a pointed look. “got a whole junkyard of 'em. just rustin' away. be pretty easy to convince me to trade ya one."

soap’s mouth parts in a gasp as he realises just what the stranger’s saying. "how easy?" he whispers

he shrugs and even with his face hidden beneath the gaiter, he doesn’t feel afraid. "i'd say this car'd be a good deal. would blend right in with the rest of ‘em; no one’d ever notice it. what say i take it off your hands?"

soap's breath shudders out of him, his whole body going limp with relief. his baby's eyes fall shut with a satisfied hum and for the first time he can remember, he feels the gentle touch of hope

"i think we can work something out."

🧼💀

ghost owns the service station soap pulled into. he wanted something quiet and isolated after he retired and you can’t get much quieter than a backwoods servo surrounded by forest. he hasn’t had anyone pull in in days so he’s quick to notice soap’s car. he’s also quick to notice soap's subsequent breakdown in one of the cameras. the sight of him crying, desperately clutching a baby like they’re all he has left in the world, is so familiar he felt sick with it

he knows someone running when he sees it

if he didn't check on him, if this lad disappeared one day and the baby along with him, he'd never forgive himself. the lad doesn't even have a baby bag or car seat with him, and the personalised sticker on the back window of a lady and a dog is a dead giveaway that the car is stolen

but the lad is terrified. and when he startled him, he didn't turn. didn’t lift his arms to protect himself. no

he covered his baby

like he was afraid he'd be hurt

that's enough for ghost

🧼💀

i'd wanna set this in the 80's or 90's, just to make it even harder for soap to get away from his husband. he's a trans man with a newborn; he has no one to run to and no resources to help him. his husband's bought and paid for everything for him since he was 17; a few whirlwind weeks of unbelievable dates and extravagant gifts and he was living in his mansion, getting married the day after his 18th birthday. he thought it was love. thought he was being looked after and cared for the way he’s always wanted

he was in pain and alone and naive enough to believe the first person who came along and promised to make it better. nothing's in his name, not his insurance or his meds, he doesn’t have a bank account or savings; other than a birth certificate, nothing even ties him to his baby. his husband could take his world away from him with a snap of his fingers and he made sure soap always knew it

he never had a chance of getting away

but ghost is ex-military

he doesn’t know the lad’s story, doesn’t know the details of what he’s running from. he doesn’t need to know

he decided he was helping him the second he pulled into his service station

[eggplantgifs]

Nobunari Oda: Farewell to Nationals // 2013 → 2024

[thieves-never-say-die]

Every single forger Neal knows in NYC: fuck you, Caffrey, I’m not working with the FBI

Neal: it’s for Mozzie.

Every single forger Neal knows in NYC: ok what do you need

[bitchesgetriches]

{ MASTERPOST } Everything You Need to Know about Retirement and How to Retire

How to start saving for retirement

Dafuq Is a Retirement Plan and Why Do You Need One?

Procrastinating on Opening a Retirement Account? Here’s 3 Ways That’ll Fuck You Over.

Season 4, Episode 5: “401(k)s Aren’t Offered in My Industry. How Do I Save for Retirement if My Employer Won’t Help?”

How To Save for Retirement When You Make Less Than $30,000 a Year

Workplace Benefits and Other Cool Side Effects of Employment 

Your School or Workplace Benefits Might Include Cool Free Stuff

Do NOT Make This Disastrous Beginner Mistake With Your Retirement Funds

The Financial Order of Operations: 10 Great Money Choices for Every Stage of Life

Advanced retirement moves

How to Painlessly Run the Gauntlet of a 401k Rollover

The Resignation Checklist: 25 Sneaky Ways To Bleed Your Employer Dry Before Quitting

Ask the Bitches: “Can I Quit With Unvested Funds? Or Am I Walking Away From Too Much Money?”

You Need to Talk to Your Parents About Their Retirement Plan

Season 4, Episode 8: “I’m Queer, and Want To Find an Affordable Place To Retire. How Do I Balance Safety With Cost of Living?” 

How Dafuq Do Couples Share Their Money? 

Ask the Bitches: “Do Women Need Different Financial Advice Than Men?”

From HYSAs to CDs, Here’s How to Level Up Your Financial Savings

Season 3, Episode 7: “I’m Finished With the Basic Shit. What Are the Advanced Financial Steps That Only Rich People Know?” 

Speaking of advanced money moves, make sure you’re not funneling money to The Man through unnecessary account fees. Roll over your old retirement accounts FO’ FREE with our partner Capitalize:

Roll over your retirement fund with Capitalize

Investing for the long term

When Money in the Bank Is a Bad Thing: Understanding Inflation and Depreciation

Investing Deathmatch: Investing in the Stock Market vs. Just… Not 

Investing Deathmatch: Traditional IRA vs. Roth IRA

Investing Deathmatch: Stocks vs. Bonds 

Wait… Did I Just Lose All My Money Investing in the Stock Market? 

Financial Independence, Retire Early (FIRE)

The FIRE Movement, Explained 

Your Girl Is Officially Retiring at 35 Years Old

The Real Story of How I Paid off My Mortgage Early in 4 Years 

My First 6 Months of Early Retirement Sucked Shit: What They Don’t Tell You about FIRE

Bitchtastic Book Review: Tanja Hester on Early Retirement, Privilege, and Her Book, Work Optional

Earning Her First $100K: An Interview with Tori Dunlap 

We’ll periodically update this list with new links as we continue writing about retirement. And by “periodically,” we mean “when we remember to do it.” Maybe remind us, ok? It takes a village.

Contribute to our staff’s retirement!

Holy Justin Baldoni that’s a lot of lengthy, well-researched, thoughtful articles on the subject of retirement. It sure took a lot of time and effort to finely craft all them words over the last five years!

In case I’m not laying it on thick enough: running Bitches Get Riches is a labor of love, but it’s still labor. If our work helped you with your retirement goals, consider contributing to our Patreon to say thanks! You’ll get access to Patreon exclusives, giveaways, and monthly content polls! Join our Patreon or comment below to let us know if you would be interested in a BGR Discord server where you can chat with other Patrons and perhaps even the Bitches themselves! Our other Patrons are neat and we think you should hang out together.

Join the Bitches on Patreon

[ricky-mortis]

Curtwen Week Day 6: Happy Ending

[guhbwuh]

Thinking about what if there was a lighthouse and John price was in that lighthouse. And maybe he was in a silly little sweater.

[yuutaguro]

I keep going back to your scared Gojo art (love it honestly, the horror of his continued existence) and the one thing that keeps coming to me is thinking of Nanami post Shibuya and this Gojo taking care of each others scars, like the domesticness of them rubbing creams on each other to ease the pain and stiffness the massaging and care and love and hating and loving the marks at the same time because it means they're alive together (I'm sorry to be on a nanago train but that's where my mind always is)

(quick doodle but i promise i’ll do more oops)

ive explored the concept of “reclaiming ones body” with nanami (and geto by extension) but i definitely think gojo having a chance to do that post canon side by side with nanami would be very powerful

i love these two and honestly nanago deserved domestic bliss,,,i miss them 😞

[letsgolando-4]

I’ll never be over them.

[arcanegifs]

Heya, this is the Discord server I’m in. You can also make requests to me here, provided you’re a member.

[arnaerr]

Kinda wish new Dragon Age game was more dark fantasy than this cartoony stylized happy looking something...tho what else could I expect after the Inquisition lol

[butterfilledpockets]

I swear, Ronin is the equivalent of "why are we here...? Just to suffer??" In the B.E.N.T. au while his other dimension brothers are causing chaos. Somehow, Ronin is still the youngest, but he also feels like the oldest wrangling a bunch of kindergarteners and trying to make sure they don't set the place on fire. That guy is a walking existential crisis

this is how it feels 24/7

forever subjected to little brother

[kittttycakes]

Ooooh kiss on a scar for any pairing involving Hob because I know how you like your Hob with scars!

I HAVE OWED YOU THIS SINCE JUNE OF LAST YEAR  Please enjoy some retired Dream! (Very mildly NSFW at the end, more implied than anything else.)

It was only a matter of time before Hob realized. Morpheus was many things, but he was not subtle in his affections once he let them loose, and Hob had begun to fill in the rough shape of a pattern long before he fully knew quite how much of a thing it had become for him.

Morpheus rolled over in bed, his long limbs splayed half over Hob, taking up far more than his allotted share of the mattress. Hob never complained, although he would occasionally threaten to shove him out of bed; it was an entirely toothless threat, and they both knew it. He was facing Hob, now, affording Hob the perfect view of his face as he woke up in stages: the flutter of his eyelashes, the slight frown and scrunch of his nose that he would resolutely deny if confronted, the slow blink as he opened his eyes. 

“Beloved,” he said, his voice still as low and resonant as it had ever been, unchanged by circumstance. What a pleasure, what a privilege, to have his voice be the first sound he heard in the morning. It took Hob a moment to place the tone of it, the exact same that he had used successfully at least once per week for the past month.

“Absolutely not,” Hob replied, voice still sleep-rough, even as he tightened the grip of his arm around Morpheus, pulling him closer. “I am not popping out to buy you a sausage roll at—” 

Here, he paused, fumbling for his phone on the bedside table with his other hand and squinting at the lit screen. “Five in the bloody morning, why are you even awake?” 

Only half of this interrupted statement was a lie. It actually was just past five in the morning; Hob’s alarm would not sound for another twenty-eight minutes, and a better question was, perhaps, why he himself was awake. 

Rather than replying to anything Hob had said in any human capacity, Morpheus hummed, low in his throat, and pressed a kiss to the side of his jaw, directly over the pale, slightly raised scar that resided there. Hob hardly thought of it at all; it had been a part of his face for hundreds of years, and he barely saw it when looking at a mirror, but then, in bed with Morpheus, he realized just how often Morpheus had pressed a similar kiss to that exact spot, and began to wonder.

Twenty minutes later, hastily dressed and on the hunt for sausage rolls, Hob had forgotten all about it. 

-

Morpheus had a minor fascination with Hob’s hands, which Hob was more than happy to indulge him in. If that meant allowing him to map each ridge of them idly as they sat on the sofa, only half watching a documentary that Morpheus had chosen, he would allow it. More than allow it; he would encourage it, offering him his hand whenever he looked like he needed something to do with his own, watching the way the tension seemed to slip for him as he traced the familiar lines of Hob’s palm with his fingertips, his touch light, exploratory even after all this time. It was relaxing, in a way, the pressure never quite enough to be a massage, but soothing, nonetheless. 

He barely realized how intently Morpheus was studying his palm, finally having grown interested in the admittedly complex lives of the tropical fish displayed on the television screen, before his attention was drawn to the base of his thumb by the repetitive motion of Morpheus tracing the same line, over and over, against his skin.

“Taking up palmistry now?” Hob glanced towards Morpheus, smiling; he had no doubt that Morpheus would have Opinions on palmistry and its accuracy or lack thereof, and he looked forward to hearing them. 

“How did you get this?” Morpheus asked, a seeming non-sequitur until Hob realized that he was tracing the scar there. This mark he did remember: he had been awfully young, learning how to properly gut a fish, when his knife had slipped and buried itself in the skin of his palm, bright and sharp and quick as anything. 

Hob answered him, ending with a slight smile. “Nothing terribly interesting, I’m afraid.” 

Morpheus hummed again, a sound Hob had grown increasingly familiar with over time. This was his inquisitive hum, an indication that, perhaps, he had more to say on the subject, but would let it lie for the moment. Hob was nearly about to ask him what he was thinking when he raised Hob’s hand and pressed a kiss to the scar there, resuming his earlier posture afterwards as if he had done nothing out of the ordinary at all. He hadn’t, not really; the best part of living with Morpheus was just how many times a day he was allowed to kiss him, and to be kissed in return. 

Hob settled back into the worn cushions of the sofa, and thought again: Morpheus had not kissed the palm of his hand. He had kissed the scar.

-

Hob knew how lucky he was. His body could not be killed or destroyed—the latter an assumption that he was not terribly interested in testing out. This did not mean it was entirely unmarred by the ages; some marks had lingered longer than others, and any he had carried before 1389 never left at all. He rarely thought of it, but Morpheus seemed to have a renewed determination to catalogue each and every mark on him. This goal was not exactly new, but once Hob had noticed, it became impossible to ignore. 

He was running rather late, and needed to shower before he could turn up anywhere respectable people might be misfortunate enough to see him. Hob was often thankful for the size of the shower in the flat, but he was especially thankful that morning as he slipped in behind Morpheus, who was standing directly under the shower head in the near catatonic state that Hob now recognized as something that was not a cause for alarm, but merely the time Morpheus required to fully awaken and become human on some days. There were many ways this could happen, the shower being one of them, but they all shared two qualities in common: they allowed Morpheus a period of near silence in which he was not expected to speak unless he chose to, and they allowed him to stay still in whatever position he may have been in. 

“Don’t mind me, I’ll just be a minute,” Hob said, careful to keep his voice low and soft. He gently nudged Morpheus to one side, enough to share some of the spray. Morpheus did not appear to either notice or care. 

Hob was nearly finished with his important but perfunctory shower when Morpheus seemed at last to come alive. 

“Hob,” he said, just the one word, in yet another tone that Hob recognized, and reached for him, pulling him in to kiss him softly. He hadn’t yet, that morning, Hob realized. Maybe he had missed it. 

Kissing him a second time was Hob’s mistake, one that ended with him irrevocably running late, any time he had gained through the speed of his shower quickly lost. Morpheus had not stopped kissing him; had, in fact, pressed him rather insistently against the tiled wall of the shower and knelt in front of him in a way that Hob knew his knees would not thank him for later, and then promptly proceeded to put his mouth everywhere but where Hob wanted it most. 

He was rather thoroughly investigating a spot on Hob’s hip with lips and teeth and tongue when Hob realized what was underneath his mouth, and reached down, tangling his fingers gently in Morpheus’s hair, pulling in the way he liked, to tilt his head up towards him. 

“So,” Hob said, fighting to keep his tone light in the face of Morpheus on his knees in front of him. “Should we talk about the thing with the scars, or—”

“I do not have a thing,” Morpheus replied, derisive without any real bite. 

“You most certainly do have a thing. Come on, you can tell me. Is it just that it’s a bit of rough or—”

Morpheus looked up at him, long suffering. “It most certainly is not. It is—you are—you have lived through a great many things. Survived them. Outlived them. There is something somewhat—attractive—about this.” 

The look he was giving Hob was enough to make a lesser man give in, and Hob was only human, after all. “I knew it,” he said, breathless, as Morpheus descended on him again, knowing as he did that he had known no such thing. They were so different, and always had been, but nowhere was it more obvious than in their bodies, the smooth unmarked stretch of Morpheus’s now-human skin. He wondered what would mark it first, what minor accident would lay its claim on him; he did not want him to be hurt, but he did want to see how he would change, in time. They had plenty of it.

Send me a kiss prompt!

[tomorrowusa]

John Oliver's closing message before Election Day. It's the last couple of minutes of the segment from Sunday.

He reminds us that if Trump loses, that's it for Trump. Consider that for a moment. With a Kamala Harris victory, we can echo the words of President Gerald Ford and proclaim: "Our long national nightmare is over."

So if anybody needs an incentive to get one more voter to choose Kamala before polls close on Tuesday, conjure a realistic vision of Trump's involuntary retirement and your necessary role in making it happen.

NOTE: You can watch the entire 14:27 John Oliver clip here.

[marisol-holme]

The retired good girls guide for writing

I haven’t always been able to understand myself. 

I never felt like I was able to clock pure basic needs. Couldn’t tell if I was hungry or thirsty. I finished my meals early, preferring to always feel full, in a silent critic of my mother and father’s controlling rule over my life. A few bites of fuck you always left on the plate. I liked to see how far I could push it. How little I could drink, sleep, or eat, and still function. A true desert island scenario would see me lasting years; I had inadvertently trained myself for it. Except my desert island was more devoid of emotional fulfilment and attention. 

I had to get creative. I developed some interesting tendencies, sure. But mostly I just wanted to escape. Now my parents never went out, and my internal world was already tumultuous at best, so I did what anyone would do and read. I read voraciously. The ability to turn off my hunger had seeped into all areas of my life. A fugue state dissociation through most of my early years through to adolescence. But I was able to come alive when I was reading. When I read, it was like my first breath. Hungry. I could imagine these worlds and built them up easily, colourfully within my mind’s eye. I'd picture the strong female characters that I admired. I’d taste food, hear music. It was the only time I was ever able to really live, before I had to go downstairs and pretend to eat.

Unwittingly, my upbringing fostered just the correct environment for me to develop a writer’s hunger. Because a writer is always a reader before they grow mad to write. I grew mad fast. I had to. I had to create worlds for me to escape into, away from all the shouting and fighting. Alchemise what I’d read into something new and original. It helped that I was an avid daydreamer, although a psychiatrist might call me a maladaptive daydreamer, but it only ever occurred to me when I was bored. Parallel to this, I grew into shame, so what I wrote I would throw away. I sadly have none of my early works. They are long decomposed into sub-atomic and absorbable waste, probably seeped into a water system somewhere and live inside all of you. Yuck. Not even my best work. 

Then I grew up and I had no dreams because I was not hungry. I hadn’t picked up a book in a long time. I dabbled with things that made me feel warm. Partying and shallow conversations. Grotty pubs and sticky clubs. Good friends made me feel a good kind of warm. But it took me a long time to find my way back to literature. Through a work stint as a Nursery Practitioner, I found my way back into writing. You see, at the nursery we had to send updates to parents all about what their children were getting up to. I enjoyed this task and wrote the children’s days like stories. Descriptive and alive. I’d got the bug and the bug had bit me. I didn’t last long once I had started writing again and I quickly found myself working at the Ideas Foundation. 

Through my new employer, I was encouraged to trial as much as possible to find out what I enjoyed doing. I was also very privileged to have access to several creative professionals who genuinely wanted to help and mentor those younger than them. Mentors can see all your ducks and help you to get them in a row. My ducks were all over the place and needed very graceful guidance. You push my ducks too much and, well, they explode. Poof!

Speaking to seasoned professional copywriters, I was able to glean their persistent journey into the profession. The confusion I once had around my goals has seemed to have dissipated. The ability to feel hungry for life and understand myself has only grown. My spark is back. 

The excitement and giddiness I feel when I think about myself as a writer is immense. The energy can fuel me for days. I look to the bottom left of my documents and the number of words that can pour out onto a page grows and grows with each project I set myself. The possibilities as a writer seem endless from this perspective. 

I understand that there is a lot more to these dreams that simple want. I must be focused. Persistent. Take up the offers of guidance from those around me. Accepting critic and moving towards goals. But the potential is there. I understand myself a little better. I value my work a little more. Hopefully, one day in the not-so-distant future a book of mine might get thrown away and end up decomposing in the damp soil into tiny fragments that find their way into us. At least that work will be better and born of something other than the child’s will to survive and create. That would make me feel okay.