#female poverty

[dolleminas]

I think the last few days really taught me (but what I secretly already knew) is that middle-class women have very little solidarity, let alone empathy for working-class women. It's not only women, it's men too, but it's just glaringly obvious when we supposedly should fight for women, up until it's middle-class women fighting for poor women. There's solidarity, up until a certain point.

Let me paint you a picture. It's summer, I've just started getting back into the workforce after years of crippling illness. I'm meeting with my job coach. A lovely woman, and we get talking about why I want to go back to work.

"Part of it is that I'm bored at home, but I'd be lying if finance isn't a motivator too."

She scoffs good-naturedly. She says, money is not important! The important thing is that you have fulfilment in your work!

I look around myself. We're sitting in her garden. The garden of her two-story house. It's bigger than my entire home. I say I would like to be able to eat, to pay rent. She brushes me off. She doesn't get it. I don't think she's ever had to go hungry.

Let me paint you another picture. I grew up in a neighbourhood full of people like me. The homes were built from the rubble of WWII. When I laid in bed, I would brush my hands over the walls and feel the grit and the dust stain my fingertips. Sometimes it would even stain the bed. My bedroom is hardly bigger than a broom closet, but it's all I know. Most of my neighbours are immigrant families and poc. That's where the government puts them. Crime is rampant. But it could be worse. My mother buys hand-me-downs from the neighbours for me. Other kids bully me for my clothes. During the christmas holidays, the school has to board up the windows because of vandalism. We sit with our coats on in class because heating costs too much.

Still, I know people who have it worse. My mother has a part-time job as a receptionist and my grandparents help. When I wear holes into my underwear my grandmother silently buys us some more. I have never known underwear without holes in them. When we go on vacation, I feel rich. I know many kids who don't. My mother only has to take care of me.

This all makes it that much more of a slap in the face to see women claim to be supporters of women, so-called feminists but have absolutely no empathy for poor women. And most of the time they don't even know it. They have an idealised world-view. A, 'just do x' or 'just do y' and my personal favourite 'well I'd never do that!' or even 'you have options.'

No. No, don't. Be quiet, be silent, listen. If you have solidarity with women, then listen about the lives you have not lived, the struggles you have not struggled with. Do not come from a place of 'I would never' because you cannot, with any resemblance of accuracy, say that until you have lived it. Poor women aren't stupid or lazy, stop thinking of us as such! Stop blaming us for the life we were born into, the life we often are unable to escape.

Sit down, listen... and don't expect poor women to have solidarity with you if you do not have it with us. You, the privileged one. The idealistic one. The one who never knew how it was like to go hungry as a little girl and have to watch your mother lie to you about why.

[cangrellesteponme]

i don't think wonderland is ready for those alices

[she-is-ovarit]

Sign the petition: Stop forcing women and girls into sex for water!

Imagine being so desperate for water, you’d do anything to get it. Anything. Experts estimate that tens of thousands of women and girls around the world -- and maybe many more -- face this situation every single day. And corrupt water vendors in Kenya are taking advantage in the worst possible way, forcing them into sex for just a few litres. Children are being abused, women’s lives shattered. They have no choice. But here’s the really crazy thing: since there’s no law against this vile exploitation, it’s completely legal! We could change that. Kenyan women’s rights groups say the government is considering a law to make this abuse illegal – and that massive show of global pressure could make all the difference. They��re asking the Avaaz community to help – let’s lend our voices to some of the poorest, most vulnerable people on Earth, and demand an end to sex-for-water abuse. When our call is huge, we’ll deliver our voices to Kenya’s government. Photo Credit: Mariella Furrer Posted: 12 January 2024

[cheesyradfem]

still thinking of this paragraph from what was the girlboss?

[maslows-pyramid-scheme]

I just don't see the point of a rights/liberation movement that has to shame and argue its beneficiaries into adopting its 'core' praxis. If the beneficiaries are that resistant to the praxis, then maybe it's fair to say that the particular praxis is unworkable, and that it's time for proponents of the rights/liberation movement to reconsider how they're going to address the problem (in a way that actually is achievable)?

Like, let's argue that separatism was the core radical feminist praxis (and not consciousness-raising, which actually is): if male violence, female (un)happiness and housework disparity statistics and a healthy dose of shame aren't enough to convince heterosexual and bisexual women to ditch their romantic relationships with men, then separatism can't be said to reflect the needs and desires of the affected group.

And radical feminists have two real responses:

They can either ignore the feedback, dig their heels in, and keep trying to convince women, which, I'd argue, doesn't actually help anyone - women in/open to relationships don't want to be condescended, especially by those who aren't perceived as having a stake in the issue (lesbians, bisexual women, women who don't want romantic relationships), and the women doing this inevitably end up feeling frustrated and alienated from others.

Or they can use the repeated rejections as feedback, and reconsider how they want to achieve their goal of female liberation even if women are still living with men (and this, imho, is the beauty of consciousness-raising, because it allows people to get a sense of what a group actually wants).

Separatism has been splintering the feminist movement since the 1960s; if separatism hasn't appealed to heterosexual and bisexual women until, then maybe, just maybe, it's time to get back to our consciousness-raising roots and start brainstorming what's actually achievable?

[2012wannabe]

Lace Dreams

cw/tw: rich!abby x reader, little seed of sugarmommy!abby, poverty insecurity woohoo, reader grew up poor, references to sex

wc: 986

an: financial stress has been hitting a bit too hard lately. I always write with a femme reader in mind because that’s what I know but there are no indicators of gender/looks. (unless wearing panties counts as an indicator of gender for you)

Abby came into your life suddenly and you wouldn’t have it any other way. It was almost as if the universe had heard your prayers and sent a guardian angel into your life. The second you saw her, you felt your knees get weak and every cliché stereotype come to life.

When you met her in person for the first time you had gone to breakfast at a diner near her college, pancakes for her sweet tooth. She was not only the most gorgeous woman you had ever laid your eyes on, glistening muscles and all, but you both clicked immediately. With her, the words flowed, and getting lost in conversation was easy. The way your stomach had butterflies around her was jarring, something you hadn’t felt since you were a kid with your first love. Texting and FaceTime calls almost immediately became a constant and you shared each other schedules to plan around your college classes.

For the first few months of your relationship, you hadn’t ever went to Abby’s apartment. You knew that she had one and she had a one bedroom, extremely impressive for a college student, but that was really it. Money was never really a topic of conversation either, so imagine your shock when you found out she was loaded. You had figured she was doing pretty well since she was always insisting on paying for dates and you were glad because honestly, you couldn’t really afford to keep going. But going back to her apartment after she took you to a Broadway show, your jaw dropped before you even got into the elevator.

Walking in, she greeted the doorman and instantly you felt kind of down on yourself. You had had her over at your dorm and now insecurity started to push at every angle in your brain. Still, you pushed it down and followed her up. She was being funded by her lawyer mom and brain surgeon dad until she was able to work as a doctor, she explained. The apartment was absolutely beautiful, and modernly decorated, with stainless steel appliances and a fully stocked fridge. It was perfectly clean, with not a speck of dust and certainly no vermin or bugs, unlike your childhood home. The nice soap alone could have brought tears to your eyes.

Why would she like me? I’m not on her level at all! Your brain taunted. Abby seemed oblivious to all this and put a smile back on as her she showed you around the apartment. She brought you to her bedroom and your jaw nearly dropped. Her bed was possibly the most comfortable looking bed you had ever seen, several thick plush blankets with two huge pillows. You wanted to cover up your insecurity with a joke about what you could you do in the bed but no joke came.

“Your apartment is so beautiful,”

“Thanks.” Abby said with a slight tinge of awkwardness in her tone.

“Is there something wrong? You got quiet.”

“No, no. Definitely not.”

“Are you sure?”

“It’s just so nice. I kind of wish I didn’t show you my dorm now.” You said, reflecting on your tiny room. Something was always broken and everything was put back together with the shittiest of quick fixes.

You studied her face as she responded, wondering if she had judged you in the past. It didn’t seem like it and it definitely didn’t seem like she was judging you now. She invited you to sit on the bed with her and laced her hand in yours. You had gotten so close to her in only a 6 months, it seemed like such a short amount of time now and you even agreed on moving in together after your lease at your dorm was up.

“I don’t know how I had never come over before. What, you hiding it from me?” You attempted to tease. Abby laughed,

“I’ve spent so much time studying for the MCAT, the library was more my home than here.”

“Right. How does it feel to be finally done?”

“Weird. I honestly feel kind of old because in 4 months I’ll be a senior in college and then I’ll be in medical school.” You flopped on your back and let out a sigh. She laid down next you and shamelessly admired you. Your cheeks flushed and Abby giggled.

“I hope you’re not ruminating.” She said.

“Maybe a little bit.”

“Can you talk about it? I can practically see the wheels turning in your brain.”

“It’s the same as I said before, everything here is just so nice. It’s nowhere near what it was like for me growing up. The fact that you have soap that hasn’t been watered down several times to make it last longer makes me want to cry. Having soap shouldn’t make me cry.” Abby’s features softened and lightly caressed your face with the pads of her fingers.

“I’m so sorry baby. I have a lot of privilege, there’s no denying that and if it hasn’t been obvious enough I want to share what I have with you. I love you and you deserve more than I could ever give you.” Your eyes teared up and she wiped away a tear as it fell. You rushed to get closer to her and let her strong arms hold you as you cuddled.

“I don’t have words to express how much I love you. Things are going to get better one day. I mean fuck, they already have.” You said. A moment of comfortable silence passed until you suddenly turned to her,

“You can bet your ass one of the first things I’ll be buying with my paycheck from my adult job is some lacy panties. Lavender ones too.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” You said.

“How about you make forget all about my shit and top me into this comfortable ass bed?” Abby let out a laugh.

“How could I ever say no?”

[local-lover-boy]

"I never learned hate at home, or shame. I had to go to school for that."

- "Shame" by Dick Gregory

[spiderfreedom]

I read a book a while back about the erotic appeal of 'women with penises' (don't close the page yet I promise it's useful). the book was called Ambisexuality. it's basically two things, a history of the sexual fantasy of a 'woman with a penis' and a study of transgender women sex workers in australia. content warning for sex work and children forced into sex work.

in the history portion, one of the things it talks about is how it seems that prepubescent boys who enter the sex industry in some cultures are basically taught to perform femininity. dressed like women, taught to dance like women, perfume themselves like women, basically appear cosmetically like a woman. since prepubescent boys don't look too different from girls, many adult heterosexual johns found this attractive. the presence of the penis was considered a positive, because male customers knew how a penis worked and could understand it. from the book:

References to the training of older boys and young men, in the twin arts of seductive dancing and sex work, can be found in many historical religious texts, not just of Afghanistan but as an aspect of cultures in many cities in South Asia and the Middle East until modern times. [...] The historical record also provides clues that the link between feminised males and sex work even existed in some hunter-gatherer societies. In North America, the journalist and critic, Peter Ackroyd suggests that some native Indian societies accommodated feminised male sex work. The Pueblo Indians for example, maintained a mujerado, a 'trained male prostitute' in each village, who identified as a 'man-woman, not as a male [source mine]. Similarly, records suggest that the berdache were males who took on the roles of wife, communal concubine, prostitute and participant in certain sexual rites of native Indian tribes. The berdache wore women's clothing, did women's work and in sexual relations with their male partners, behaved like women as far as possible. Many Roman brothels offered boys of different races, skin colours and professional abilities. Boys from the Middle East, for example, were prized for their dancing abilities and exotic appearance, while boys from Northern Europe were valued for their bawdiness and sensuality. Some brothel owners refined the process of procuring, raising and training very young boys to an art form. Boys considered to possess the appropriate attributes were purchased as young as two or three years of age and were raised and trained by their owners. Their sole purpose in life was to entertain men and pander to the sexual tastes of wealthy clients. Many of these boys were feminised during their training. They were beautifully groomed and perfumed, had unwanted body hair removed and wore their hair long and curly. Some were trained to perform for their clients - as dancers, mimes, singers and storytellers. All were trained in fellatio, sodomy and analingus.

it's disturbing to think about how femininity is conflated with being attractive to men, so much that you can take a prepubescent boy, dress him up like a woman, and apparently plenty of people go "yeah, this is the perfect sex object, like a woman but better."

it also had a section on how trans women and gender non conforming men who dressed femininely across the world were basically often forced into prostitution. since they could not find employment due to their gender nonconformity, the only place they could get money was as prostitutes. being feminine dressed also meant they could make more money than gay male prostitutes who dressed in masculine style. from the book:

According to some cultural historians, the reason why the xanith presented as women was to enable them to make a living from sex work. As will be seen later, the suggestion that this lifestyle is driven by 'economic necessity' probably belies a considerable degree of individual choice in the matter. For many, the rewards of sex work led to a comfortable lifestyle, which was infinitely preferable to other occupations which paid less, demanded longer working hours and offered fewer other intrinsic benefits such as personal gifts.

there's a myth that there exists a certain type of person who enjoys being prostituted, because of some social category they belong to. it has variably applied to women of the lower classes, black people, gay men, and in this topic, trans women. it exists to excuse the dehumanization of these groups who are excluded from normal labor markets, experience higher rates of poverty, and enter sex work to make money.

i've noticed some radfems have suggested that trans women prostitutes 'enjoy' being prostitutes, on the basis of quotes from bailey's book 'the man who would be queen' and taking twitter quotes from unverifiable 'trans sex workers' at face value. but i would be very hesitant to believe that. just in the same way you would not believe a woman who told you she 'loves sex work' without doing further research on her background to see if this statement is honest or produced by trauma, you should also consider the same for transgender women and gender non conforming men. especially since they are often forced out of legitimate labor industry for gender nonconformity.

the idea that trans women inherently love prostitution reinforces the idea that there are feminine people who it is okay to degrade and treat as sex objects, because they love it. the femininity is taken to be a lure to men and proof that they love being 'used'. there may be some portion who are 'erotic professionals' who love it, just like there are women who say they same, but there's a high rate of traumatic background from trans women who become prostitutes. and that's before whatever traumatization happens during prostitution.

in short, there's a dirty history of treating gender non conforming male people as the sort of perfect sex object, the ideal combination of feminine presentation and "comprehensible" male anatomy. radfems should not help this myth by repeating it mindlessly. all this does is spread the idea that a. being dressed feminine means you exist to lure men, b. there exists a 'perfect sex object' who wants nothing more than endless sex with strangers for money, whose trauma, poverty, mental illness play no role in their life, and c. therefore there is no need to include these people in efforts to exit the prostitution industry, because they "love" it after all. no human is a perfect sex object. accepting that it can happen to one group of people means you naturalize it and allow the possibility it can happen to you.

[haggishlyhagging]

[Hag’s Note: The quote below provides a different vantage point to the notion, popularized by a book, that “French Women Don’t Get Fat.” Perhaps it has less to do with self-control and more to do with how their ancestresses were treated. Just food for thought.]

French women perform the most repulsive labors of the docks. They work in the mines dragging or pushing heavy trucks of coal, like their English sisters, through narrow tunnels that run from the seams to the shaft, eating food of such poor quality that the lessening stature of the population daily shows the result. This decreasing size of Frenchmen, especially among the peasantry—the majority not coming up to the regulation army height—has, within the last fifteen or twenty years, called attention of the government during conscription, yet without seeming to teach its cause as lying in the poor food and hard labor of women, the mothers of these men. The heaviest burdens of porters, the most offensive sanitary work, the severest agricultural labor in that country falls upon woman. "I pity the women, the donkeys and the boys," wrote Mrs. Stanton when traveling in the south of France.

It is the poor nourishment and excessive labor of woman which makes France today a country of rapidly decreasing birthrate, seriously affecting its population and calling the earnest attention of statistical bureaus and physicians to this vital question—a question which affects the standing of France among the nations of the earth. According to the report of the chief of the statistical bureau (1890) there were fewer births than deaths that year, the births amounting to 838,059, the deaths to 876,505, an excess of 38,446 deaths. Commenting upon these returns, Der Reichsbote of Berlin attributed the cause to a wide-spread aversion to large families; acknowledging, however, that the lower classes had become weakened and dwarfed by the tasks imposed upon them. What neither the statistical bureau, the press or the church yet comprehend is the fact that the work imposed upon its Christian women, the curse of man thrust upon her, is the chief cause of the lessening size and lessening population of that country.

-Matilda Joslyn Gage, Woman, Church and State

[ciderjacks]

sorry to ramble in your inbox (feel free to ignore this ofc) but you are the only person on my dash being realistic about misogyny rn

I'm so annoyed by the posts like "men are being ignored by women and that's why they aren't supporting us". Because the feminist movement for over a decade has had a focus on supporting men, especially with mental health. And there's a whole month (this month!) that is focused around men's health (mostly physical but with some mental as well). And women are all over the internet encouraging men to do things like go to therapy. The list goes on.

and the fact that they know (or acknowledge) none of that shows how much posturing it all is.

"complete strangers made generalizations I didn't like on the internet so it's their fault I'm a misogynist" I am going to scream.

god i can’t stand how much the feminist movement centers men. I feel like honestly part of the problem is ppl don’t see women as a marginalized group even when women are clearly facing really brutal oppression, bc subconsciously they think that’s how it’s supposed to be.

And like , when they acknowledge women as oppressed, its never acknowledged as being done by men— there’s always some invisible boogeyman doing it: “the government” or “capitalism” or “society”. All these very vague gender neutral concepts.

The fact that it’s taboo to actually acknowledge women have an oppressor and that oppressor is MEN drives me insane. Among leftist groups it’s at its most hypocritical. They are so clearly able to understand oppression, and the dynamic between oppressed and oppressor…until it’s women. Then suddenly we’re equal apparently.

And that’s something men want, that’s why they push so hard for this narrative that “men’s issues are different but just as bad” (even tho that’s 100% fucking false lmao) because it means that they’re distanced from accountability, and women aren’t suffering anymore than them so really those bitches should just shut up about it.

It’s disgusting and intentional and I encourage any woman reading this to stop caring about “mens rights”. They already have rights.

It’s like, think about how offended ppl were when straight ppl requested their own month. Think about how blatantly racist it sounds when white ppl try to imply they’re oppressed for being white.

now unpack why you don’t feel that way with mennn

[m4ndysk4nkovich]

istg y’all love romanticizing the gallagher’s, milkoviches, and poverty until you meet people actually like them

[surplus-of-sarcasm]

Number 28

TW: Injury, angst, exhaustion, mention of suicidal ideation (not sure if that's the right way to describe it, but there's also a wish to never exist), poverty, smoking

Notes: This came out a bit different from my usual style, dialogue is introduced later, dk exactly how long this, read-more used just to be safe. Hope u enjoy, loves <3 < 3

The villain's life had never been particularly easy, nor pleasant in general, but today, it had taken a disgusting turn for the worse even they weren't used to. It wasn't just the fact that they were injured; the wound wasn't too deep, wasn't life-threatening, nor did it really put much of a damper on their ability to move. The criminal was also alone, which wasn't a new experience in any shape or form, but it just wasn't utterly convenient now. They'd always sneered at the idea of teamwork, especially in their line of work because there was no actual guarantee that your so-called partner(s) would not stab you in the back the second it suited them. But still, it's not like little to no reliance on anyone else never came with a price.

The trouble mainly resided in the fact that they had no idea exactly where they were, just that they didn't belong. A high-end neighbourhood without many houses, because each one was the size of a castle anyway, well-manicured lawns and ornate, steel gates. All of it was too much of a stark contrast to the dirty alleyway harbouring Villain's down-trodden one-room apartment. Most villains weren't dirt poor, but most of them hadn't spent most of their money on a college degree, thinking it would lead somewhere, then had all their job prospects ruined by cascading waterfalls of unfortunate circumstances. People who were meant to care for them simply didn't, leaving them to fend for themselves when keeping them around was no longer convenient. The criminal had known nothing but poverty, and sure, there was definitely many a noble way that would pull them out of the squalor they were used to, but the villain was much too spent to care.

Ironic that this was meant to be their "money-maker" mission, pathetically easy too. Just steal some precious artifact from a museum, replace it with a decoy and get away before anyone found out

. . .except all they'd ended up with was Vigilante's knife wedged in their abdomen and swiftly pulled out. They'd run as fast as their exhausted legs could take them, finding themselves here, honestly surprised that there was no one around to judge them, to sneer at how out of place they looked. They just needed a map, anything to find out how far they were from home, a way out, anything to use a makeshift bandage.

Help. They needed help.

And they hated it. Hated the fact that they weren't invincible and hated how they hadn't realised it even sooner. They wanted to scream their throat raw, to tear their hair out, to collapse on the ground and disappear into nothing, like they'd never been. If only the ink on the pages of a miserable story could be erased, could leave its everlasting paper prison. Beautiful, torturous fantasies; where monsters had a life outside of the cages where they belonged.

The all-too familiar smell of cigarette smoke should not have snatched the villain so abruptly out of their thoughts; some of the other inhabitants of their area could starve just to buy a pack, almost always reeking of it wherever they went. They blamed the close proximity for their sudden distraction. Their gaze flitted over to the figure next to them, almost towering above them. The criminal's breath caught in their throat, but the person next to them wouldn't be able to tell. They were just about to force their body into a fighting stance when the person next to them let out a soft chuckle.

"Don't recognise me?" they called out, the corner of their mouth curled upwards in a cheeky smirk.

They'd never seen Hero without a mask on, but they could tell that voice apart from thousands more. There was nothing peculiar about it per se, aside from its strange calmness, the way it was so hard to discern any emotions in their tone.

If the hero's smirk hadn't morphed into a slightly bigger smile, the villain would have forgotten to close their agape mouth. In all honesty, they hadn't expected the crime-stopper to be rich. They'd seen heroes with much fancier super-suits anyway. In a stark contrast to the them, the hero's clothes fit them perfectly; a dark shirt with the sleeves rolled up, left slightly open to expose their collarbones and a pair of slacks, both designer. An diamond-studded watch adorned their left hand, a cigarette clutched in their right, smoke trailing out of it in phantom shapes. They looked a bit younger than the criminal expected, a bit more carefree.

"Is the smoke irritating?' they asked, concerned, snapping the villain out of their thoughts once more.

It wasn't. The faux concern in the hero's tone was, though. Or that was how they saw it. Of course, like most of the elite, they were well-trained in the art of preserving their image with fake charms.

The villain merely shook their head, and at that, the hero gave them a small frown, one eyebrow raised up discontentedly. "You usually chew me out every time we fight. What's got you so quiet?"

The villain wanted to scream. Wasn't it obvious? What were they next to the crime-stopper in their goddamn territory, injured, exhausted and hungry, not having eaten a proper meal in days. They despised how immaculate the hero looked, with their freshly styled hair, their build that seemed to grow stronger as the villain's own simply diminished. "Shut up," they growled, voice dangerously low, "SHUT THE HELL UP, PLEASE!"

The hero's eyes widened, and they threw their practically dead cigarette into a trash can close to them, wanting to focus their full attention on the criminal in front of them. They'd never seen their feelings betray them like that before, as they bounced off of the hero with detached sarcasm. Something flashed in their emerald greens, an emotion the villain had almost never seen before. Not contempt or apathy, not even pity. Understanding. Raw, and if their weary mind wasn't playing any cruel tricks on them, more real than anything they'd ever seen.

"I'm just sick of it all," they breathed out, practically slouching against a tree.

"I know," the hero replied softly, gently laying a hand on the villain's wrist, and they were surprised at themselves for not pushing it away. Maybe it was because they didn't really remember an instance where a touch did not inflict pain.

And right before the villain could ask the hero incredulously just how they knew precisely what was wrong with their life, the crime-fighter was quick to answer. "I always do a bit of research on the people I fight. I have to admit, you're kind of a ghost, but I have my ways."

The villain knew their face had rapidly turned an embarrassed shade of scarlet at the hero's statements, subconsciously pulling her hand away from them.

"I want to help," they clarified, "I can help."

Villain let out a hoarse, empty laugh. "I don't need you to throw your cash at me. What's the point? For me to be indebted to you for the rest of my life? To be nothing and only have any value because of you and your money?" they hissed, nostrils flaring.

"Do you really think that someone offering you help makes you weak or worthless? No matter how high-achieving you are, some things are left to chance. Love it or hate it, you'll never hold totalitarian control over your life."

"That doesn't change anything!" Villain cried out incredulously, inching closer to Hero, practically in their face, their bated breath warm against their skin.

"I wasn't born rich," the hero attested, "I grew up on the streets. One thing they don't tell you about getting rich is that you also need to get lucky as hell. Hard work alone won't just cut it. I used to steal to eat, too. So stop being a bastard and let me help you."

"Please," they added hastily, laying their hands on the villain's shoulders their grip firm but gentle.

"Why?"

"Because you don't deserve this? Because I know how talented you are with a keyboard, but you can't even afford a goddamn laptop? Damn it, Villain, you let me live, that time you could have killed me, so now we're even."

They actually used to have a crappy, old machine, being a STEM major, but when they'd somehow become even more broke, they'd had to sell it to not starve to death. They had an under-the-radar hacker phase, if you will. And about letting the hero live, it had been an impulse. Killing the only human being they interacted with made no sense to them, no matter how solitary they claimed to be.

The villain's ego desperately wished for them to refuse, but then what were their options again? They didn't just have their dilapidated life to come back to, there was the wrath of their powerful, mysterious employer. Pride is simply a luxury when one has nothing in their life beyond struggling to survive.

Still, Villain wasn't impulsive. "Say I agree. What does your 'help' entail? How do you I know you won't screw me over?"

"Live with me, and I'll give you your own source of income. Put your skills with a computer to good use. And if I really want to 'screw you over', aren't there faster, easier ways to do it? Like not shutting Vigilante up with some hush money and a few, well-placed threats? Like kicking you in that injury they gave you?" the hero reasoned.

It terrified them, just how much the crime-fighter knew, all those goddamn tricks they had up their sleeve. And maybe it wasn't the 'purest' of comforting thoughts, but the villain knew that if the hero ever decided to stab them in the back, they could use those 'computer skills' to make sure they really payed, that is, if they didn't kill them first.

"Fine," they answered, and the hero smiled at them, an expression that was so incredibly soft, that the villain wondered how they were ever capable of any violence. They snaked an arm around their shoulders, and by God, they were so horribly tired that they didn't care they were practically leaning against the crime-fighter.

✨Time skip✨

The hero's hands were unbearably gentle with their wounds, attentive to the subtle ways in which they expressed pain; the tension in their jaw, the way their fingers tightened around the blanket. Maybe for once, they didn't hate the hero's gift of seeming to notice everything. The moments that went by were quiet, but not in an uncomfortable way. They had to admit they appreciated what the silk sheets and the warm shower did for their body, and subconsciously, how they calmed their anxiety, if only by a fraction.

"Just get some rest, and whenever you wake up, I'll have someone make you something to eat downstairs. Up in your room even if you feel like it, just text me if you need anything," the crime-fighter said, setting down an older phone of theirs. Rich people don't need to sell their old stuff, probably. "I'll get you a new one, among other stuff tomorrow, okay?"

The villain nodded their agreement, sinking back into the pillows as the hero walked out. "You're a good person," they blurted out suddenly, shocked at voicing their own impulsive thoughts out loud. Maybe they didn't trust the hero blindly yet, but something completely unrelated to their usually rational approach to life, the same part of them that had let the crime-stopper live told them that they could at least trust them a bit more than they used to.

"I try to be," the hero replied, but they were smiling softly at them again before they closed the door.

Self-sufficiency is powerful, important to the life of anyone who wished for true freedom. But it is not to be confused with the stubborn ignorance of help, with fruitless attempts to be solitary. Refusing the hand that pulls you up from a raging ocean will not grant you any strength, only serving to leave you drowned. Even broken lives can get second chances, don't throw yours away.

✨End✨

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[kalavathiraj]

TOLERANCE Is a skill Perfected in the hands of the poor It’s a superpower That allows for the heart To feel less hate And the eyes to be less judgmental And more okay with listening Than talking only - the’ poverty’ of the rich

Life Lessons, QUOTUS

[fantastic-mr-corvid]

just saw the 'if ur oc was canon what discourse would there be' post and suddenly i remember that actually i dont want Celia & co to be seen by a large audience.

[sweetfreedom2107]

Why is there so much pain? So much suffering? All of it for what? Why is there a need to learn lessons when we are here for such a short while? Why do some die alone and some starve on the streets? Why do some bathe in diamonds and some marry with paper rings? What must be the reason behind this injustice is what I wonder.