#for the amount of money they take from us

[idrawprettyboys]

Advice for Aspiring Commissions Artists

I recently had someone ask for advice on how to sell art commissions, so I thought it would be nice to compile a list for others aspiring to do so, as well as to remind myself of some important things to keep in mind.

1. Have one tumblr blog strictly for art. People will follow it specifically because they like your art, and it will be easy for them to find your artwork without having to scroll through a jumble of other stuff.

2. Draw and post just about every day! Most people will say to draw every single day, but please let yourself rest. You will end up being miserable if you force yourself to draw when you aren’t feeling well. The more you draw, the more your art will improve, and the more followers you will naturally accumulate over time.

3. Post fan art to bring in fans. You don’t have to strictly draw fan art, of course. But people are more likely to interact if they’re familiar with the character already. A lot of people will follow you for fan art initially, and some of them will grow to love your original art as well.

4. Develop your own unique style. This will occur naturally over time. Learn from artists you love, and over time, your art will evolve into a mix of art styles you like into something uniquely yours!

5. It takes time to find supporters who are willing to spend money on your art. Building an art business is a slow process, and it takes patience and perseverance. Only a small percentage of social media followers will pay for commissions or Patreon support, but those few are precious.

6. Use every platform and website you can to share your art and have links between platforms, so your fans can find you in multiple places. Examples of places to share your art are social media sites like Twitter, Instagram, BlueSky, and Pillowfort, as well as art sites like Cara and Pixiv.

7. Get a Patreon and Ko-Fi account and be sure to provide links to these means of financial support on your art posts (especially the art pieces you’re proud of).

8. Make use of as many means of making money with art as you can. Sell prints on inprnt, sell stickers on Redbubble. Youtube videos can eventually give you ad revenue. If you make comics, Tapas is another option to make a little bit of ad revenue. You can use Etsy to sell originals, prints, or even commissions! Some people may feel more comfortable buying commissions through an official store like Etsy rather than on social media, so it’s good to have that as a back-up in addition to selling through other sites.

9. Use a secure payment method that you’re comfortable with! I recommend using PayPal with invoices, so that you have proof of their purchase in case anything goes wrong. A lot of artists use Ko-Fi as well.

10. Post your commission guidelines on all the sites where you post your art! Don’t be afraid to reblog/repost your commission price list multiple times!

11. Art commissions are not a steady job. You might get nonstop commissions for a couple months and then not get any for a few months. There are some times of year when people are less willing to spend money. I’ve noticed this happening towards the end of the year. At times when you aren’t getting commissions, I recommend doing a limited time sale!

12. Price yourself appropriately for the amount of effort it takes for you to get the work done! Don’t overprice or underprice! Ask your friends for advice on what you should charge. You’ll probably want to start low and slowly increase your prices as your work gets higher demand.

13. Make your commission price list legible! Check out other people’s sheets for guidance!

14. Have patience and perseverance! It may take years after you start posting before you get a commission, but the more you put yourself out there, the more you’ll get noticed!

15. Draw what you enjoy! Maybe cater to your audience once in a while, but your own happiness is important to give yourself the drive to keep on going!

16. Don’t be afraid to reblog your own art at various times of day, for maximum visibility! Not all of your followers will be online at the time that you initially posted it.

@artist-kreating-stuff

[hencheri]

if you ever get the chance, watch squid game s2 (or s1 if you haven’t, top tier) but, your racer heeseung got me thinking.

racer!jeno (or anybody, i don’t care as long as it’s fitting) who comes to your car repairs shop late at night to get some paint fixed on his car. when it comes time to pay he makes sure to give you a big tip. you tell him that there’s no need but he wasn’t talking about cash. despite the protests, he bends you over the front of his car while he holds your wrists in his hand while he thrusts into you, the side of your cheek practically stuck to the car from the paint drying :/ he asks you what a women’s doing fixing cars and shit anyways. when he’s finally finished and he pulls you off the car, you swear your skin ripped off from how much paint had combined you and the car together. he looks over your shoulder and the side of your face was completely embedded in your car. he tells you he thinks he’ll keep it there, and you know what? maybe he wants your ass to be printed on the top of his car too? maybe he wants your tits to be embedded on his passenger door too. it doesn’t matter, the next race he’s in, everybody’s gonna be wondering who’s face that is on the front of his car.

it’s got to be written because my mind is going absolutely wild

18+ mdni.

warnings: noncon, misogyny.

racer!jeno is perfect, especially since i've been craving him really badly lately... honestly, it's something i would have never thought of, that's so out of pocket (in a good way). i know he's mad af when he comes to the garage and he sees you, like, really? a girl, repairing his car?

you ignore his comments at first because you honestly hear it all so often... "isn't there anybody else working?", "you? the mechanic?", "you're sure you won't break my car even more?", stuff like that... when he comes to check on the job you've done, it pisses him off that everything seems completely fine bcs he can't complain. but he pays you the right amount, but when your back is turned, he takes a hold of your neck, pulling you to his chest. he wants a little extra, a bonus. after all, that's what you're here for, right? to serve him, use you how he sees fit.

he bends you over the hood of his car, your hands flat on it, trying to keep your balance as he fucks you brutally. he's merciless and rough; he has a point to make. you're made to take cock, be a little cum dump, nothing else. and he fully believes it by the end of it, taking a fistful of your hair and bringing you flush to his chest once again. his eyes burn into your face and honestly, he's never been so painfully hard.

but also... i see the opposite, you coming to have your car repaired; brakes too rusty, oil change... idk, something like that, something real simple. with the model of the car, he fully thinks the owner is a man, but when he sees you, his jaw clenches, biting the inside of his cheek. apparently, you do car races. well, you think you do because he knows someone like you could never handle a race. he wants to scoff in your face, but he holds back.

the garage slowly empties, only you and jeno remaining as you come to pay him. when you hand him the money, he reaches for it, but unexpectedly grab your wrist, bending you over the counter. he shoves the side of your face onto the surface, squishing your cheek against it. he snarls at you, talking about "it's no place for a woman, who do you think you are? driving a car way too powerful for you". you're a dumb little girl if you think he won't demand you an extra.

[auraee]

This maybe potentially controversial, but I’m choosing not to take part in the Lnd boycott. My reason behind this is as a poc fan of the game with criticisms towards the very same game, whenever someone like me speaks out on this various issues regarding the fandom (the racism and colourism) and the company itself, we get ignored, blown over, pushed aside, told that it’s not that serious, and told that we’re lucky that we even get to PLAY the game.

Lnd is a game that’s accessible to EVERYONE. The very least they could is people of colour to be able to self-insert and immerse themselves fully. And Infold hasn’t even done that fully. It’s not right that you lot tell us that we should consider ourselves “lucky.”

Not only that, but I’ve also noticed the obvious difference in engagement between black/brown content and white content. For a fandom that claims to be lovely and peaceful you can tell there’s distain. We get a fraction of the engagement that white fans get and that much is obvious. With that being said you want us to support you with this boycott? Nope, count me out.

We’ve been pleading to have our, frankly , more serious issues acknowledged for aeons only to receive crumbs and you expect us to bend over backwards and help out? No.

Is the fact that it’s increasingly harder to be f2p? Sure. Is Sylus being tried unfairly? Potentially yes. Is the fact that there’s no option for curly coily hairstyles for poc to use horrible? Obviously. Does it suck that there’s only one body type? Also yes. Is it weird that there’s no diversity amongst the npcs in Lnd’s world? Definitely.

I’ll only consider it fair when ALL issues and acknowledged and acted upon. Not just some, just because it doesn’t affect YOU personally.

Edit- I’d also like to add that the guys who also play the game had a right to want a male MC. Again, they should be able to express themselves and their frustrations, without being told to “stop complaining” or to “not play the game.” The same issue occurs when some problems are acknowledged because it is convenient for a prominent group in the fandom and not everyone else when it should be everyone.

Edit 2 - I've also had another thought. I think the reason why people have been saying Westerners are entitled is because it comes from a mindset of having everything catered to them from baseline. Do you have white skin and straight hair? Well, you can find that in customisations in every game. You've never had to reach out or felt uncomfortable about being unable to express yourself in customisable games. However, if someone with coily hair comes along and asks for options to include them as well, it's now viewed as an entitlement. That we're suddenly demanding too much. I don't think asking a company that makes an obscene amount of money off of their audience and who's catering to the same audience, for additional hairstyles and body sizes. I think it's because those who are in the default category (except for a few) simply can't fathom not being included in things. They literally can't or refuse to even attempt to see things from another's perspective and likely don't care for those who are constantly excluded. Which is why they create excuses for these companies.

[crooked-wasteland]

I've seen your tweet which criticizes the worldbuilding in Helluva Boss and how the Goetias feel like "Hollywood with royal titles" rather than true aristocracy, and I would like you to elaborate on that, if that's OK.

Thank you so much for this ask as I never got to expand on this point at the time. For those not in the know, the user is referencing this exchange on Twitter.

As much as the elites of our world would like to disperse the truth, the reality is that all societies are constructed around power. Who has power, how and why. That is the fundamental basis of every social dynamic from children on a playground to the politicians in our governments. So the very first thing we should even approach in regards to the narrative is how does power work in this universe?

So when I responded to Elcee in the tweet being referenced, I am evaluating power and power structures. Mainly there are two wholly different constructs of power between something like the aristocracy and celebrities.

The closest thing to an aristocracy we have in our modern day are the financial oligarchs of Capitalism. Elon Musk, Jeff Bezos, Bill Gates, etc. They have control everything from how our political parties engage with us to how we think based on the wealth they were born into. They curate our lives behind the scenes in ways that sound worthy of a tinfoil hat, but isn't a conspiracy. The wealthy were threatened in the 1970s by an educated proletariate. In response to our questioning the Vietnam war, the higher education that was once free or at least extremely affordable suddenly became prohibitively expensive.

So much so that only the financial aristocracy could access it. Whereas working class individuals are forced to jump through hoops and prove themselves suitably subservient to the existing power of the oligarchy in the form of scholarship applications, teacher recommendations and application letters before being granted access. This is not a mistake or how it's always been, this is by design.

Meanwhile, Celebrities are not elites. While we think of celebrities as being overpaid and living in luxury, it only takes a glance over at Chappell Roan to see the difference. When Jeff Bezos or Elon Musk or any large corporate CEO walks the red carpet, they are treated as royalty. When celebrities walk the red carpet, they are commodities.

Celebrity is the modern day face of the American Dream. Gone are the days of a single family home and a white picket fence. The boom of content over art, luxury over practicality, and excess over comfort is directly the result of selling to the world the idea of capitalistic success, which just amounts to perpetuating the system of turning humans into money. And for as much money as these celebrities make, it has been proven over and over again that they are just as susceptible to poverty as any other working class individual.

Celebrities are products we buy, and when we stop buying them, they vanish.

Meanwhile the aristocracy, the financial oligarchy, thrives in obscurity.

The difference in power is about who still has it when we no longer see them. And the more invisible and pervasive it is, the more real it is. However one as an individual thinks about the celebrity class, they are simple a different type of specialized tool to the true power behind the scenes.

With that differential in mind, the Goetia function more like celebrities rather than CEOs, and while Elcee fails to see the bigger picture, that subliminally tells the audience that someone with the title of prince, with armies sworn to his allegiance and infinite cosmic power, is no different than a working class joe.

This isn't intentional propaganda, however. It's not her trying to further the agendas of Jeff Bezos intentionally. Just like my other post covering how Medrano tries to excuse cheating, not realizing the only time one can argue such a blanket concept of forgiveness for such a betrayal can only happen when the option of choice is non-existent (ie Divorce is not on the table for reasons outside of the characters’ choices), this is the danger of not engaging with media with your mind turned on. You will innately, no matter how careful someone tries to be, engage with the material through the eyes of the creator.

Celebrities and average people are the same: commodities in the face of real power. But Medrano cannot tell the difference between someone like Elon Musk and his employees. She sees the aristocracy, the ones who were born into a legacy of wealth, as “hardworking average folks”. And if you aren't thinking, you might find yourself implicitly believing that too. Deeper entrenching the power they have over you as an individual and society as a whole.

How we got to where we are in our real lives is mirrored in the media we consume. And that isn't an accident.

[katiebuggg]

You really got a hold on me

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teddy boy John x reader fic!

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this is my first ever tumblr post so I'll be posting here until my ao3 account gets approved LOL If you guys like this fic I'll write chapter 2 and have it up by tmrw. enjoy!

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It’s early morning, February 1960, in Liverpool. In the silence of the night before, a quiet dusting of snow had fallen onto the still-sleeping city. The crisp air bites at Y/N’s nose as she hustles through the streets. Clutching a mess of papers to her chest, Y/N briefly glances down at her Sultana watch. Its face is small, and the band is a braided leather adorned with gold hardware. It was her first big purchase with the money she had earned herself—at the job she is now extremely late for.

“Shit!” she panics to herself as she quickens her pace, her heeled boots kicking up light snow as she dashes around one corner, then the next. Her heavy tote slides down her shoulder with every brisk step, making it difficult to keep the papers hugged to her fur-lined coat while simultaneously pulling up the bag’s slipping strap.

Finally, fifteen minutes late, Y/N tugs at the cold iron door handle of the building where she works. Her job at the local newspaper isn’t glamorous, but it keeps the lights on and puts her brand-new communications degree to use. She flashes a sheepish grin at the woman at the front desk—her friend Nancy. Nancy blinks back through her false eyelashes, unamused. She’s only a year older than Y/N but is quick-witted, sharp, and, most importantly, beautiful. Naturally, she worked her way up to the front desk swiftly. Her long, pin-straight black hair is pulled tightly into a French bun, and she wears a dark grey boxy dress with a thin white cardigan over top.

“Second time you’ve been late this month, Y/N. If the early morning stories are too difficult, you should consider taking more late-night ones,” Nancy says coolly as the phone rings on her desk.

“I know, I know. I’m sorry,” Y/N groans, ignoring the comment about a schedule change.

Nancy pulls the phone to her ear and waves a dismissive hand at Y/N, who rolls her eyes before striding over to the elevator. She urgently presses the button for the seventh floor and slides in as soon as the doors open. The stale, damp smell of the office building elevator clings to her cold nose as she scans over the headlines of the stories in her hands: a section on local politics, sporting news from the weekend, and an advertisement for a hotel beneath them. Y/N exhales a puff of frustration as the elevator dings and opens onto her floor, where the loud chatter of typewriters fills the office.

She plops down into her wooden chair, placing the stack of papers on her desk before shimmying off her coat. Her job here is simple—look over the papers for errors, then pass the stories up to the publishing and printing department. Despite the simplicity of her work, she stays busy, tirelessly sifting through the news from one dull article to the next. Nothing ever really catches her eye or piques her interest. Y/N is considerably younger than most of her coworkers, except for Nancy, whom she keeps close. She wrapped up university quickly to jump-start her career, which she had imagined would be far more glamorous than this. Despite her disillusionment, she grabs a fountain pen from the cup of stationery on her desk and begins to review the stories carefully.

As the morning hours tick by, Y/N sifts through story after story, paper after paper, circling errors and drinking a generous amount of coffee. When the clock strikes noon and the church bell chimes from around the corner, she gathers her things for lunch and lugs her way downstairs to meet Nancy.

“Jesus,” Nancy chuckles dryly, wrapping a scarf around her neck and tugging on her gloves. “You look dead.”

Y/N groans in response, rubbing her eyes, her coat wrapped warmly around her.

“It’s been a relentless week… seriously,” Y/N mutters.

Nancy pulls her small purse onto her shoulder and links arms with Y/N as they step out of the building to grab lunch at their favorite café across the street. The bitter winter air stings their faces as cars whizz by, splashing slushy snow onto the wet pavement.

“You should tag along with me to the club tonight,” Nancy chirps as they cross the street.

“Are you kidding me? I’ll be knackered,” Y/N protests, still arm-in-arm with her friend.

“Oh, come on! It’s Friday, Y/N—live a little.” Nancy bumps her hip against Y/N’s, who rolls her eyes dramatically, letting her head fall back for added effect. Nancy chuckles.

“Fine, fine… but if I miss a story, it’ll be your head on the stake, not mine.”

The girls step into the warm, bustling café and slip into a cracked vinyl booth before continuing their lively chatter. Across the way, sipping steaming hot tea and sucking on cigarettes, sit two boys. One wears deep blue jeans and biker boots, while the other dons a pair of black slacks and saddle shoes. Both, however, wear thick, worn leather jackets over warm jumpers. They jabber loudly, smoke spilling from their smiling lips, curling around their booth in soft plumes.

Nancy notices them first and huffs. “Right, because the first thing you want to hear in a café is two teddies gobbin’ off,” she scoffs. “Give me a break.”

Her tone is loud and annoyed—no doubt meant for the boys to hear.

Y/N groans, covering her face with a menu. Since they met, Nancy has been known for her short temper and strong opinions. Y/N loves her for both of these things—one more than the other—but sometimes, it costs her sanity in public.

“Nancy… please,” Y/N warns through gritted teeth, giving her friend a pleading look.

Nancy ignores her, keeping her judgmental gaze fixed on the duo.

The boy in slacks turns his head toward them, meeting Nancy’s eyes for a split second before giving them both a once-over. He chuckles dryly, his eyes lingering lazily on Y/N a second longer before glancing back at his friend. He nudges him under the table and whispers something over his tea, making the other boy glance over as well. The one in jeans murmurs something back, and they both snicker. The sounds of other café patrons and kitchen clatter mask their quiet exchange.

Y/N can feel Nancy start to boil over, noticing her eyes haven’t moved an inch off the rowdy boys.

“Please, for my sake, do not—”

Before Y/N can finish her sentence, Nancy has already popped out of the booth and is storming over to the teddies.

Y/N groans and slides out after her.

“Oh-ho-ho! Here she comes!” the boy in slacks announces as Nancy furiously approaches. His auburn-brown hair matches his deep eyes, and a foxy grin spreads across his face. He holds up his hands in mock surrender, a cigarette pinched between two fingers of his right hand.

“Nobody in here wants to hear you two causing a racket,” Nancy announces, arms crossed in front of her chest, glaring down at the men with her famously unamused expression.

Y/N catches up behind her, eyebrows raised, her face pink with embarrassment. She shoots the boy in jeans a remorseful smile and pats Nancy on the shoulder, signaling it’s time to go.

“She doesn’t seem too bothered,” the boy in slacks says slyly, looking around Nancy to meet Y/N’s eyes. He flashes her a toothy grin.

“I’m John. Who—”

“No one gives a shit who you are. You lot are a bunch of bloody gobshites, anyway,” Nancy interrupts before turning on her heel, grabbing Y/N by the wrist, and dragging her toward the door.

“I’m Paul!” the other boy shouts in a pestering manner, followed by an eruption of laughter from both of them.

“Oh, piss off!” Nancy yells back before yanking Y/N outside, back into the cold streets of Liverpool.

[drdemonprince]

Similar to what some other people have said- I was never sexually abused, but did experience what I suppose it's fair to call emotional and physical abuse at the hands of my primary caregivers. As an adult, while the physical abuse is what tends to upset other people the most, for me the most traumatic experiences were denials of my bodily autonomy. We all knew there was a limit to the physical damage they could do to me without getting CPS involved, and they didn't want that to happen. But there were no laws protecting my autonomy. Isolating your child from their friends, severely restricting their internet access, and forcing them to attend religious events are seen as standard parts of parenting and I knew the only way to escape that was to age out. Even then, they maintained a lot of control over me throughout college, through tuition + housing + access to my siblings. I'm not trying to diminish how incredibly lucky I was to graduate without student loan debt, but it gave them a lot of power over me- I would probably have had to drop out of college if they stopped paying (which they threatened to do multiple times). What's maybe the most fucked up part of all of this is that yeah, I think the money might be worth more than the trauma. It was a lot of fucking money lmao. In conclusion I suppose there are a lot of ways to violate children's autonomy that don't involve sex and are perfectly socially acceptable, and not all of them end the moment you turn 18. The only differences in my situation at ages 17 and 19 were made up by the legal system. Yeah, having my own bank account and being able to consent to my own medical treatment made a big difference to me, but it's honestly weird that I had to wait that long when I would have been responsible with those at a much younger age. Yeah, everyone is different, but when I was 15 the school nurse had to call my caregivers for permission to give me tylenol. Tylenol! Something I had been taking several times a month for years. Not even my caregivers required me to ask permission for that. And I turned out perfectly fine (in that respect) because at 15 I could easily read and understand safety labels, lol.

Yeah, this is tertiary to your point anon but I've never envied the handful of wealthy people I have known because the amount of control their parents leveraged over them using that wealth was horrific and really limited them as people. Lots of parents do this to a smaller scale with whatever resources they do have access to, of course. And yeah, sometimes you gotta decide what makes the most sense for you and put up with mistreatment as cannily as you can to get those tuition bills paid! It sucks.

[gorbalsvampire]

About fifteen years ago I wrote a short form game based on this exact idea. It amounted to "extremely basic card based resolution system that, because it uses playing cards, you can play in public with less fear of being nerd shamed and no need to waste money on rules you don't need anyway." This was during the peak of my disintegration GM "games don't need all these rules god damn you" phase…

So yeah, I think you're right. Legitimising a process of playing "let's pretend" for grown-ups? I'll take "what is a TTRPG?" for fifty Euros, Miss Vixen.

I do think theatre-studies wank has a place in TTRPG scholarship (this is where my PhD was going), but that's more to do with textuality and finding "the game" in relation to the rulebooks (which describe the game but do not fully contain it) and the act of play (derived from the books but transformative in nature). Something used to identify the text under analysis and how it works: not something I'd put in my "how to pretend to be a vampire" advice video.

And me-from-fifteen-years-ago was huffing their own farts, by the way. These days the gays assembled before my lofty throne will roll their Hunger dice and like it. Tradgames usually have a bloat problem, but the core mechanical loops describe and define playing the game – and that's a good thing.

People have objected to the comparison between D&D fans and gaylors in terms of imagined gayness but like. I'm sorry babes, but the gayness of D&D literally is imagined.

D&D has queer representation in its art and fiction, this is true. Does that representation actually matter for the sake of the themes of the game and its gameplay, as presented in the game? No. You can decide that your elf is gay, and hey, who wouldn't, but the game will just stare at you blankly and not do anything with that information. It's literally fluff in the same sense that your character having blue eyes or being left-handed is. As written the game has nowhere to go with from that information.

But even more so, the thing that inspired that post was people insisting that D&D's gameplay and fiction does somehow interface with queer experiences and is, actually, meaningfully about the experiences of a queer found family and sorry I'm not going to mince words here but that part you straight up did hallucinate.

[esamastation]

Gamer girl gets transmigrated into a farm boy Chapter 4 [<<Prologue | <Chapter 3 || Chapter 5>>] Ao3 link

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So, gambling turned out to be a bit of a bust. It's not a complete loss, though, Van did multiply his starting bid of five silver to seventy four silver pieces in total. Compared to using exploits it's nothing - Katie could've made that in her sleep, if the NPCs still worked like they do in the game. But seeing that it's still in the very early tutorial section… it could be worse.

And then there's the level up. Van's very first this time around. Cue the confetti…

[Farmboy] [Van] [Lvl. 2 Commoner]

It feels pretty good. And what's waiting below in the stats screen is even better.

[You have 2 unused Stat Points.] [You have 1 unused Skill Point]

The first ones always feel a bit special.

In Age of Tales you get two status points and one skill point each time you level up and can then allocate those points as you wish on your character screen. It's not the only way to get points - there are quests, special items and a couple of accessories that affect how you accrue points - but until you're making real money in the game, you're stuck with what level ups dish out. Which is fine - early levels until about lvl. 20 are pretty cheap.

Of course, Van doesn't have a class yet, and so no skill tree to assign his shiny new skill point to - but he can assign his stat points, if he wants to. Which brings up the question. 

What is he going to specialise in this time? 

Van's got the base stats for an easy start as a Paladin, obviously - but Katie just did a Paladin run, and while it was fun, she wouldn't say it was so great that she's eager to repeat the experience. Especially if this really is a transmigration isekai situation - which she's still not thinking about, thank you very much, that's an existential crisis that can wait until nightfall.

At any rate, getting stuck forever as a Paladin would be… well, it would probably be fine. It was alright, playing the goody two shoes lawful good himbo with a heart of gold. It went great with the whole cliché secret chosen one and the lost heir to a great house thing at least… not that there were more than, like, three characters in the whole game who even acknowledged the player character's class. Van got pretty much the same reaction from everyone regardless of whether he was a Rogue or a Wizard or Paladin - it was just the big black and white moral choices that affected those sorts of things.

Age of Tales is Age of Tales-ing, what can you do?

Anyway, going at it as a Paladin again would be easy… but boring. Katie would have to think about it carefully before committing to anything. Though she hasn't quite ruled out the use of cheats yet and is still hoping that Van might be able to use exploits to his benefit later, the gambler showed her that things are different here. Never mind the fact that some features of Age of Tales are just missing, like the passive Wisdom buff. What if she chose a class with features that just don't work anymore?

Yeah, Van's next class would take some careful consideration, and she wouldn't be assigning his status points until she knew, either. Class selection wouldn't be until Urgol's Camp in Chapter 2, anyway, so there's no point fretting about it now.

For now Van has some silver to spend and shopping to do.

He considers visiting the fortune teller first, just in case the duplication glitch is still possible… but he doesn't have a gold bar, and the glitch never worked with anything else, and beyond that the fortune teller doesn't really do much. Also, he has The Incident to prepare for, too, and a limited amount of money.

So, with a full coin purse in hand, Van turns his attention to the market instead. First things first - weapon and armour.

The smithy stands on the other end of the market square, with smoke chugging out of its chimney at steady puffs. There are some shields on display in the front and a big wooden sword on top of the building, advertising "Blakeley's Blades - in business for more than three generations!"

"Hello," Van calls, entering the place.

Inside the air is hot and thick, with the smell of smoke and metal hanging heavy in the room. In the background there's the steady clink-clink-clink of a hammer on an anvil - an apprentice, hammering out some nails in the back. 

"Welcome," an older teenager, eighteen at most, comes forward. "How can we help you?"

[Blacksmith's Apprentice] [Jaro Amagris] [Lvl. 15 Commoner]

"I'd like to see what you have for sale, please," Van says.

"Well, what we have ready is over there," the older apprentice says, pointing towards a table loaded with a number of wooden boxes and buckets full of different metal crafts - nails, candle holders, hinges… "But if you want something specific, you will have to wait until the master gets back - he's out on business."

"Thanks, I'll just take a look," Van says and moves to the table. 

Much to his delight, an Age of Tales shop menu pops up.

[Blakeley's Blades Blacksmith]

[Small Iron Nail - 10 copper pieces] [Small Iron Hook - 13 copper pieces] [Small Iron Clasp - 15 copper pieces] …

And so on, in a surprisingly long list from cheapest to the most expensive. It's a lot of small iron stuff, different types of nails, cloak pins, buckles and buttons, eating utensils, heads of farming tools, and so on and so on, ending with the most expensive items.

… [Cast Iron Skillet - 35 silver pieces] [Cast Iron Cooking Pot - 40 silver pieces] [Short Sword - 50 silver pieces] 

It's a lot more items than Van had been expecting - and yet, fewer weapons. There are plenty of knives - Cooking Knife, Lvl. 1, goes for a nice round 20 silver pieces while Whittling knife, Lvl. 1 goes for 25 - but there's no daggers or throwing knives or anything like that. There isn't even metal ammunition for a sling. There's just one short sword on sale.

And no armour whatsoever. 

"Do you not sell any armour?" Van asks, confused. 

"Er, no?" Jaro Amagris says, giving him a strange look. "We don't make armour, really, though I suppose we can give it a try, if you want to order some. Or you could try at the Madam Arbury's, they might have something."

Van blinks, confused. "Madam Arbury's?"

"The tailor," Jaro clarifies.

There's a tailor? "Oh, okay. Uh. Where is it?"

"It's just across from the church - big windows with dresses, you can't miss it," the apprentice says with a shrug. "I think they have some padded coats and stuff."

Huh. That's interesting. You could get some gambesons and the like in the game too, but all armour and weaponry was bought from blacksmiths. This is… different.

"What d'you need armour for?" the younger apprentice, a boy of maybe ten or eleven, asks from between his hammering. His eyes shine eagerly on his sweaty, soot-stained face. Van glances at the air above him.

[Blacksmith's Apprentice] [Denny Rivercross] [Lvl. 3 Commoner]

The kid squints at Van.  "Are you going to join the army or something?" he asks.

Yeah, eventually, unfortunately, if things follow game plot. "No, no, I just got a bit of money, and I always wanted to try it," Van says quickly and motions at himself. "I mean… I think I'd make a good warrior. What do you think?" He flexes an arm, just because he can. And because Van's biceps are massive.

The younger blacksmith's apprentice bounces a little, clearly full of barely contained kid energy. "Oh yeah! You could be a knight!"

The older apprentice snorts. "Yeah, I don't think size alone is enough to become a knight, Denny," he says, looking Van up and down. "Though it probably helps…"

Denny bounces again. "Jaro, can we make armour for him?" the kid asks eagerly. "I'm so tired of making nails!"

"Well, like I said, we could give it a try," Jaro answers dubiously, still eyeing Van. "If he can pay for it."

Van shrugs. "I might, I might not. How long would it take to make it?"

"Depends on what you want," Jaro answers, taking a hammer lying on a table nearby and swinging it thoughtfully. "Some things take longer to make. And whether you're fine with us trying our hand at it, or if you want a master to make it matters too. He'll be faster - but it will cost you more."

"Hmm… say I wanted a chest plate, a cuirass, and you made it - how long would it take you?" Van asks, rubbing his chin on thought.

Jaro shrugs. "I've never made one and we're pretty busy, so… maybe a week or two?"

… by which time, Van would be at Ulgor's Camp and Valthor's minions would've already torched Westbrook to the ground.

Assuming, of course, that events followed game plot.

"Hmm," Van hums, wondering. In the game there's nothing you can do to prevent the destruction of Westbrook and the Gylcross farm - no matter what choices the player made, a scripted event was a scripted event. But maybe here and now… maybe there is something he can do.

He'd know once the Rift was opened.

In either case, a week is too long - he needs the armour for the battle in town, and that's in three days - and after that, even if the town survived, he might not see Westbrook again in months, if not years. There's no point in ordering anything made here.

"Well, it was a nice dream," Van sighs, a bit disappointed. "I guess I'll try my luck at the tailor's."

"Uh-huh," Jaro the senior apprentice agrees, clearly unimpressed, and drops the hammer on the table. "Alright. Anything else we can do for you?"

With no weapon-worthy knives and the only sword on sale being prohibitively expensive with Van's meagre budget… "Any chance you might have any spears or something lying around in here?"

Jaro snorts at him, arching his brows. "Spears?"

"I just want something to practice being a warrior with!" Van says defensively. "Spears are cheap, right?"

The elder blacksmith's apprentice shakes his head, looking amused, and then thinks about it. "Actually," Jaro says slowly. "I might have something. If you're alright with the shoddy quality, I think we have some practice pieces left?"

He goes to rummage in the back of the smithy and comes back with three very rough looking spearheads made of pretty low quality iron, going by the little holes and pockmarks in them.

[Dull Spearhead, Lvl. 1] [Attack: 3] [Defence: 0] [Crafting material. Attach to a Wooden Pole for a Dull Spear Lvl. 1.]

Van studies the spearheads with interest. Huh. There was crafting in Age of Tales, of course - but the only weapons you could craft were different types of arrows, and those only if you played a Ranger. He'd never seen spearheads. Maybe with some crafting material, his crafting menu will unlock?

In the meanwhile, the younger apprentice has abandoned his nail and is coming to join them. "Jaro, did you make these?" Denny asks, poking at the spearheads interestedly.

"Yes - master was hoping to get commission from the Baron, so he had me learn how to make them," Jaro shrugs. "We didn't get the job, though, it went to a blacksmith in Elysia. Someone's relative." He rolls his eyes.

Denny bounces eagerly, looking up at him. "I want to learn how to make spearheads!"

"Figure out how to make straight nails first," Jaro snorts, pushing the kid back towards the anvil he'd abandoned. Then the elder apprentice turns to look at Van. "Anyway, you can have these for five silver apiece."

Van hums. They are pretty rough, but… they'll probably still be better than the tools back at the farm. "Throw in a sharpening stone and you got yourself a deal."

-

Things go a little better at the tailor. Emphasis on the little.

"Oh, dear me," huffs the very fashionable lady tailor holding the gambeson against Van's chest and tutting fretfully. "No, it won't do, this won't fit at all! I'm afraid it will never fit you."

[Tailor] [Alma Arbury] [lvl. 7 Commoner]

She's somewhere between her thirties and forties and quite pretty, as most female NPCs in this game are. She's dressed up like the NPCs in the crown city, in a multilayered, vaguely Victorian looking dress with many shiny buttons running in a neat line from her neck down to the very hem. She looks very much like someone who's well fit to catering for the rich and affluent.

It's pretty fascinating, since she wasn't in the game at all.

"Well?" Alma asks, squinting a little through her golden framed glasses.

Van looks down. Though the gambeson looks pretty legit, with thick quilting and metal clasps and everything… it also kind of looks like she's holding something made for a child, when compared to his torso. "Could you maybe… expand it?" he asks hopefully. 

"Oh, well," Alma frowns, leaning back a little to consider the issue. "I suppose I could add panels to the side… and the arms… and the shoulder…" she trails away and then tsks, folding the gambeson over her arm. "No, no, it won't do, it won't do at all, it would be a complete mess. No, the proper thing to do is to make a new coat from scratch. Yes, it will fit you perfectly and will be far less work for me!"

Van hums, watching her take the gambeson away. "Well, you're the tailor, I guess. How long would that take, though?" he asks worriedly.

Alma hums and waves a dismissive hand. "Oh, a day or two - it's not a terribly complicated piece of clothing to make, and I have some nice quilt ready."

Van sighs with disappointment. Yet another unexpected turn for realism, but at least it's better than a week or two. "I see," he says and mentally pokes at the System, in hopes that it might offer him a handy-dandy instant goods store.

It shows him the tailor's shop instead. 

[Madam Arbury's Boutique.]

[Handkerchief - 80 copper pieces] [Foot Wrap - 90 copper pieces] [Underwear - 1 silver pieces] …

And so on and so forth, all the way down to…

… [Men's Fancy Winter Coat - 67 copper pieces] [Fancy Evening Dress - 80 silver pieces] [Elaborate Wedding Dress - 1 gold and 10 silver pieces] 

Van mentally flicks through the store page with a sigh and then stops. What's this? Near the middle of the list there is, oh, is that A Leather Vest, lvl. 4? For meagre 20 silver pieces? Well-well-well…

He looks slyly towards the tailor. "You wouldn't happen to have anything else - like, say, a vest?" he asks and adds, leadingly. "Something that might offer a little bit of protection?"

"Oh, well," Alma huffs, adjusting her glasses, her lips pursing up in thought. "I suppose we can have a look at what I have in store, but I really don't think… no, maybe…"

She heads off, muttering to herself and leaving Van examining the boutique and the System's store window. 

It's interesting, and yet another proof of how much more… real things are here. While the building for this shop was in the game - and it had something like five identical clones in other towns and cities - it hadn't been something the player could interact with. Just window dressing, making towns feel more lived in.

Maybe it was in the cut content, and there'd been plans for a clothing shop NPC that hadn't been implemented. It wouldn't be the first time it happened, and there certainly were enough clothing items that there should've been a tailor NPC.

"Ah, here we go!" Alma calls. She's holding a brown leather vest up triumphantly. "Now, this, this is a tough piece of clothing, if I do say so myself! Nice and supple cowhide. Come here, let's see how it fits."

It doesn't, no matter how Alma tries to stretch it, the vest doesn't get anywhere near to closing properly. Van's chest is simply too big.

"Well, that's what you get for growing so big!" the tailor says, a little defensive, her face flushed with effort. 

"I didn't say anything?" Van mutters and then shakes his head, giving in to the inevitable and taking the vest off. Everything was so much easier in the game - because everything always fit the character perfectly. "I guess it was a bit much expect clothing to be ready made. Let's talk about the gambeson - how much would it cost to make it?"

Pretty much all the silver he has left, it turns it, and he wouldn't get the gambeson until the next time he was in town, but that's fine. He wouldn't need it until after the Rift, anyway. With haggling done - and belated introductions made - Alma moves to take his measurements

It's a bit of a new experience for Katie, who's never had anything tailored in her life. It's also somewhat eye-opening, because Madam Arbury's Boutique has something he's not encountered yet. 

A mirror.

"I'll get to work right away," Alma promises, pushing her glasses up again while Van stares at his reflection. "It will be ready by tomorrow evening, mark my words. Please extend your arm straight to the side."

"I'm sure it will be," Van says, tilting his head this way and that while holding his arm to the side. Katie spent something like two hours designing this face, but seeing it like this, in the mirror, moving when he moves, emoting when he does…

"May I ask what you need a gambeson for, anyway?" Alma asks. "I assume you work on a farm?"

"Yeah, the Gylcross farm - but I'm not planning to stay there forever," Van admits, making faces at his reflection. His teeth are so straight. And so white. Kind of weird.

"Ah, I see," Alma hums, thoughtful, writing something down in a little notebook. "Are you looking to join any military group in particular? Should I add heraldries?"

"No," Van says, shaking his head. "I just want some armour, no insignia or heraldry or anything."

"Very well. You can put your hand down now."

Van lowers his arm and tilts his head the other way. Damn, his jaw is… impressive. He's got comic book superhero levels of jaw going for himself. Which kind of makes sense - a certain farmboy superhero might've been an inspiration there, maybe. His hair is so much messier than he realised, though. Guess that's an effect of it not being just a thing made of polygons anymore.

Also, is that… a bit of stubble? A hint of a five o'clock shadow? 

Does he have to shave?

Alma finishes taking his measurements with professional finesse. Van pays for his order, signs the receipt,  weighs his now empty coin purse and then sighs. "Thank you very much, Ma'am."

"And thank you for your business, Mr. Van," Alma says, sniffing, and with a last slightly flustered glance at him, awkwardly waves him off. "Have a very good day now."

Shaking his head, Van heads out of the store.

So, instead of the usual armament of Long Sword, Reinforced Wooden Buckler, Studded Leather Armour, dozens of Draughts of Memory and bunch of healing potions on top of it, his shopping haul is… three shoddy spear points, sharpening stone and a receipt for an order from Madam Arbury's Boutique.

Yeah, Katie's usual approach to Age of Tales is not working here, at all, and reality is throwing some spanners in the works. Katie isn't sure how she likes it. Which is probably kinda ironic, after all the times she went on and on about how dumb and unrealistic Age of Tales was. 

She'd get used to it. 

-

"Ah, there you are, my boy," Mr. Gylcross says, spotting Van loitering about the marketplace, waiting for him. "Have you been enjoying your time in town?"

"It's been… interesting," Van admits, which it has. "All done with business, sir?"

"Yes, quite. I found a couple of buyers for our spring crops," Mr. Gylcross says, seeming satisfied. He's got a flushed look of a man who's had at least a couple of drinks and his moustache has somehow gotten bushier. Looks like he's had a good day. "And the doctor will come take a look at Geruth tomorrow," the landowner continues. "Now, go and fetch the cart, if you please - I've made some purchases, and it will be far easier to load them directly into the cart."

[Homeward bound, Lvl. 2.]

[Mr. Gylcross' shopping trip is drawing to a close and it's time to head back to the farm. Fetch Bell and the cart, and load Mr. Gylcross' purchases for the trip home.] [Quest reward:  20 exp, 3 Meat buns, 1 Bottle of Mead.]

"Right away," Van agrees and gets to it.

Together with Mr. Gylcross Van loads up the various sacks and barrels and other things the man had bought onto the cart, tying them down for a secure trip home. Then Mr. Gylcross takes a seat in the back again, now leaning against some flour sacks.

"Have you eaten anything, Van?" the man asks, rifling through his purchases.

"Ah, no, sir, I got… distracted," Van admits - and the moment it's mentioned, he realises that he's actually pretty hungry and thirsty. He hadn't even been thinking of food as something he needs, because, well… Age of Tales didn't have a hunger bar.

"Here," Mr. Gylcross says and hands him a clay bottle and a paper bag that doesn't quite fit the setting. "Eat up, my boy, it's a long way home."

"Thanks, Mr. Gylcross," Van says and peers into the bag - sure enough, meat buns. The bottle must be mead then. "I appreciate it."

"Got to keep my men fed, don't I, else you might run off to work for the likes of Drakner, and I can't have that " Mr. Gylcross chortles and settles down for the journey back.

Van hums, taking a bite of the meat bun and answering the System's prompt for [Start journey?] with [yes].

-

[<<Prologue | <Chapter 3 || Chapter 5>>]

Proofread by @nimadge

-

Reality is against Van but at least there's meat buns and mead

[dreaminginthedeepsouth]

de Adder

* * * *

LETTERS FROM AN AMERICAN

February 8, 2025

Heather Cox Richardson

Feb 08, 2025

Yesterday the National Institutes of Health under the Trump administration announced a new policy that will dramatically change the way the United States funds medical research. Now, when a researcher working at a university receives a federal grant for research, that money includes funds to maintain equipment and facilities and to pay support staff that keep labs functioning. That indirect funding is built into university budgets for funding expensive research labs, and last year reached about 26% of the grant money distributed. Going forward, the administration says it will cap the permitted amount of indirect funding at 15%.

NIH is the nation’s primary agency for research in medicine, health, and behavior. NIH grants are fiercely competitive; only about 20% of applications succeed. When a researcher applies for one, their proposal is evaluated first by a panel of their scholarly peers and then, if it passes that level, an advisory council, which might ask for more information before awarding a grant. Once awarded and accepted, an NIH grant carries strict requirements for reporting and auditing, as well as record retention.

In 2023, NIH distributed about $35 billion through about 50,000 grants to over 300,000 researchers at universities, medical schools, and other research institutions. Every dollar of NIH funding generated about $2.46 in economic activity. For every $100 million of funding, research supported by NIH generates 76 patents, which produce 20% more economic value than other U.S. patents and create opportunities for about $600 million in future research and development.

As Christina Jewett and Sheryl Gay Stolberg of the New York Times explained, the authors of Project 2025 called for the cuts outlined in the new policy, claiming those cuts would “reduce federal taxpayer subsidization of leftist agendas.” Dr. David A. Baltrus of the University of Arizona told Jewett and Stolberg that the new policy is “going to destroy research universities in the short term, and I don’t know after that. They rely on the money. They budget for the money. The universities were making decisions expecting the money to be there.”

Although Baltrus works in agricultural research, focusing on keeping E. coli bacteria out of crops like sprouts and lettuce, cancer research is the top area in which NIH grants are awarded.

Anthropologist Erin Kane figured out what the new NIH policy would mean for states by looking at institutions that received more than $10 million in grants in 2024 and figuring out what percentage of their indirect costs would not be eligible for grant money under the new formula. Six schools in New York won $2.4 billion, including $953 million for indirect costs. The new indirect rate would allow only $220 million for overhead, a loss of $723 million.

States across the country will experience significant losses. Eight Florida schools received about $673 million, $231 million for indirect costs. The new indirect rate would limit that funding to $66 million, a loss of $165 million. Six schools in Ohio received a total of about $700 million; they would lose $194 million. Four schools in Missouri received a total of about $830 million; they would lose $212 million.

Lawmakers from Republican-dominated states are now acknowledging what those of us who study the federal budget have pointed out for decades: the same Republican-dominated states that complain bitterly about the government’s tax policies are also the same states that take most federal tax money. Dana Nickel of Politico reported yesterday that Republican leaders in the states claim to be enthusiastic about the cuts made by the Department of Government Efficiency but are mobilizing to make sure those cuts won’t hurt their own state programs that depend on federal money. Oklahoma governor Kevin Stitt told Nickel that governors can provide advice about what cuts will be most effective. “Instead of just across the board cutting, we thought, man, they need some help from the governors to say, ‘We can be more efficient in this area or this area, or if you allow block grants in this area, you can reduce our expenditures by 10 percent.’ And so that’s our goal.”

Yesterday, Tim Carpenter of the Kansas Reflector reported that Senator Jerry Moran (R-KS) is concerned about the Trump administration’s freeze on food distributions through the United States Agency for International Development (USAID). USAID buys about $2 billion in U.S. agricultural products a year, and farmers are already struggling with rising costs, low prices, and concern with tariffs.

Their spokespeople urge the continuation of USAID: the senior director of government affairs at the American Farm Bureau Federation said that “USAID plays a critical role in reducing hunger around the world while sourcing markets for the surplus foods America’s farmers and ranchers grow.” Moran added: “Food stability is essential to political stability, and our food aid programs help feed the hungry, bolster our national security and provide an important market for our farmers, especially when commodity prices are low.”

Meanwhile, federal employees are telling the stories of the work they’ve done for the country. Yesterday, a public letter whose author claimed to be an employee of the Federal Bureau of Investigation whose job is at risk in Trump’s purge of the agency wrote an amalgamation of the FBI agents being purged: “I am the coach of your child’s soccer team,” the letter read. “I sit next to you on occasion in religious devotion. I am a member of the PTA. With friends, you celebrated my birthday. I collected your mail and took out your trash while you were away from home. I played a round of golf with you. I am a veteran. I am the average neighbor in your community.”

But there is another side to that person, the author wrote. “I orchestrated a clandestine operation to secure the release of an allied soldier held captive by the Taliban. I prevented an ISIS terrorist from boarding a commercial aircraft. I spent 3 months listening to phone intercepts in real time to gather evidence needed to dismantle a violent drug gang. I recruited a source to provide critical intelligence on Russian military activities in Africa. I rescued a citizen being tortured to near death by members of an Outlaw Motorcycle Gang. I interceded and stopped a juvenile planning to conduct a school shooting. I spent multiple years monitoring the activities of deep cover foreign intelligence officers, leading to their arrest and deportation. I endured extensive hardship to infiltrate a global child trafficking organization. I have been shot in the line of duty.”

“[W]hen I am gone,” they wrote, “who will do the quiet work that is behind the facade of your average neighbor?”

Less publicly, Joseph Grzymkowski expressed on Facebook his pride in 38 years of service “with utmost dedication, integrity, and passion. I was not waste, fraud, and abuse,” he wrote. “Nor was I the “Deep State.... We are the faces of your Government: ordinary and diverse Americans, your friends and neighbors, working behind the scenes in the interest of the people we serve. We are not the enemy.”

Wth his statement, Grzymkowski posted a magazine clipping from 1996, when he was a Marine Analyst working in the Marine Navigation Department for the National Imagery and Mapping Agency (NIMA), located in Bethesda, Maryland—now known as the National Geospatial-Intelligence Agency (NGA) in Springfield, Virginia. That office provides maritime intelligence for navigation, international obligations, and joint military operations.

On January 6, 1996, a historic blizzard dumped snowfalls of 19 to 31 inches on the East Coast. Stranded alone in the station when his relief couldn’t get through the snow to work, Grzymkowsky stayed at the radio. “I realized there were mariners who needed navigation safety messages delivered, and I wasn’t about to jeopardize the safety of life or cargo at sea simply because we were experiencing a blizzard,” he told a journalist. “One doesn’t leave a watch on a ship until properly relieved, and I felt my responsibility at the watch desk as keenly as I would have felt my responsibility for the navigation on the bridge of a ship.”

For 33 hours, he stayed at his desk and sent out navigation safety messages. “I had a job to do and I did it,” he recalled. “There were ships at sea relying on me, and I wasn’t going to let them down. It’s nothing that any other member of this department wouldn’t do.”

LETTERS FROM AN AMERICAN

HEATHER COX RICHARDSON

[inchesinbetweenus]

Sunshowers

a/n: should i turn this into a josh washington x reader series?

pairing: josh washington x fem!reader

warnings: just josh's poor mental health

word count: aprox. 2k

genre: fluff

summary: A rain cloud named "tragedy" seemed to follow Joshua Washington everywhere he went. It drenched his clothes, ruined his hair, and suffocated him. He was losing hope of ever feeling the sun on his skin again. Then you came along, and he hadn't felt such warmth in a long time.

 ---------------------

Some say a rain cloud named "tragedy" seemed to follow Joshua Washington everywhere he went. Some could hardly tell. Over time, he had learned how to live with the cold.

Many assumed he experienced the usual "rich kid problems" like his parents not letting him use their private yacht as a speedboat, or crying over not receiving enough presents for his birthday or Christmas, third-world problems really. While he was still young, the boy did experience more detached issues from his friends. These problems fleeted as quickly as they came. His childish attention span could only hold grudges for so long. One feeling that Joshua couldn't quite let go was loneliness.

Joshua first learned what it felt like to be alone when he was five. The deep pit in his chest started when he was very young, seeing Daddy leave for long periods to work on his movie projects. His mother, already used to the absence, busied herself to keep her sanity. Being left to take care of three young children is a daunting task. So she would hire nannies and babysitters to help fill the spaces she could not. Melinda tried her best, but it wasn't quite what her son needed. With his parents more distant than others, most of the time, Joshua never truly felt attached to anyone except for his sisters.

As they grew older, Joshua cared for them in the ways their parents lacked. In return, they did the same. The three siblings were incredibly close. It wasn't until Joshua was 10 that his family noticed something was wrong.

Joshua had grown up with the feeling that he was broken. Somewhere he couldn't quite figure it out. It all just felt wrong. That feeling and idea hung over his head in his low moments, but at some point, it felt consuming. He had brushed it off when it was easy to, a child had little time to be sad for too long. Over time it grew harder and harder to push away. It continued to grow and fester on his skin. Like a rash, he tried to conceal it, but to no avail. Now he felt like all could see. It took over him, and he had no idea what it was he felt or what he should do.

Soon enough, each day felt longer than the next. Each day, he spent more time in bed than out of it. Only leaving for necessity. Then something happened. The Washingtons spent copious amounts of money to hide the incident. All that is left of it, is a record in Joshua's doctor's notes regarding an "incident at school". Joshua was diagnosed with Major Depressive Disorder at the age of eleven.

Joshua never felt a lack of people in his life. He felt a lack of connection. His sisters, his friends, Chris, and others, they could only do so much. Josh was a hopeless romantic, with emphasis on "hopeless". A movie enthusiast, a trait he shared with his father. Joshua spent many sleepless nights rewatching his favorite movies. Many being romances. Some nights he so desperately wanted someone to jump in and sweep him off his feet just like in those movies. Someone to share a connection with. Each year that passed without anything close only made him feel more hopeless. And then he met you.

                                                 ---------------------

Junior year, for you, meant a new school. Your high school had been next in line to be remodeled over the summer, and due to unexpected circumstances, it wasn't ready in time for the new year. Most students got distributed to other schools in the area, but you were out of the district of your old school, so you were placed in the correct school. Away from all your friends. You weren't entirely thrilled at this, but ultimately there wasn't anything you could've done. Not on such short notice, but maybe later in the year, you could get a transfer. Hopefully.

Walking into a new school is not for the faint of heart. Each class felt like forever. Former friend groups mingled as you tried to find your spot in it all. The realization you were alone tightened your chest. A silent prayer that it wouldn't last fell from your lips as you entered the next classroom. It was Physics, and it seemed you were pretty early. The kind teacher instructed you to pick your seat as you were one of the first there. You settled on a seat towards the front of the class, but not dead center. Your eyes focused on your phone as the rest of the students filed into the room. The seats beside you remained empty as groups found each other. The tightening in your chest grew until someone sat next to you. She was blonde and had her hair pulled back out of her face. She was beautiful, sporting a bit of a grungey look. With a smile on her face, she introduced herself to you. You learned her name was Samantha, and she also had no friends in that class. Her best friend was in the year below, so they often took different classes. After sharing schedules, you realized you had lots of classes together. The two of you seemed to let out a sigh of relief. Guess loneliness had missed its target today. You spent most of the day with Sam, she showed you around the school and provided insight into the teachers and student drama. At lunch, she introduced you to her best friend, Hannah, and Hannah's sister, Beth. You learned they were twins and their brother, Joshua, also attended the school in the year above them. The first day you already knew three new people you could talk to. This was going better than you expected.

One thing you were still concerned about was your last class. You had been placed into AP English Literature as a Junior. It was commonly a Senior class, but you tested out of AP English Language. This meant none of your new friends would be in that class, but Hannah and Beth had mentioned their brother taking that class. Was it possible you had the same period?

Walking into the warmly lit classroom was a relief in your eyes. The fluorescent lights in most of the other classrooms always strained your eyes when reading. The moody lighting was a nice change. Purple LED lights were strung around the top of the room, matching the deep purple of two of the walls. Warm fairy lights dangled beneath the LEDs, better fitting the other two white walls. A beautifully calming contrast. Sunlight poured in through the blinds of the windows behind the teacher's desk. It had been raining all day, a dreary first day. But now the weather seemed better. Only the raindrops still fell but the sun peeking through the clouds gave hope of better weather.

The desks were arranged in groups of four, with two seats facing the front and two facing each other. You chose a seat closer to the teacher and the windows. Not really wanting to face a new person, you chose one of the seats facing the front. Similar to your other classes, students walked in, but with less urgency than this morning.

The seat next to you remained empty. Two girls sat in front of you, they were nice but more interested in each other. You kept your attention on your phone as they chatted about the drama that already seemed to be happening on the first day.

Finally, the last wave of students walked in. With that group was a boy that looked slightly similar to the description Hannah and Beth had given of their brother. You noticed it all. The brown hair that looked slightly styled, the clothes he wore, and the goofy smile on his lips as he spoke with some friends. What you also noticed was a distinct look in his eyes. Despite all the laughs he shared as he walked in, his eyes looked like they held a sea of grief. You were shocked at how deep they were. Your face burned at this sudden infatuation with a stranger's eyes, but you couldn't help it. There were two open seats, and by whatever miracle it was, he chose to sit next to you. At least you thought it was a miracle.

"Good afternoon, class." The teacher looked up from her seat in the corner, surrounded by the sunlight peeking through the blinds. "Please take a few minutes to get acquainted with your tablemates. They will be your group for the year."

The two girls paid no mind to you and Joshua. Returning to their previous conversation. A smile pulled at your lips as you turned to face the boy next to you. Your gazes met, and you glanced over his features. Quite striking, but his eyes were something else. Something you couldn't quite put your finger on. If you weren't too busy with your own inner thoughts, you'd have noticed the brunette was staring right back at you.

"Joshua, right? I have lunch with your sisters."

The mention of his sisters snapped him back to the conversation as he blinked away his thoughts.

"Right, but everyone calls me Josh." The same goofy smile from before graced his face. "And you are?"

"Y/N."

                                                 ---------------------

Josh was usually focused in school. It was the one place he could muster the strength to get stuff done. On particularly bad days, he was allowed to stay home. Sure, he would get behind, but eventually, he could catch up. Once his medicine kicked in. If it kicked in. Last year was particularly rough, but not rough enough to stop him from placing in one of his favorite classes AP Literature. He looked forward to the film portion of that class, and wouldn't let anything get in his way of it. He worked his ass off studying for the AP Lang exam, passing with flying colors. His current medicine seemed to work, for now.

He walked into AP Literature, actually excited for the class. He split off from Chris and his other friends as they walked to their final classes. Being almost late for his classes was a signature for Josh, and his teachers had learned it was best to not mention it. It was a fight they couldn't win anyway. Josh was expecting to love this class but for an entirely different reason than now. Now he found himself drawn to a new face.

It was a girl. She was definitely new, between Josh and his friends, he knew most people at the school. A new person would've been noticed. How he hadn't noticed her before, he didn't know, but now she was the only thing he could notice. Her hair looked purposefully done, even if it was just brushed there was intent there. There was intent in everything about her appearance no matter how small. But what he really was looking at was her eyes. There was a warmth in her eyes that he didn't see from many people. As cliche as it sounds, time felt slower. With a breath in, Josh almost wished he could stay here and figure out what it was about this girl he was so interested in.

Without much thought, Josh walked over to the empty seat next to her. He settled in the spot. Usually, Josh sat in the back of the class, not wanting to be front and center. That was the last thing he was thinking of right now. He turned to the teacher as she spoke. The sunlight danced through the blinds.

"Please take a few minutes to get acquainted with your tablemates. They will be your group for the year."

His eyes followed the light that glimmered in the rain, the way it fell on her felt almost poetic. A pause before either of them spoke. Taking in the sight of her, he could've sworn she was looking at him the same way. She spoke first; her voice was just as warm as she looked. She spoke of his sisters, snapping back into the conversation, Josh felt a smile pull at his lips.

"Right, but everyone calls me Josh."

Nobody really called him Joshua except for his parents, his teachers, his doctors, or people he didn't know well. Maybe something in him wanted to get to know her more, or he felt more at ease knowing she was friends with his sisters. Whatever it was, he welcomed it. "And you are?"

"Y/N"

"Y/N"

He repeated her name lightly.

Some say a rain cloud named "tragedy" seemed to follow Joshua Washington everywhere he went. Some could hardly tell. Over time, he had learned how to live with the cold. Well, for once, he could've sworn the sun was peeking through the rain. And he knew that what he only ever wanted was to bask in its warmth. Maybe you could help him do that.

[thenoellebird]

great, you again. AND YOU JUST HAAAAD TO BREAK ME. AGAIN. (jk this is absolutely fantastic and I want to stick it in a fanfiction now.

Imagine this: Stan like gets a hip replacement but only after Weirdmageddon, after leading the troops into battle disregarding his limp like the freaking hero he is and then post-weirdmageddon ford makes him get a hip replacement and he moans and complains the whole time because "its just wasting money" and he "doesnt really need it" but Ford knows. Ford knows that he's in immense pain all the time from simply walking around and forces him to go through with it. The surgery is successful and Stan still uses his cane, but his walking isn't painful anymore. He thanks Ford and after a while he finally admits to the immense amount of pain he was in before. The twins never had any idea.

Stan himself is upset that it came to a major surgery, but he is willing to let Ford take care of him while he recovers and realizes how much better he feels.

Also, it's hard to not be angry when you're in chronic physical pain all the time, which could be the source of some of Stan's grumpiness :O

idk random ideas

Is there an Au or a fic where Stanley's cane isn't a prop? I think it'd be neat

Like imagine you go see your twin, you're in full health (sorta) but he not only uses dentures, had an earing aid and uses a cane.

You begin to notice just how much life has tossed him around, he tells you his ear was damaged since young and when people joked about how he didn't listen, they were half right, he accidently let's it slip how, when he was just in his twenties he lost all his teeth due to a car trunk and how in gravity falls, he barely took care of himself to get his brother back to the point he lost balance and forever damaged one of his legs.

Stanley is supposed to be as old as him- he's supposed to be 15 minutes younger and yet he always looked older. Always acted like the older brother, protecting... Throwing away himself for his family.

[misfitwashere]

February 8, 2025 

HEATHER COX RICHARDSON

FEB 9

Yesterday the National Institutes of Health under the Trump administration announced a new policy that will dramatically change the way the United States funds medical research. Now, when a researcher working at a university receives a federal grant for research, that money includes funds to maintain equipment and facilities and to pay support staff that keep labs functioning. That indirect funding is built into university budgets for funding expensive research labs, and last year reached about 26% of the grant money distributed. Going forward, the administration says it will cap the permitted amount of indirect funding at 15%.

NIH is the nation’s primary agency for research in medicine, health, and behavior. NIH grants are fiercely competitive; only about 20% of applications succeed. When a researcher applies for one, their proposal is evaluated first by a panel of their scholarly peers and then, if it passes that level, an advisory council, which might ask for more information before awarding a grant. Once awarded and accepted, an NIH grant carries strict requirements for reporting and auditing, as well as record retention.

In 2023, NIH distributed about $35 billion through about 50,000 grants to over 300,000 researchers at universities, medical schools, and other research institutions. Every dollar of NIH funding generated about $2.46 in economic activity. For every $100 million of funding, research supported by NIH generates 76 patents, which produce 20% more economic value than other U.S. patents and create opportunities for about $600 million in future research and development.

As Christina Jewett and Sheryl Gay Stolberg of the New York Timesexplained, the authors of Project 2025 called for the cuts outlined in the new policy, claiming those cuts would “reduce federal taxpayer subsidization of leftist agendas.” Dr. David A. Baltrus of the University of Arizona told Jewett and Stolberg that the new policy is “going to destroy research universities in the short term, and I don’t know after that. They rely on the money. They budget for the money. The universities were making decisions expecting the money to be there.”

Although Baltrus works in agricultural research, focusing on keeping E. colibacteria out of crops like sprouts and lettuce, cancer research is the top area in which NIH grants are awarded.

Anthropologist Erin Kane figured out what the new NIH policy would mean for states by looking at institutions that received more than $10 million in grants in 2024 and figuring out what percentage of their indirect costs would not be eligible for grant money under the new formula. Six schools in New York won $2.4 billion, including $953 million for indirect costs. The new indirect rate would allow only $220 million for overhead, a loss of $723 million.

States across the country will experience significant losses. Eight Florida schools received about $673 million, $231 million for indirect costs. The new indirect rate would limit that funding to $66 million, a loss of $165 million. Six schools in Ohio received a total of about $700 million; they would lose $194 million. Four schools in Missouri received a total of about $830 million; they would lose $212 million.

Lawmakers from Republican-dominated states are now acknowledging what those of us who study the federal budget have pointed out for decades: the same Republican-dominated states that complain bitterly about the government’s tax policies are also the same states that take most federal tax money. Dana Nickel of Politico reported yesterday that Republican leaders in the states claim to be enthusiastic about the cuts made by the Department of Government Efficiency but are mobilizing to make sure those cuts won’t hurt their own state programs that depend on federal money. Oklahoma governor Kevin Stitt told Nickel that governors can provide advice about what cuts will be most effective. “Instead of just across the board cutting, we thought, man, they need some help from the governors to say, ‘We can be more efficient in this area or this area, or if you allow block grants in this area, you can reduce our expenditures by 10 percent.’ And so that’s our goal.”

Yesterday, Tim Carpenter of the Kansas Reflector reported that Senator Jerry Moran (R-KS) is concerned about the Trump administration’s freeze on food distributions through the United States Agency for International Development (USAID). USAID buys about $2 billion in U.S. agricultural products a year, and farmers are already struggling with rising costs, low prices, and concern with tariffs.

Their spokespeople urge the continuation of USAID: the senior director of government affairs at the American Farm Bureau Federation said that “USAID plays a critical role in reducing hunger around the world while sourcing markets for the surplus foods America’s farmers and ranchers grow.” Moran added: “Food stability is essential to political stability, and our food aid programs help feed the hungry, bolster our national security and provide an important market for our farmers, especially when commodity prices are low.”

Meanwhile, federal employees are telling the stories of the work they’ve done for the country. Yesterday, a public letter whose author claimed to be an employee of the Federal Bureau of Investigation whose job is at risk in Trump’s purge of the agency wrote an amalgamation of the FBI agents being purged: “I am the coach of your child’s soccer team,” the letter read. “I sit next to you on occasion in religious devotion. I am a member of the PTA. With friends, you celebrated my birthday. I collected your mail and took out your trash while you were away from home. I played a round of golf with you. I am a veteran. I am the average neighbor in your community.”

But there is another side to that person, the author wrote. “I orchestrated a clandestine operation to secure the release of an allied soldier held captive by the Taliban. I prevented an ISIS terrorist from boarding a commercial aircraft. I spent 3 months listening to phone intercepts in real time to gather evidence needed to dismantle a violent drug gang. I recruited a source to provide critical intelligence on Russian military activities in Africa. I rescued a citizen being tortured to near death by members of an Outlaw Motorcycle Gang. I interceded and stopped a juvenile planning to conduct a school shooting. I spent multiple years monitoring the activities of deep cover foreign intelligence officers, leading to their arrest and deportation. I endured extensive hardship to infiltrate a global child trafficking organization. I have been shot in the line of duty.”

“[W]hen I am gone,” they wrote, “who will do the quiet work that is behind the facade of your average neighbor?”

Less publicly, Joseph Grzymkowski expressed on Facebook his pride in 38 years of service “with utmost dedication, integrity, and passion. I was not waste, fraud, and abuse,” he wrote. “Nor was I the “Deep State.... We are the faces of your Government: ordinary and diverse Americans, your friends and neighbors, working behind the scenes in the interest of the people we serve. We are not the enemy.”

Wth his statement, Grzymkowski posted a magazine clipping from 1996, when he was a Marine Analyst working in the Marine Navigation Department for the National Imagery and Mapping Agency (NIMA), located in Bethesda, Maryland—now known as the National Geospatial-Intelligence Agency (NGA) in Springfield, Virginia. That office provides maritime intelligence for navigation, international obligations, and joint military operations.

On January 6, 1996, a historic blizzard dumped snowfalls of 19 to 31 inches on the East Coast. Stranded alone in the station when his relief couldn’t get through the snow to work, Grzymkowsky stayed at the radio. “I realized there were mariners who needed navigation safety messages delivered, and I wasn’t about to jeopardize the safety of life or cargo at sea simply because we were experiencing a blizzard,” he told a journalist. “One doesn’t leave a watch on a ship until properly relieved, and I felt my responsibility at the watch desk as keenly as I would have felt my responsibility for the navigation on the bridge of a ship.”

For 33 hours, he stayed at his desk and sent out navigation safety messages. “I had a job to do and I did it,” he recalled. “There were ships at sea relying on me, and I wasn’t going to let them down. It’s nothing that any other member of this department wouldn’t do.”

—

[can-we-die-now]

hell is other people

hell is a physics lab where you get a migraine squinting at tiny images on mirrors, stab yourself in the eye with a travelling microscope and have a one in ten chance of getting a working galvanometer or voltmeter

[sergle]

ALSO IMPORTANT TO NOTE, people dropping mad mad sums of money on gfms and charities and stuff are extremely impressive but that DOES NOT MEAN that putting like $5 towards someone's fund or any good cause is any less valuable, a lot of crowdfunding is about momentum and those single digits add up super fast, you do not need to be Rolling In The Dough to make someone's day!! moving the dial at all is extremely positive!!

[officerfruit]

“One day there was an anonymous present sitting on my doorstep—Volume One of Capital by Karl Marx, in a brown paper bag. A joke? Serious? And who had sent it? I never found out. Late that night, naked in bed, I leafed through it. The beginning was impenetrable, I couldn’t understand it, but when I came to the part about the lives of the workers—the coal miners, the child laborers—I could feel myself suddenly breathing more slowly. How angry he was. Page after page. Then I turned back to an earlier section, and I came to a phrase that I’d heard before, a strange, upsetting, sort of ugly phrase: this was the section on “commodity fetishism,” “the fetishism of commodities.” I wanted to understand that weird-sounding phrase, but I could tell that, to understand it, your whole life would probably have to change. His explanation was very elusive. He used the example that people say, “Twenty yards of linen are worth two pounds.” People say that about every thing that it has a certain value. This is worth that. This coat, this sweater, this cup of coffee: each thing worth some quantity of money, or some number of other things—one coat, worth three sweaters, or so much money—as if that coat, suddenly appearing on the earth, contained somewhere inside itself an amount of value, like an inner soul, as if the coat were a fetish, a physical object that contains a living spirit. But what really determines the value of a coat? The coat’s price comes from its history, the history of all the people involved in making it and selling it and all the particular relationships they had. And if we buy the coat, we, too, form relationships with all those people, and yet we hide those relationships from our own awareness by pretending we live in a world where coats have no history but just fall down from heaven with prices marked inside. “I like this coat,” we say, “It’s not expensive,” as if that were a fact about the coat and not the end of a story about all the people who made it and sold it, “I like the pictures in this magazine.” A naked woman leans over a fence. A man buys a magazine and stares at her picture. The destinies of these two are linked. The man has paid the woman to take off her clothes, to lean over the fence. The photograph contains its history—the moment the woman unbuttoned her shirt, how she felt, what the photographer said. The price of the magazine is a code that describes the relationships between all these people—the woman, the man, the publisher, the photographer—who commanded, who obeyed. The cup of coffee contains the history of the peasants who picked the beans, how some of them fainted in the heat of the sun, some were beaten, some were kicked. For two days I could see the fetishism of commodities everywhere around me. It was a strange feeling. Then on the third day I lost it, it was gone, I couldn’t see it anymore.”

Wallace Shawn, The Fever (1990)

[stil-lindigo]

Bisan is calling for another global strike!

I saw some posts just outlining Jan 21st, and wanted to clarify that Bisan has called for a full seven days of action.

What a global strike would look like is:

calling in sick to work

purchasing bare essentials ahead of the week so you can observe the general boycott of goods / buying as little as you genuinely can

putting in a concerted effort to elevate Palestinian voices and make it clear that this strike is in support of a permanent ceasefire!

For those who will have to purchase necessary goods during this time, please observe the brands that the BDS movement is asking us to boycott!

♢♢♢

Right now is also a good time to mention some better uses for your money during this week.

Available e-sims in Gaza are running low!!

Mirna El Helbawi and her team are working round the clock to continue to connect Palestinians as Israel does its best to cut them off from the rest of the world.

You can learn how to purchase and send e-sims here, and below you’ll find a list of what is currently needed (the areas in brackets indicate what region you should select to buy e-sims in).

--

CareforGaza is an organisation that does verifiably good work, distributing supplies directly to Palestinian families.

They have a Gofundme set up at the moment, but because of Gofundme’s poor track record regarding refusing to transfer funds to Palestinians, I’d recommend continuing to donate directly to their PayPal here.

Good luck to all of you. Don't turn away from Palestine!