#out of pocket expenditure

[kentobb]

⊹₊⟡⋆ The Bet ⊹₊⟡⋆

Ryomen Sukuna x Female Reader x Gojo Satoru

⊹₊⟡⋆Masterlist ⊹₊⟡⋆

Warnings: Suggestive content. +18

Chapter 04

Yuuji stood outside the library, squinting at the glowing neon sign above the entrance. The clock on his phone read 6:58 PM. He groaned, glancing around the nearly deserted campus. “Why am I even here?” he muttered. Most students were either partying or relaxing—not trudging into a library on a Friday night. He shoved his hands into his hoodie pocket and pushed open the heavy glass door.

Inside, the library was quiet, almost hauntingly so. The rows of shelves stretched into the dim corners, and only a few desk lamps glowed faintly. He wandered deeper in, looking for anyone who might resemble a tutor.

“Is this Sukuna’s idea of a joke?” Yuuji muttered under his breath.

But then he saw you.

You were tucked away in the farthest corner, sitting at a table near the shelves. Glasses perched on your nose, a sweater too big for your frame draped over your shoulders, and baggy jeans swallowed your legs. Your hair was tied into a messy bun, and you were scribbling into a notebook with a focus that suggested you’d rather be anywhere but here.

Yuuji hesitated.

She looks serious…this is definitely not a prank.

He approached cautiously, the sound of his sneakers on the polished floor breaking the silence.

You glanced up as his shadow fell over your table. And for a split second, your stomach sank. His pink hair, sharp jawline, and even his stance—everything about him screamed Sukuna. The resemblance was uncanny, except for one thing: his expression. Where Sukuna’s was always distant, cold, or annoyed, this boy looked… approachable. Warm. Even friendly.

“Uh, are you my tutor?” he asked, tilting his head.

You stood, offering your hand. “That depends. Are you Yuuji Itadori?”

He grinned, shaking your hand. “That’s me! You can just call me Yuuji, though. Thanks for helping me out.”

As he settled into the chair across from you, you adjusted your glasses and opened your notebook. “Alright, let’s get started. You’re here for Principles of Financial Management, right?”

Yuuji nodded enthusiastically. “Yeah, I really need help. Like…badly.”

You chuckled softly, and his grin widened.

For the next two hours, the library filled with the sound of flipping pages, pens scratching on paper, and your patient explanations.

“Okay,” you began, pointing to a chart in the textbook. “This is the cash flow statement. It’s basically a summary of how cash moves in and out of a company over a period of time.”

Yuuji squinted at the page. “So…it’s like tracking how much money I spend on snacks versus how much I make babysitting?”

You raised an eyebrow. “Sure, if you’re running a business of snack consumption and babysitting profits. But yes, conceptually, that’s correct.”

He grinned. “See? I’m already learning!”

“Don’t get too confident yet,” you teased. “What’s the formula for free cash flow?”

Yuuji frowned, tapping his chin. “Uh…Revenue minus…expenses?”

“Close. Revenue minus operating expenses and capital expenditures. Write that down.”

He scribbled furiously in his notebook. “Got it. You’re really good at this, you know.”

You blinked, caught off guard. “At what?”

“Explaining stuff. Making it…not boring.”

You smiled, brushing off the compliment. “Thanks, Yuuji. Now, let’s move on to break-even analysis.”

By the time you glanced at the clock, it was past 9 PM. You closed the textbook with a soft thud and stretched your arms. “Alright, I think that’s enough for today.”

Yuuji leaned back in his chair, letting out a dramatic sigh. “You just saved my life. Seriously. I actually understand this stuff now!”

You smiled. “That’s the point of tutoring.”

He paused, then asked, “Do you have space for another session this week?”

You pulled out your agenda. “Let’s see…yes, I can fit you in on Thursday at the same time.”

“Perfect!” he said, watching as you wrote his name neatly in your planner.

As you packed up, Yuuji hesitated before speaking again. “Hey, are you going to Hakari’s party tonight?”

You shook your head. “No, that’s not really my thing.”

“Aw, come on,” he said, leaning forward. “It’s a Friday night! You should enjoy college a little.”

You laughed softly. “I enjoy it just fine without parties, thanks.”

“Think of it as a thank-you for helping me out,” he insisted, pulling out his phone. Before you could protest, he sent you the address.

“You really don’t have to do that,” you said, slightly flustered.

“Just think about it, okay?” he said with a grin as he stood. “Even if you just stop by for a little while, it’d be fun to see you there.”

You watched him walk away, his energy and cheerfulness lingering like a faint echo in the quiet library. Alone again, you sat back down, staring at your phone with the address he’d sent.

Should you go?

You sighed, placing your chin in your hands. For someone as outgoing as Yuuji, this party was probably the highlight of his week. For you, though? It was a step outside of your comfort zone.

When you enter your dorm, the space feels unusually quiet. Shoko isn’t there, her usual music or chatter missing, which only adds to the unease bubbling in your chest. You drop your bag on the bed and walk toward your desk, where a small mirror leans against the wall.

You sit down and open your modest makeup bag, staring at the contents for a moment. It’s been a while since you’ve done anything other than a little mascara, but tonight, curiosity wins. You pick out a soft lipstick, something subtle but noticeable, and carefully apply it.

Leaning back, you undo your messy bun, letting your hair tumble down in waves around your shoulders. For a moment, you study your reflection, unsure.

“Do I look okay for a party?” you whisper to yourself, smoothing down a stray strand of hair.

Then your eyes drop to your clothes: the oversized sweatshirt that swallows your frame and the baggy jeans that are more comfort than style. A familiar wave of self-consciousness hits.

You sigh, standing. This is ridiculous. You’re not a party person. What are you even thinking?

Just as you’re about to give up and call it a night, the door swings open. Shoko strides in, the click of her heels echoing on the floor. Her outfit is as bold as ever—short, sleek, and paired with smoky eye makeup that makes her look effortlessly cool.

“I forgot my purse and my cigarettes,” she says, scanning the room. She freezes when her eyes land on you, her lips curling into a knowing smirk. “Wait a minute… Lipstick? What’s going on here?”

You feel your face flush. “Nothing. I was just…thinking about going to the party.”

Shoko arches a brow, tossing her purse onto her bed. “Thinking? Girl, you’re either in or out. And judging by that sweatshirt, I’m guessing you’re about to chicken out.”

You fidget, glancing at your reflection again. “I don’t know, Shoko. I feel like I’ll be so out of place. I don’t even know what to wear to something like this.”

She crosses the room in two strides, studying you with a critical eye. Then she shakes her head dramatically. “Honey, this isn’t grandma’s tea party. That outfit? No.”

Before you can protest, Shoko dives into her closet with purpose. Hangers rattle and clothes fly until she emerges, triumphant, holding a tight, short black dress. She thrusts it toward you like a sacred artifact.

You blink at it, wide-eyed. “Shoko…that’s way too short.”

She laughs, a deep, throaty sound that fills the room. “That’s the point. Trust me. Just try it on. You’ve been hiding under all that fabric for too long.”

When you hesitate, she grabs a pair of sleek black heels from her closet and sets them beside the dress. “These too. Go on, the bathroom’s right there. I want a fashion show.”

Reluctantly, you take the dress and heels, muttering something about peer pressure as you shut the bathroom door.

When you finally step out, your heart pounds. The dress hugs your curves in all the right places, and the heels add just enough height to make you feel confident—but also a little exposed.

Shoko’s jaw actually drops. She blinks a few times, then grins like the Cheshire Cat. “Holy… Where have you been hiding that body? Damn, Y/N, if I looked like you, I’d be breaking hearts left and right.”

You tug at the hem of the dress nervously. “I feel…exposed.”

Shoko waves you off, pulling a lightweight cardigan from her closet and tossing it at you. “Here, for when you get cold. But don’t even think about putting it on until the party is over.”

You smile softly, holding the cardigan to your chest. “Thanks, Shoko.”

She smirks, grabbing her purse. “What are roommates for? Now come on, you’re sticking with me tonight. I’ll make sure you survive.”

You laugh, feeling a little of the tension ease. Maybe tonight won’t be so bad after all.

Hakari’s parents’ house was a sprawling suburban mansion, the kind of place that screamed “old money” and had probably never seen this much chaos before. Tonight, it was packed to the brim with college students. The bass from the sound system reverberated through the walls, and every room was teeming with people. The living room had been converted into a makeshift dance floor, where bodies swayed and moved under the glow of string lights and a rotating disco ball that Hakari had apparently borrowed from somewhere.

The kitchen was a disaster zone—red solo cups piled high, bottles of vodka, tequila, and mixers scattered across the counters. Someone was attempting to make cocktails but clearly had no idea what they were doing, judging by the grimaces from those brave enough to drink them. The backyard was just as packed, with clusters of people gathered around the pool, some dipping their feet in, others reclining on lawn chairs with drinks in hand.

Hakari had bragged all week about how his parents were conveniently “away on business,” leaving him the house. Of course, they thought he was hosting a small study group. Judging by the dozens of cars parked haphazardly down the street, they were in for a rude awakening if a single neighbor decided to call the cops.

Sukuna stood near the wall in the living room, nursing his drink and watching the chaos with mild amusement. He wasn’t a big fan of these kinds of parties anymore—too predictable, too loud—but Hakari had insisted, and Sukuna figured there were worse ways to spend a Friday night. He leaned against the wall, one hand in his pocket, his sharp gaze scanning the room with the cool indifference of someone who always looked like he was above the noise.

Then he spotted Yuuji weaving through the crowd, his bright pink hair making him impossible to miss. Trailing behind him were his ever-present sidekicks, Nobara and Megumi. Yuuji’s usual energy was dialed up even higher tonight, his grin so wide it practically lit up the dimly lit room.

“Hey, Sukuna!” Yuuji called out, raising a hand in greeting as he finally reached his older brother.

Sukuna barely shifted, taking another sip from his red cup. “What?” he asked, his tone as sharp as ever.

Yuuji wasn’t deterred in the slightest. “Just wanted to say thanks for hooking me up with that tutor. She’s great—really knows her stuff.”

“Good,” Sukuna said flatly. “You actually learning something, or are you just wasting her time?”

Yuuji groaned, rolling his eyes. “I’m learning, alright? Jeez. Why are you always so dramatic?”

Before Sukuna could fire back, Yuuji added casually, “Oh, by the way, I invited her to the party.”

Sukuna froze mid-sip, his eyes narrowing as he slowly lowered his cup. “You did what?”

“I invited her,” Yuuji repeated, grinning. “Thought it’d be a nice way to thank her, you know? Plus, she works too hard. She deserves to have some fun.”

Sukuna barked out a laugh, the sound sharp and humorless. “She’s not coming.”

Yuuji frowned. “How do you know?”

“Because she’s a nerd who lives in the library,” Sukuna said, his tone dripping with condescension. “This isn’t her scene. Trust me.”

Yuuji was about to argue when a new voice cut in.

“Yo, Sukuna!”

Gojo appeared out of nowhere, grinning ear to ear, holding a drink that looked suspiciously like it had more ice than actual liquid. He clapped Sukuna on the back with enough force to make him scowl.

“What do you want, Gojo?” Sukuna asked, clearly annoyed.

“Have you seen Geto?” Gojo asked, ignoring Sukuna’s tone entirely.

“No,” Sukuna replied, rolling his eyes. “And even if I did, I wouldn’t tell you.”

Gojo pouted dramatically. “You’ve really got to let this grudge go. It’s bad for your health, you know?”

Sukuna didn’t bother answering, taking another drink instead.

Meanwhile, Yuuji watched the exchange, grinning as he turned to Nobara and Megumi. “And you guys thought I had drama.”

The door opened wide, and Geto strolled in with his signature calm confidence, flanked by Shoko—whose outfit and energy screamed trouble—and…you.

Gojo, mid-laugh in a weak attempt to distract himself from his brewing nerves, froze. His grin slipped off his face like a melting snowman as his gaze landed on you. His heart skipped, then raced, and he quickly looked away, trying to play it cool. What were you doing here?

He had never seen you at a party before. Ever. This wasn’t your kind of scene—or so he thought. His mind raced. Were you dragged here by Shoko? Were you here because of someone? Was it him?

Gojo’s internal panic went unnoticed as he tried to inject himself into the conversation Yuuji was having with Sukuna, Nobara, and Megumi. His mouth moved, but his words were robotic, completely disconnected from his usual charm.

Meanwhile, Yuuji caught sight of you from across the room. His eyes widened in delight, and he immediately nudged Sukuna in the arm. “Told you she’d come! Man, I should’ve bet on it!”

Sukuna, who had been nursing his drink and half-listening to Yuuji, turned lazily in the direction his brother was pointing. And then he froze.

For a second, Sukuna genuinely thought his beer had been spiked. Was that…you?

It wasn’t like you looked unrecognizable. It was the same girl he’d seen in baggy jeans and oversized sweatshirts, usually with glasses sliding down your nose and a pen tucked behind your ear. But tonight? You were…different. The tight black dress hugged your body in ways Sukuna didn’t expect, and your legs seemed to go on forever under the dim, flashing lights.

The room felt like it shifted, the music blurring into static as Sukuna stood there, completely entranced. His usual sharp, cocky demeanor? Out the window. He didn’t even realize he was staring.

And he wasn’t the only one.

Gojo’s resolve to stay cool crumbled almost immediately. His eyes kept darting toward you despite his best efforts to focus elsewhere. Every time he caught sight of your dress, your hair, the way you looked slightly shy yet undeniably stunning, his face burned.

Across the room, Shoko—true to her energy—was having the time of her life, arm slung over your shoulder as she leaned in and whispered loudly enough for half the room to hear, “Everyone is staring at you!”

You winced, cheeks warming, and muttered back, “You don’t have to tell me. I can feel it.”

Shoko grinned devilishly, her confidence radiating. “That’s because you’re a total smoke show tonight, babe. Honestly, who knew all that was under those grandma sweaters?”

“Shoko!” you hissed, smacking her arm lightly.

She cackled, clearly enjoying your embarrassment, and leaned back to grab another drink from a passing tray. She started swaying to the music, trying to drag you into her rhythm. “Come on, let’s have fun!”

Meanwhile, Sukuna was still frozen. His eyes were glued to the way your dress hugged your curves, the way the lights hit your skin, the subtle confidence in your walk. He was so lost in thought that he didn’t even notice Gojo beside him, sneaking glances at you with the same dumbstruck expression.

Gojo wandered through the chaotic maze of Hakari’s house, dodging bodies dancing to the thumping bass and narrowly avoiding a girl who nearly spilled her drink on him. His sharp eyes scanned every corner until he spotted Geto leaning casually against a wall in the living room, his arm resting above a girl’s shoulder, his tone smooth as silk.

“Of course he’s flirting,” Gojo muttered to himself, sighing. Still, he made a beeline for him, determination fueling his long strides.

Geto glanced up mid-flirt, spotting Gojo’s disheveled and slightly panicked face approaching. He smirked, clearly amused. “Ah, Satoru. See what I brought you?”

Gojo ignored the girl completely, leaning in to whisper-yell, “Why didn’t you tell me you were bringing her?”

Geto raised a brow, his smirk widening. “What?” he chuckled. “I did stupid.”

Gojo rolled his eyes. “No, you did not.”

“First of all,” Geto said, holding up a finger, “I didn’t know she was Shoko’s roommate until I went to pick her up. Second—” He raised another finger, his smirk growing smug. “I texted you. Millions of times.”

“Bullshit,” Gojo snapped, immediately pulling out his phone. His thumb scrolled furiously through his notifications, his face dropping when he saw an embarrassing number of unread messages from Geto. He groaned, cursing under his breath. “Damn it.”

“Yeah, that’s what I thought,” Geto teased, taking a sip from his drink. “You really need to stop putting the none disturb mode.”

Gojo shot him a glare but quickly pivoted back to the issue at hand. “Okay, fine, you texted. But you could’ve called. You know how important this is!”

“Call you while she was in the car?” Geto raised an amused brow. “Let her know that you have liked her since middle school too?”

“Shut up,” Gojo snapped, feeling the tips of his ears heat up.

The girl Geto had been flirting with cleared her throat, clearly annoyed at being ignored. Geto glanced at her apologetically. “Sorry, babe. Give me a sec.”

She rolled her eyes and walked off, muttering something under her breath.

Geto turned back to Gojo, entirely unfazed. “She’s probably still somewhere around the party, you know. Why don’t you, oh, I don’t know…go talk to her?”

Gojo groaned, running a hand through his white hair. “It’s not that easy. I can’t just—”

“Oh, please,” Geto interrupted, grinning mischievously. “You’re Satoru Gojo, the guy who can charm anyone with just a wink. Don’t tell me you’re scared?”

“I’m not scared,” Gojo hissed, though his shifting gaze said otherwise.

“Right. Sure.” Geto leaned in, his grin turning devilish. “You’re terrified. Look at you. Your hands are probably sweating.”

“They’re not!” Gojo exclaimed, holding his hands out defensively.

“Then why are you so anxious?” Geto countered, tilting his head. “Oh wait—don’t tell me…you’re scared she might actually like you back.”

Gojo groaned again, dragging a hand down his face. “You’re insufferable.”

“And yet, I’m right,” Geto replied smugly. “Listen, she’s here. She looks great. And if you don’t at least try to talk to her tonight, other than asking her for a book…you’re gonna regret it for the rest of your life. Or at least until your next existential crisis.”

Gojo opened his mouth to retort but closed it again when he realized he had no comeback. He exhaled sharply, shoving his phone back into his pocket.

“Fine,” he muttered.

“Atta boy.” Geto clapped him on the shoulder, his grin widening. “Now go sweep her off her feet, Romeo.”

Gojo rolled his eyes, but as he turned to walk away, Geto’s voice called after him, laced with teasing.

“And if you crash and burn, I’ll be right here to say ‘I told you so!’”

“Shut up, Suguru!” Gojo yelled over his shoulder, though the small smirk tugging at his lips betrayed his nerves.

The garden feels like a sanctuary compared to the chaos inside Hakari’s house. The muffled bass of the music and sporadic laughter barely touch this corner of the property. You sit stiffly on the stone bench, arms hugging your cardigan tight, watching the small lake ripple in the moonlight. The chill in the air bites, and you shift uncomfortably, wondering again why you came here.

From your spot, you can see Shoko by the patio, taking shot after shot, her cigarette glowing faintly in the dark as she laughs with a group of strangers. She’s magnetic, fearless, the complete opposite of how you feel in this moment.

The sound of gravel crunching underfoot pulls your attention, and you glance over your shoulder. Sukuna stands there, his tall figure silhouetted against the soft glow of the garden lights. He’s holding a red cup in his hand, his expression unreadable but calm.

Your breath catches, and you immediately look away, your cheeks burning as you focus intently on the lake.

“Didn’t think I’d see you here,” he says, his deep voice breaking the quiet. There’s no teasing edge, just a quiet observation.

You sneak another glance at him as he approaches and sits down on the bench, not too close, but close enough for you to feel the weight of his presence. He leans back casually, his arm draped along the back of the bench, his red cup hanging loosely from his fingers.

“Yuuji told me he invited you,” he continues, a faint smirk tugging at his lips, “but I told him there was no way. Guess I was wrong.”

You give a nervous chuckle, still looking anywhere but at him. “I just… wanted to try something different, I guess.”

“And now you regret it,” he says, more a statement than a question.

You nod, your fingers gripping the edge of your cardigan. “This isn’t really my thing.”

He chuckles, a low, rich sound that feels surprisingly warm. “Already figured that much.”

You glance at him, surprised by the lack of mockery in his tone. He’s just watching you, his sharp eyes softened slightly, as though he’s trying to understand you.

“Parties aren’t for everyone,” he adds after a moment, swirling the drink in his cup absentmindedly.

“Do you like them?” you ask, the question slipping out before you can stop yourself.

His brow lifts slightly, as though he didn’t expect you to ask. He leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees, staring out at the lake. “I used to,” he admits, his voice quieter now.

You tilt your head, studying his profile. There’s a hint of something deeper beneath his words, and it makes you ask, “And now?”

He turns his head, meeting your gaze, and for a moment, you feel like you’re under a microscope. His eyes are intense, searching, and it’s like he’s deciding whether to let you in. Finally, he exhales softly.

“Now, they’re just noise,” he says simply. “The same faces, the same meaningless conversations. I used to think they were fun. Freedom, I guess. But…” He trails off, shaking his head slightly.

You nod, your voice soft. “I guess it’s hard to enjoy something when it doesn’t mean the same thing anymore.”

He looks at you again, and this time, his gaze lingers. There’s something almost… gentle about it, like he’s surprised that you understand. “Yeah,” he murmurs.

The air between you feels heavy but not uncomfortable. It’s as if both of you are letting the conversation settle, the quiet of the garden wrapping around you.

“Have you had anything to drink?” he asks suddenly, breaking the silence.

You shake your head quickly. “No. I’ve never tried…alcohol before.”

His brow arches in genuine surprise. “Never?”

You shake your head again, your cheeks heating under his curious gaze. “Never…”

A small smirk tugs at his lips as he holds out his red cup. “Alright. Try this.”

You hesitate, staring at the cup as though it’s a loaded weapon. “What is it?”

“Vodka cranberry,” he says. “Not too strong. Sweet enough for a beginner.”

You hesitate, eyeing the drink with suspicion. “I don’t know…”

He chuckles, the sound soft but somehow coaxing. “Come on. One sip. It’s not gonna kill you.”

Reluctantly, you take the cup, bringing it to your lips. The liquid burns immediately, the sharpness overpowering whatever sweetness it’s supposed to have. You cough, your face contorting in disgust as you shove the cup back into his hand.

“That’s terrible,” you gasp, wiping your mouth.

Sukuna throws his head back with a laugh, the sound deep and genuine. It’s the first time you’ve heard him laugh like that, and despite yourself, you feel your lips twitch into a small smile.

“I should’ve warned you about the burn,” he says, still chuckling.

“You think?” you retort, your tone half-playful, half-annoyed.

He leans back again, his smirk lingering as he watches you recover. “Guess alcohol’s not for you.”

“Maybe not,” you mumble, still grimacing at the lingering taste.

The silence returns, but it’s softer now, more comfortable. You glance at him, catching him watching you, his expression unreadable but… softer than you expected.

In the distance, Mei Mei stands on the balcony, her sharp eyes locked on the two of you. Her fingers tap against the railing as jealousy flickers across her face.

Hakari’s arm slides around her waist, his fingers tracing lazy circles on her thigh. “What are you staring at?” he murmurs.

“Nothing,” she replies, though her gaze doesn’t waver.

Hakari leans in, brushing a kiss against her neck. “Come back inside. The party’s better when you’re in it.”

With one last glance at you and Sukuna, Mei Mei allows herself to be guided away, though her thoughts remain on the garden scene.

The moment feels strange as Sukuna, still leaning against the bench and lost in thought, suddenly notices Mahito and Jogo waving at him from across the garden. Their loud, obnoxious voices cut through the tranquility like nails on a chalkboard. Sukuna’s jaw tightens as he sighs, pulling himself up.

“I’ll be back,” he says, his voice low, as he glances at you.

You nod, your fingers tightening on your cardigan as you murmur, “Okay.”

Sukuna turns and heads toward his so-called friends, his expression immediately hardening. His patience is already thin, and the sight of Mahito’s wide, smug grin isn’t helping.

“Yo, Sukuna!” Mahito calls, throwing an arm around Sukuna’s shoulder like they’re old pals. “Who’s the hottie you’re sitting with?”

Sukuna stiffens, his brow furrowing. “Are you blind?” he snaps, shoving Mahito’s arm off him. “That’s Y/N.”

Mahito squints dramatically in your direction, then gasps, his expression exaggerated as always. “What?! That’s Y/N? The Y/N? The library nerd?”

Sukuna’s glare sharpens. “Yeah, and?”

Mahito whistles, nudging Jogo, who chuckles beside him. “Damn, she cleans up nice,” Mahito says, his tone turning sleazy. “She’s hot. Like, really hot. Who knew she had all that going on under those oversized sweaters?”

Jogo chimes in with a low laugh, adding, “Didn’t think she had it in her to show up here. Guess nerds can surprise you.”

“Shut up,” Sukuna growls, his voice low and dangerous. His fists clench, his irritation bubbling over in a way he doesn’t fully understand. “You two idiots have no idea what you’re talking about.”

Mahito smirks, leaning in closer to Sukuna like he’s sharing a secret. “Relax, man. If you’re not interested, I might just take a shot myself. Hell, I’d even do the bet—”

“Say one more thing,” Sukuna interrupts, his voice ice-cold as he steps closer to Mahito, towering over him. His crimson eyes burn with an intensity that makes even Mahito falter. “And I’ll shut you up permanently. Got it?”

Mahito raises his hands in mock surrender, though the smirk on his face remains. “Alright, alright, chill. No need to get all worked up.”

Sukuna’s glare shifts to Jogo, who’s still chuckling quietly. “And you—if you don’t want me to finish what I started earlier today, you’ll keep your mouth shut too.”

Jogo’s laughter dies instantly, and he looks away, muttering something under his breath.

Without another word, Sukuna turns and walks toward the drinks table, his jaw clenched and his mind racing. He grabs a bottle of something fruity he thinks you might like, pouring it into a fresh cup.

As he turns back toward the garden, his gaze catches someone moving through the crowd. It’s Gojo, his silver hair catching the dim party lights. Sukuna raises a hand, about to call out, but stops when he notices where Gojo is looking.

Gojo’s bright blue eyes are locked on you. His normally confident stride slows as he takes you in, and then, to Sukuna’s irritation, he starts walking toward you.

Sukuna’s grip on the cup tightens, his annoyance flaring into something more complicated. Was it irritation? Jealousy? Whatever it was, it was enough to make his blood boil.

He stays rooted for a moment, watching as Gojo closes the distance between himself and you. Sukuna’s lips curl into a scowl as he mutters under his breath, “What the hell is he doing?”

Gojo’s steps are slow as he maneuvers through the chaos of Hakari’s party. The pounding bass of the music, the loud laughter, and the constant chatter fade into the background as his sharp blue eyes focus on you sitting quietly on a bench near the lake.

He stops for a moment, watching you. The way the dim garden lights cast a soft glow on your face, how your cardigan is wrapped snugly around you, and the way you stare out at the water like the party doesn’t exist at all.

Gojo lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding. He knew you wouldn’t blend into the noise of a place like this. It wasn’t your scene. And yet, here you were, sitting alone, so out of place but somehow fitting perfectly into this serene corner of the night.

As his nerves start to creep in, he runs a hand through his hair and takes a step forward. Okay, Satoru, he thinks to himself. Just be cool. Be yourself—okay, maybe not entirely yourself.

He finally reaches you, standing a few feet away before clearing his throat. “Hey,” he says, his voice softer than usual, almost hesitant.

You look up at him, your expression briefly surprised, but then you give him a soft smile. “Hi,” you reply, your voice gentle.

Gojo shifts awkwardly, his usual confidence faltering. There’s a quiet moment as he debates whether to sit down or not. After a beat, he lowers himself onto the bench beside you, leaving just enough space to not make it awkward but close enough to feel the tension of his presence.

The silence between you stretches, but it’s not uncomfortable. He glances at you from the corner of his eye, watching how your gaze remains fixed on the lake.

Finally, you break the stillness. “Did the book help?” you ask softly, turning to look at him. “For class, I mean.”

Gojo blinks, caught off guard for a moment, then smiles. “Oh, yeah,” he says, leaning back against the bench. “It helped a lot. No wonder it’s so hard to find—it’s a rare gem.”

Your lips curve into a small smile, and Gojo feels his chest tighten at the sight.

The conversation slows again, but this time, he feels the weight of the opportunity pressing on him. His palms are sweating, and for the first time in forever, he feels… nervous? Come on, Satoru, this is your shot.

“You know,” he starts, his voice uncharacteristically soft, “you look really pretty tonight.”

You blink, your cheeks instantly warming as you murmur, “Thank you.”

But Gojo doesn’t stop there. “Actually,” he continues, his tone playful yet sincere, “you’re even prettier when you’ve got that messy bun going. You know, the one you do with the pencil stuck in it.”

Your eyes widen slightly, and you let out a soft giggle. “How did you notice that?”

Gojo shrugs, flashing you a grin, though his gaze remains gentle. “How could I not? It’s kind of your signature look. Makes you… you.”

Your cheeks flush deeper as you glance away, trying to hide your smile. His words feel so genuine, so unlike the usual cocky, over-the-top persona he carries.

For a moment, neither of you speaks, but the atmosphere feels different now—warmer, softer. Gojo watches you, his heart pounding in a way he can’t explain.

“Thanks,” you finally say, your voice almost a whisper. “That’s… sweet of you.”

And for the first time that night, Gojo feels like he’s exactly where he’s supposed to be.

Sukuna leans against the wall, his red cup tilted idly in his hand, his sharp eyes focused on the bench where you and Gojo sit. His face is unreadable, but the way his jaw clenches and his fingers tighten around the cup is enough to reveal his mood.

Beside him, Mahito and Jogo are huddled together, whispering like schoolchildren. Mahito nudges Jogo with his elbow, his lips curling into a sly grin. “Look at that, Sukuna,” Mahito teases, his tone sing-song. “Gojo’s making his move. Looks like your little librarian has a new admirer.”

Sukuna doesn’t even glance at Mahito, his gaze fixed on you and Gojo. Mahito, emboldened by Sukuna’s silence, continues, “You know, maybe you should just let it go. Call it quits, hand me the $100, and admit you’re not getting anywhere with her.”

Jogo immediately stiffens and shakes his head at Mahito, trying to signal him to stop. “Mahito,” he mutters under his breath, “you’re going to get yourself killed.”

Mahito waves him off. “Come on, Jogo, we’re all friends here,” he says mockingly. “Sukuna can handle a little truth.”

Sukuna’s eyes finally tear away from you and Gojo, and he glares at Mahito with such intensity that Mahito’s grin falters slightly. His voice drops into a low, dangerous growl. “Mahito, if you don’t shut up right now, I’ll make sure you leave this party with more than just a bruised ego.”

Jogo quickly steps in, grabbing Mahito’s arm. “Alright, Mahito, that’s enough,” he says nervously.

But Mahito, never one to know when to quit, opens his mouth to push further—only to be interrupted.

“Yo, Sukuna!” Hakari’s loud, cheerful voice cuts through the tension as he saunters over, a drink in one hand and Mei Mei trailing behind him.

Hakari grins broadly as he approaches. “How’s the party? Everyone having fun?”

Mahito, eager to change the subject, raises his cup. “It’s great! Perfect chaos, as always,” he replies, though his grin is still a bit uneasy.

Mei Mei steps closer, her sharp eyes briefly flicking toward Sukuna. Her movements are smooth, calculated, almost predatory, as though she’s trying to draw his attention. But Sukuna doesn’t even spare her a glance, his focus now on Hakari.

She tilts her head, her smirk faltering slightly. It’s clear she’s used to commanding attention, and Sukuna’s indifference irks her.

Hakari, oblivious to the tension or perhaps just unfazed, laughs loudly. “That’s what I like to hear!”

Suddenly there’s a loud crash, as if a vase had broken.

“Something just broke. I’m betting it was one of the glasses my mom keeps in the display cabinet.” Hakari explained unbothered.

Mahito snickers. “You’re not worried?”

Hakari waves dismissively. “Nah, I’ll just tell my parents a bird crashed into it or something. They’ll believe anything.”

Sukuna rolls his eyes, the annoyance in his expression growing. As Hakari rambles on about the potential excuses he could come up with, Sukuna’s gaze instinctively drifts back to the bench where you’re still sitting.

Gojo leans in slightly, his body language casual but attentive, his focus completely on you. Sukuna’s grip on his drink tightens again, and for a brief moment, he wonders why it’s bothering him so much.

Mahito notices Sukuna’s wandering attention and leans closer, whispering with a smirk, “Still thinking about that $100 bet?”

This time, Sukuna doesn’t answer. Instead, his lips curl into a faint smirk, one that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Shut up, Mahito,” he mutters, before downing the rest of his drink in one go.

[genericpuff]

Here's your regular service reminder that $48k/year sounds like a dream come true to people who have never made a living off their art or comics before, until you factor in the following:

Cost of assistants which is out-of-pocket (some creators literally don't hire assistants because of this which makes the process of meeting their deadlines even harder)

Cost of additional tools necessary to making webtoons and meeting deadlines, such as paying for drawing software, 3D models, etc.

Cost of emergency services such as healthcare are not covered by WT, so if your health deteriorates while you're working on your comic (which it often does for many creators whose bodies are destroyed from working long hours at a desk 7 days a week), WT will not help you.

No paid vacation time, no paid sick leave, no accommodations for people with kids, disabilities, etc. meaning if you have to take time off, WT will not be covering it.

Speaking of vacation time, Webtoons ONLY pays creators for completed and submitted episodes, meaning they will not pay you for pre-production time leading up to a series release OR have your back when you have to go on hiatus. Some creators manage multiple series to make ends meet and avoid stretches of unpaid hiatuses (IIRC I believe KitTrace does this with Nevermore and Shiloh rotating on and off hiatus one at a time) and others simply have to go without pay relying solely on their Patreons and other forms of income when they go on hiatus. And, as we've seen in the past, when they return from hiatus is often up to Webtoons, not them.

That $48k is basically just an average ballpark of what Webtoons pays creators for a season of content, and for those who recall, FastPass earnings are not given to creators until they make back that payment.

It's really hard to get people to FastPass when Webtoons is deliberately not advertising your series and, in some cases, outright SABOTAGING your attempts to advertise.

I don't even know if that $48k is before or AFTER taxes, I'm assuming before considering this is a self-employment contract, meaning you likely have to put away a good few thousand for taxes depending on your state tax rate and what you're able to write off. This also includes having to track assistant expenditures for filing.

The 60-80+ hour weeks many creators are having to pull to meet their deadlines turns that $48k/year into an ASTOUNDING drum roll ... $11 - $15/hour! Which is just barely over minimum wage in many states, and absolutely 100% not a living wage in most! And that's BEST CASE scenario in which you don't pay an assistant, don't suffer any health expenses, don't pay for 3D models / software, and POSSIBLY don't pay your taxes. Yaaaaay! 😒🖕

TL : DR $48k/year hasn't been a salary worth bragging about since 2005 ESPECIALLY not for such high-demand specialized work like this, fuck you Webtoons <3

[xadored]

you and osamu as the feared champions of all you can eat restaurants

reader is in college and gender neutral | slight timeskip osamu and atsumu spoilers | you, a broke university student with a part time job and osamu working a crap job apprenticing under a fancy Tokyo chef who he hates. every day you and him bust your asses studying, working, and collapse into bed tired. but once a week, you'll abandon your assignments and osamu will be victorious off another dinner rush, and you and your boyfriend will dine like absolute kings at your favorite all you can eat sushi spot. flat fee, three hour time limit, no limitations on ordering, and of course, extra charge for any food uneaten. (Osamu likes the pressure to clear his plate) no water, no alcohol, not even the miso soup, just to maximize capacity Osamu's work in the kitchen means he knows what costs the most on the menu, so he always orders the best, and you and him will eat thrice your body weight in fish and still lie to the waiter and tell him it's osamu's birthday for the free dessert. (after the 15th time the restaurant starts ID-ing birthdays) each bite of food takes you one more step away from the grind of another hard week, and when you go out the two of you are just a happy couple with no cares in the world. no piles of homework, no exams, no bosses to yell at you, no rent to pay, you and osamu pretend you have absolutely no problems other than running this restaurant into the ground. afterwards, you and osamu cuddle up on your couch and promptly pass out while an episode of Kitchen Nightmares plays in the background and you and your boyfriend would've kept doing your weekly dates until the end of time, if it weren't for atsumu. he crashes your date night, drunk, after a bad loss couples with another failed situationship ("how do they not want me? I'm a pro athlete, and look at my hair!") in need of a win, atsumu challenges osamu to see who can eat more. this results in loud bickering, some crying from atsumu, osamu cheating, atsumu refusing to listen to you and trying to pull the free birthday desert, two broken plates, and a lot of fish eaten. at one point atsumu gets too full and leaves the restaurant to "take a digestion lap" and jogs around the block before coming back to eat. on the way home, atsumu leans too much body weight on his brother, causing them both to go crashing to the ground. A ring box tumbles out of osamu's jacket pocket, which he immediately scrambles to hide. (he'll later tell you he was carrying it around because there was no good place to hide it in your tiny apartment) You pretend not to have seen anything and fuss over helping atsumu back up, but the whole way home you can't stop smiling.

anyways, you, osamu and atsumu are officially banned from the restaurant by the head chef due to suffering too many damages in food expenditures. atsumu promises to use his fancy pro athlete money to pay for all the food and drinks at your wedding, and to pay for your anniversary dinner at a Michelin star restaurant for the next 5 years.

== hii omg i just rly wanted to try writing fanfic, i been like a ghost reader on here for a million years now! would love to chit chat if ur down! :^)

[multidimensionalguidance]

SR Chart in-depth Analysis Part 1 🗝️

I thought it would be a good idea to write down an interpretation of how my 2024 SR chart might develop during this year, forget about it, and then revisit it during and/or at the end of the year! A fun experiment for me, even though I can honestly say that I've already been seeing the way it has been activating.

Note: please keep in mind I use sidereal and whole house system.

Libra ASC: this was the first thing that stood out to me when I saw the chart. I was already feeling an "upcoming glow up" vibe, and confirming it was hilarious. Even though Libra and Venusians in general are not just about appearance, they value aesthetics A LOT. I've already received comments on how my skin is looking amazing, and overall, just a lot of attention from others being thrown towards my appearance. So, aside from that more obvious aspect, I would say that this rising sign makes one feel more keen to developing and/or creating relationships of all kinds, meaning, that it is expected to become a tad more social during this year. Romantic relationships, creativity, arts, a need to be more diplomatic or neutral, and communication with others will become themes I will engage with a lot.

To give dept to this house, I pay attention to the where Libra sits in my natal chart and where it goes on the SR chart, also, where the lord of the SR ASC sits (strength, aspects, etc.) in the chart.

Example: Libra sits in my 12th house, and becomes the rising sign for SR chart. This tells me that a lot of my subconscious patterns will become more noticeable, particularly for relationships, and that those matters that are usually hidden about me are now put on the spotlight. Now, it's very interesting that the lord of my SR ASC moves to the 12th house, so its like there will still be things that are still kept hidden. Knowing me, I will be content with spending time alone and/or in foreign places, so I don't mind. Venus is debilitated, and I'm assuming that keeping to myself will partly occur from difficulties with possible insecurities, being overly critical or focused on self reflecting. Themes of feeling unworthy, and healing it. A great amount of attention being placed towards looks could definitely make one feel uncomfortable or unsure of why you're receiving it so much, and if it has to do with superficial reasons it can makes you feel unseen, as if others ignore your depth.

Scorpio stellium 2nd house: a focus on transformations occuring around money, resources, values, face area, food or products consumed, luxury, comfort, sensuality, and romance. I would expect a highlight and plenty of motivation to pursue all of these topics, since the Sun sits there conjunct Mars. Scorpios move quietly and under the radar, so there will be lots of secrecy on how I will exercise my power/drive, and also on communications around how I'm making money or managing my finances. Money from others moving directly into my pockets from foreign matters, contracts, writing/communication (9H ruled by Mercury), networking, social media, creative pursuits, romantic partner (11H ruled by Sun), somehow losses that turn into gains, expenditure, spirituality, and foreign residence (12H ruled by Mercury). In general, major important upgrades to the way I relate to Venusian matters.

Sagittarius 3rd house: even if houses are empty in a natal or SR chart they still hold meaningful information, but will of course be felt less in comparison to the houses that have planets. I see that my mindset, near environment, and communication will be a lot about/with foreigners, spiritual topics, traveling, and philosophy. The ruler sits in the 7th house, so it will also be mixed with my romantic life (with a foreigner), business, contracts, and other type of close relationships.

Capricorn 4th house: I don't usually pay much attention to Pluto unless its close to ASC or inner planet (Sun, Moon, Venus) but I will now for the sake of giving more context. There could be a major change of residence occuring or renovations of some sort. Home environment could be a bit chaotic or under frequent changes. Part of Fortune also sits there, so all of those transformations might actually be aligned with blessings or for a better outcome. The ruler sits in the 5th house with the moon, so it will definitely make me feel anxious and emotionally restricted or numbed. Luckily, I've had enough experience with Saturnian energy, so I know how to work through it until I find balance.

Aquarius 5th house: as I already mentioned above, with Moon and Saturn conjunct here it is likely that I will be feeling as if my emotions are harder to access which could cause anxiety, creative blockages, frustrations, or depression. Definitely will incorporate lots of yoga, nature, and emotional regulating activities during this year to keep that on check.

Pisces 6th house: with Rahu sitting there, I could see that my attention will gravitate around how I incorporate work, daily routine, health, and exercise with spirituality, creative endeavors, and abstract thinking. I had already experience gut health issues and almost all of those topics shortly after my birthday, so I can see how wherever Rahu is placed in a SR chart, there is a lot of movement for good or worse. With the ruler of 6H going into the 5H, I could see how work and health matters could exacerbate my emotional challenges.

Aries 7th house: Jupiter is siting here, and even though it is retrograde, the functionality of the planet doesn't suddenly stop occuring. It makes Jupiter have a more inward expression if anything. There will most likely be expansion or growth of romantic suitors (specifically male, since its in Aries), contracts, business, relationships of all type of relationships being upgraded somehow, and in general lots of luck with interpersonal skills. Those with whom I develop close relationships will become like teacher, or enjoy providing protection to me. The ruler sits in the 2nd house conjunct with the Sun, so others will either expand my resources or simply have an influence in it. Since its with the sun, it should be beneficial or empowering.

Alllllriiiight, I shall stop here for now and release the 2nd part at another moment!

[justinspoliticalcorner]

Nadra Nittle and Shefali Luthra at The 19th:

President Joe Biden’s administration on Monday announced a plan that would eliminate out-of-pocket expenses for most birth control for a majority of Americans.  Officials called the proposed rule, which affects people with private health insurance, the most significant expansion of contraception coverage under the Affordable Care Act (ACA) in over a decade. They estimate it could benefit 52 million women of reproductive age. “For the first time ever, women would be able to obtain over-the-counter contraception without a prescription at no additional cost, and health plans would have to cover even more prescribed contraceptives without cost sharing,” said Jennifer Klein, assistant to the president and director of the White House Gender Policy Council, in a call with reporters.  The proposed rule would alleviate a significant financial burden for millions of Americans. The 2010 health law already required private health plans to cover at least one form of birth control for beneficiaries without any out-of-pocket costs. Research shows that the benefit has contributed to higher use of contraception, lower health care expenditures by women, and may have helped lower rates of unintended pregnancy. 

But applying the contraception mandate to over-the-counter methods has been difficult.  If enacted, the proposed rule would require health plans cover forms of birth control such as condoms and emergency contraception – both typically bought without a prescription – as well as a new over-the-counter hormonal birth control pill. That pill, known as Opill, hit retail shelves earlier this year, and a six-month supply costs about $90.  Democrats have pushed for years to strengthen enforcement of the ACA’s existing birth control mandate, citing reports of poor enforcement and of women receiving surprise bills for contraceptives that should have been covered. A 2021 survey by KFF, a nonpartisan health policy research, polling and journalism organization, found that 1 in 5 women with private insurance said they had paid something out of pocket for birth control.  Biden administration officials reiterated those concerns. 

[...] Some Republican state lawmakers have been clear about their intentions to restrict birth control as well as abortion. Conservatives in Congress have called for the defunding of Title X, a federal program offering family planning and related health care services. They have also blocked federal legislation to protect contraception access. Harris, in contrast, has maintained that “contraception is health care.” Since Roe was overturned in June 2022, Harris has discussed the repercussions of limiting women’s health care during more than 100 events, according to Kristine Lucius, deputy assistant to the president and domestic policy adviser to the vice president. 

Harris has also criticized Republican efforts to repeal the ACA, which covers nearly 50 million Americans. Among those protected by the law are more than 100 million people with preexisting medical conditions. The law has already allowed millions of women to save on contraception costs.  The proposed rule will likely have a 60-day comment period, meaning that it will be finalized in 2025, officials said during the call, making it uncertain if it would still take effect if former President Donald Trump is elected. Trump’s position on contraception hasn’t been clear. In May, he gave an interview in which he suggested he would consider certain restrictions, but he later said he would not impose any. Project 2025, which Trump has distanced himself from — even though its writers have ties to both him and his running mate, Sen. JD Vance — does support restricting some forms of contraception. 

The Biden Administration announced on Monday a plan that would eliminate out-of-pocket spending for most birth control items by not requiring a prescription for birth control. This would be a significant expansion of contraception coverage under the Patient Protection and Affordable Care Act (PPACA).

See Also:

AP, via HuffPost: White House Proposes That Health Insurance Fully Cover Over-The-Counter Birth Control

[jjasen]

this is how to disappear

summary: keeping jj from slipping away from you, inspired by how to disappear by lana del rey

warnings: cursing, mentions of alcohol, angst

word count: 1.5k

john met me down on the boulevard

“Hey.”

“Hey.” You glance over your shoulder at John B.

He shoves his hands into the pockets of his cargo shorts. “So,” he greets you noncommittally, “can I sit here?” You nod and bite your lip, turning back to watch the waves crash onto the shore, the remnants of the sunset casting a soft orange glow onto the water.

cried on his shoulder ‘cause life is hard

He sits down beside you. A few moments pass in quiet contemplation. “He doesn’t mean to hurt you, you know,” he says, squinting at the horizon. 

“I know.” You run your hands down your thighs. It’s starting to get chilly as the last beams of sunlight dip below the skyline. “It still does, though. Hurt, I mean.” 

He looks at you, his cinnamon-brown eyes sorrowful, then sighs, ducking his head. “Yeah. I know.” He pauses, gathering his words. “He just- he’s so scared that you’ll leave him. I think it gives him a sense of control if he’s the one to withdraw first.”

You smile mournfully, thinking back to your argument. 

You were - all of you, even Sarah - hanging out in John B’s yard, lounging around in camp chairs and hammocks under the shade of the oak trees, hoping to escape the oppressive summer heat. The Chateau’s air conditioning system was broken, and there was nothing to drink except for tap water and few lukewarm beers, which hadn’t deterred JJ from snagging a can and popping it open in his hammock. Pope had dug out a box of sticky cherry ice pops from the freezer for the rest of you. 

“So, JJ,” Kie had leaned forward, elbows on her knees as she cupped her chin with her palms, “Are you, like, gonna return the hot tub? It’s been less than a month, so theoretically you could get the restitution money back.”

the waves came in over my head

“What?” Your outburst was half-laughter, half incredulous. You turned to look at him, sitting up in your hammock, a dull ache beginning to throb in your chest. “You didn’t tell me you used all of the restitution money to buy the hot tub.” 

what you been up to, my baby?

A quick glance at all the others confirmed that they had all been aware of your boyfriend’s expenditure. Pope looked down at his lap, his melting popsicle slowly dripping onto the grass, John B muttered a low, “Shit, man,” and Sarah stared at you worriedly, biting on her lower lip. 

all of the guys tell me lies but you don’t 

JJ clenched his jaw, the muscles in the column of his neck ticking, and refused to meet your gaze. “It’s nothing, dude,” he mumbled, getting up to crush his empty beer can with his boot and walking inside the Chateau. An uncomfortable silence settled over the group and you could feel the pogues watching you carefully, sending a prickle down your spine. 

you just crack another beer

“I’m so sorry, I shouldn’t have- It’s my fault for mentioning it,” Kie said, fidgeting with her bracelets. 

“It’s fine,” you sighed, brushing your hair behind your ear. “I should- I should probably go talk to him.” The sweet taste of cherry ice on your tongue had quickly turned sour, and you tossed your wooden popsicle stick, stained a bright red, somewhere into the yard before following JJ into the house. You found him in the kitchen, braced over the sink, and you could tell he saw you in his periphery by the way his knuckles whitened, biceps flexing in his threadbare black muscle tank, the way he pressed his lips together. 

 and pretend that you’re still here

“Were you going to tell me?” You crossed your arms casually, leaning against the kitchen counter. “Because this feels like something a person would generally tell their partner about. Maybe before they tell literally everybody else.”

 “Just- just fucking stop, okay? Just stop,” he bit out, holding a hand out towards you, his voice ragged. He turned to face you, running his hand through his blond hair, and stared at you for a moment. His chest heaved and he shook his head. “This is- I don’t wanna fucking talk about this shit. Not with you,” he said stiffly, before stalking out of the house. You made to follow him, briefly, but as if he knew what you were doing, he held up his hand from the yard, signaling you to stop.

“Don’t!” he called, not bothering to look back at you.

this is how to disappear

You watched him helplessly from John B’s sun-bleached porch, JJ’s figure shrinking into the distance. Dust flew up in the scorching summer heat, clouding his retreating silhouette. You pretended that the pogues weren’t watching you with their pity-filled eyes, and they pretended that they hadn’t witnessed your fight. You appreciated it, awkward as it may be; it was easier this way. And you knew that for JJ, it was easier to just up and leave. 

this is how to disappear

“I should talk to him.” It’s not a question, but you still look over at John B. He’s gazing into the horizon, watching the sea swirl inky indigo blue as the sky darkens, fiddling unconsciously with that tattered old bandana he wears around his neck. 

“Yeah. Yeah, you should,” he says. He’s still sitting there when you get up from the pier.

I know he’s in over his head

You know JJ well enough by now that you know where he goes when he’s in his moods, or needs to think. And sure enough, you find him at Rixon’s cove, sitting in a low-hanging branch of the oak tree that overlooks the ocean. You’re certain that he clocks your presence in the subtle ways his body shifts - an almost imperceptible head tilt towards you, his hand threading through his messy blond hair, a quiet intake of breath. 

“I care, JJ. I care so much it hurts sometimes.” You skip past any semblance of greeting him and resume the conversation you’d had, hours earlier. You liked that about JJ, and he liked that about you: that the two of you could switch and weave through different discussions seamlessly, without a blink of an eye. 

 but I love that man like nobody can

“I know.” JJ turns to face you and it’s now that you register his reddened eyes, a smear of dirt and a few scrapes on his cheekbone. You move closer to clamber up onto the branch he’s sitting on, the tree’s bark rough under your palms. He looks down at his trembling hands. “It’s just- I do these stupid, shitty things all the time. And I don’t know how to stop, and I just want to do the right thing, and I- I fucking can’t.” He’s getting himself worked up again, frustration seeping into his voice, his jaw tensing.

he moves mountains and pounds them to ground again

“The gun, the hot tub - JJ, look at me,” you say softly. JJ gives people only enough of him to form a relationship; never enough so they could hurt him. For why would he trust anybody to love him when he has been taught that all people know how to do is hurt him? “I don’t care about that. It’s stupid. Of course it’s stupid. But there’s nothing you could do to make me stop loving you,” you say gently, reaching out to take his hand, to brush your thumb over his calloused palms. His fingers shake with how desperately he wants to be loved. The weight of his hand in yours is warm and familiar and comfortingly heavy.

I watched the guys getting high as they fight for the things that they hold dear 

JJ closes his eyes. “Do you promise?” It’s no more than a whisper, a murmur through the cool night air. The last dregs of sun tint his face with a golden glow, his blue eyes now a clear silver in the evening light. His gaze is wide, searching, as if he will find the key to the universe scattered across your cheekbones. 

to forget the things they fear

“I promise.” There is nothing you have ever been more sure of, and the fact that JJ sits back, relieved, as though he hadn’t been sure, makes something akin to sadness bubble up in your chest. 

this is how to disappear

“Come here.” You wrap your arms around him, careful not to fall out of the tree. JJ buries his face into the nape of your neck; his hair smells like the earth, like weed and cedarwood. Like home. He holds you tight, as if at any moment you could slip away from his grasp, his hands warm and pressed against your back, your waist. 

I watch the skies getting light as I write, as I think about those years

You lean down slightly so that your lips brush the shell of his ear. 

as I whisper in your ear 

“I'm always going to be right here. No one's going anywhere.”

[gumnut-logic]

Five pick ups and one drop off (Pick up 4)

Pick up 1 | Pick up 2 | Pick up 3 | Pick up 4

Scott is tired and a little pissed off, so watch for language. Again, kinda crack just for fun.

I hope you enjoy.

-o-o-o-

Scott Tracy needed to re-apply his deodorant.

He was beginning to get a bit whiffy. But that’s what happens went you cut halfway across the planet after pulling a dozen people out from under a building in Taiwan.

As it was, he’d had to leave Virgil to liaise with local services to make it in time.

Thunderbird One wasn’t known for her shower facilities, but he had foreseen that in the past and his office in New York was set up with all the amenities including a spare business suit or two.

But that was a good five hours ago. If there was one advantage of crossing the dateline, it was the preservation of sunlight. He had the great pleasure of living the same day over again. With less concrete dust.

But more numbers and more annoying people.

One thing about rescue sites, bar the occasional asshole, was that the people there were usually very, very happy to see Scott and his brothers.

Here in the board room he received the distinct impression that at least several of the members would be much happier with his absence so they could do exactly what they wanted.

Which was what had been happening and why he was here.

“Sir, why the higher expenditure? Their employees are not our responsibility.”

Scott grit his teeth and his blood pressure sung in his ears. “We are saving the company and its employees. I believe with the correct financial support, they can become a solid division of Tracy Industries. We are not in the business of destroying lives.”

“This is not a rescue site, Tracy, this is business!”

Scott straightened from where he had been bent over the conference table, glaring at Martin at the far end, and pulled himself up to his full height before turning to glare at Landers on his left. “Not the way we conduct it.” His tone turned acid. “Do you think caring makes us soft, Landers?”

“Yes, it does. You are destroying our profit margin.”

Scott could not give a fuck about this particular profit margin. They were absorbing a large manufacturing business with its heart in country USA. If they didn’t handle the situation carefully, a good hundred thousand employees looked to lose lifetime jobs. The impact on the people and society would be massive. Not to mention a foolish move as TI’s most important asset was its talent. And there was good talent out there. The business had been struggling, but only to out compete TI, which it could no longer.

Its product was excellent. Brains and Virgil had done an assessment and agreed that the teams had potential. All they needed to do was absorb them into TI and then manage them into a better working culture in order to support that talent.

But it was obvious certain members of the board did not see things the same way as the Tracy brothers. Yes, the profit margin would suffer, may even go into cost in the short term, but it was the long term Scott Tracy was interested in and not lining his pockets at the cost of other people’s lives.

Tracy Industries was big and stable enough to take a hit for the common good.

“Landers…” Scott really wished his head wasn’t hurting so much. “…just go.”

“What? Go where?”

“Out.” Scott waved an irritated hand at the door. “Get out!”

“You can’t-“

“GO!”

The whole room jumped.

Landers glared everything at Scott, swore under his breath, and made a scene of gathering his tablet and collection of paraphernalia off the table and stomping towards the exit.

The moment he left, murmured protests rumbled around the room.

Out of the corner of his eye he noticed Carly, his EA, talking into her headset. A moment later Jeremy, his personal security guard, stepped into the room and took up a position quite casually just inside the door.

Great.

Not the best politic move, Tracy. But Landers was a dick and he had had it coming for a long time.

Scott had just needed to be irritated enough to follow through.

He leant over the table again. “Do we have any further objections?”

Martin at the far end was noting furiously on his tablet. Yeah, more trouble would come from that direction.

Scott sighed. He really wasn’t at his best. He needed sleep. The Virgil at the back of his head was jumping up and down on his neurons demanding he stop growling at staff and come home.

There was a knock at the door and that same brother, still dressed in his IR uniform, stuck his head through. “Hey, excuse me, I need to borrow the President for a moment.”

The room was still rumbling and didn’t really respond. Scott strode over to his brother. “What is it?”

“Come out here for a sec.”

“I can’t leave right now.”

“Yes, you can.” A heavy lifting arm reached in and yanked him out into the hall.

“Virgil, what the hell?”

But his brother was busy staring at him, dark eyes assessing him as if he was capable of medically scanning him with the melanin in his eyeballs. “You’re coming with me.” And before Scott could react - a definite sign of exhaustion if there was one - Virgil lifted him in one quick move and threw him over his shoulder.

“Virgil, what the fuck?!” He struggled, but Virgil was known for his iron grip and even in Scott’s worst moments, he couldn’t hurt his brother.

“We are going home.”

“It’s an important meeting!” The view of the floor and his brother’s butt was infuriating.

“I know. Which is why we let you go initially. However, that was hours ago, and before you disassemble the board one by one, we are intervening.”

“We?”

“Hi, Scott.”

He cranked his head up just in time to see John walk past in a crisp turquoise-grey suit. “What? John? Virgil, put me down!”

“Nope.” They entered an elevator…going up, no doubt to the roof.

“Virgil, please. John will eviscerate them.”

“Yep.” They stepped out into sunlight.

“Aww, c’mon. They’re scared of him.”

“Yep.” A big green shadow loomed over them and Virgil stepped onto her elevator, giving Scott a fantastic view of checkerplate and nothing else. “It will do them good.”

“Virg-“

“Nope. Bed.”

“Please?”

His brother kicked the wall of the cockpit and folded down one of the stretchers. He rolled Scott gently off his shoulder, carefully catching his head and neck and let him sink into the soft medical support.

Every muscle cheered in gratitude.

“Virg…” God, he was tired.

His brother responded by brushing a hair out of his eyes, his gloved hand pushing Scott’s mess of hair back from his forehead. Kind eyes looked down at him. “You need rest, big brother.”

Sure fingers darted over his body, doing up safety straps and securing him in place, and for some reason Scott did not have the energy to protest.

He fell asleep halfway across the Pacific lulled to rest by the comforting roar of his brother’s ‘bird.

-o-o-o-

Next

[aishangotome]

Alfons Sylvatica: Chapter 18

Chapter 17

♡———♡

Lord Gore, a member of the House of Lords, tapped his desk impatiently with his blue ring.

The members of the Purification Club were desperately searching for those who had prevented the arson in the London docklands.

Lawmaker with Round Glasses: The problem is... despite the large-scale operation, there were no witnesses.

Lawmaker with Round Glasses: Even when we questioned the nearby residents, all of them gave irrelevant answers...

Young Lawmaker: The guys we hired also disappeared from the scene and haven't been seen since...

Young Lawmaker: The payment check to the front company also disappeared, and now that company has been raided by the police.

Lord Gore taps his desk with his ring again.

Lord Gore: ...Someone with considerable authority and power is at work.

Lord Gore: It's a bit of a hindrance to our goal of building a pure society.

???: --I completely agree.

The people present were startled by the voice coming from behind them.

Lord Gore: ...What brings a member of the Privy Council here?

Man from Privy Council: Well, I thought the knowledge I have might be of help to you.

The man's sharp gaze slowly surveyed the room.

Man from Privy Council: A little while ago... wasn't there an intruder in a "realm inaccessible to ordinary people?"

Lord Gore: ...I believe there was.

Young Lawmaker: T-two intruders at the members-only hotel... It's the first time since the club was founded.

Man from Privy Council: I see. Perhaps the ones hindering you are the stain on Britain that we've been troubled with for the past decade or so.

Man from Privy Council: What do you say? We're both troubled by a common pest... how about forming a cooperative relationship?

--Back at Crown--

Victor: Ta-da! Tonight's main course is Victor's special beef stew!

A banquet was being held to celebrate the successful prevention of the fire in Docklands.

It seemed that all members of Crown were forced to participate, and even Jude was present.

But...

Kate: Where's Alfons?

Elbert: ...He's been out and hasn't come back yet.

Kate: Is that so...?

Elbert: .............

Victor: I also wanted to find him and have him taste the special stew no matter what.

Victor: But he escaped by every possible means.

William: Haha, it's rare for Victor to miss.

Victor: He slipped away like a cat, it's troublesome. The security guards around here can't handle him at all.

Ellis: But you caught Jude.

Victor: Catching Jude depends on the negotiation.

Harrison: I hope the Queen's aide doesn't abuse his power and increase the country's unaccounted-for expenditures.

Victor: Don't worry, Harrison. I'm paying for it from my own pocket money!

Jude: I wonda' where that money comes from.

William: I recommend not digging into it.

It's hard to tell if they're close or not, but this is the lively dinner scene of the Crown members.

Usually, Alfons...and I would be laughing along with them, but today it feels distant.

(All the Crown members, like Alfons, are cursed with a destiny...)

(If I were in the same position...would I understand Alfons' feelings better?)

(To lightly wish for the same position...must be proof that I don't understand everyone's suffering.)

I couldn't bear the frustration of not being able to understand everything.

As I felt the distance and was filled with a gloomy feeling...

Liam: How about some roast chicken and salad, my lady?

Liam appeared like a first-class waiter and skillfully picked up the chicken and salad with a fork and spoon, serving them on a plate.

Liam: Hehe, just kidding. Here you go. This is for Kate too.

Kate: ! Thank you, Liam...Wow, it looks delicious...!

Liam: Right? Victor and the chefs in this castle are truly geniuses!

(Is he worried because I'm not feeling well?)

His dazzling smile seemed to gently envelop my gloomy feelings.

His casual thoughtfulness is proof that he pays attention to the people around him.

Encouraged by Liam's smile, I take a bite of the salad.

Kate: ...Mmm, it's delicious. Thank you, Liam.

Liam: I didn't do anything. If you're grateful, thank the chef and Victor, okay?

Liam: ...You know, I'm not the one who can make you truly happy.

Kate: Huh?

Liam: I would love it if Kate liked me back.

Kate: Eh? Even if you're trying to cheer me up, that's a bit too much.

Harrison: Who are you flirting with, Liam?

Liam: Ah, busted. I have some for you too, Harry, here you go.

The delicious dinner and conversation with everyone lightened my gloomy mood.

(...Yeah. It's not the time to feel distant and depressed.)

(I know exactly what I want to do.)

(For that, I have no choice but to take a step forward.)

As I solidified a certain determination in my chest, the banquet was nearing its end...

The clear sound of a spoon lightly tapping a glass echoed, and the atmosphere in the dining hall changed.

Victor: Everyone, will you listen to me?

Everyone's eyes focused on Victor.

A sharpened silence. The air of a dark night.

Victor: We've mostly finished our investigation on Councilman Gore. He's a senior member of the House of Lords...

Victor: The central figure of the "Purification" club, that's exactly who he is.

William: The club's faction consists of a dozen or so council members.

William: They are eugenic thinkers who believe that slum dwellers are an inferior race and should all be killed.

William: They work in the shadows for that mission and call the massacre of the poor "purification."

(...How horrible...)

I had expected it, but I was shocked by the fact that there are people who really think and act on such things.

Elbert: ...If you've figured that much out, has the judgment already been passed?

William: That was the plan.

Victor: We already tried to contact Councilman Gore once for the purpose of judgment, but...we failed.

Kate: Huh...!?

(Failed?)

Victor: He was absent from a meeting he was supposed to attend. In fact, there wasn't even a seat prepared for him.

William: Victor is the Queen's aide.

William: Just as there is no information that Her Majesty cannot grasp, Victor is also well-versed in all information.

William: Nevertheless, he was fed false information. In other words...

Jude: Someone is presentin' false information to Her Majesty.

Jude, still leaning back in his chair, gives the answer.

Jude: And someone quite close to Her Majesty, otherwise it would be dismissed as misinformation before it reached her.

Kate: No way...who could do such a thing?

William: To be able to manipulate even information about the House of Lords members, it has to be someone above the Parliament.

William: We believe that someone from the Privy Council may be involved.

Kate: ...The Privy Council...?

(What's that...?)

Kate: It's the Queen's advisory body...right?

Victor: Yes, the official name is "Her Majesty's Most Honorable Privy Council."

Victor: From the very beginning, they've considered the Crown to be a stain on England.

Victor: But since Her Majesty herself supports the Crown, they can't openly attack us. It would be treason.

Victor: There are three things they can do. One is to complain to Her Majesty.

Victor: The second is to make us slip up and create a situation where Her Majesty has no choice but to abandon the Crown.

Victor: And the third is to lend a hand to those who are hostile to us and eliminate us without getting their own hands dirty.

Kate: ...So you're saying they're helping the "Purification" club?

Victor: It's highly likely.

(No way...)

Kate: For those in Her Majesty's advisory body to lend a hand to an organization that massacres innocent people...!

Victor: It's a matter of priorities. They'll use anything they can to eliminate the thorn in their side.

Victor: If they can eliminate us, the "Purification" club will be discarded.

Victor: Even if they use a pawn, they'll eliminate it if it becomes an eyesore.

Victor: --That said, what we do won't change.

Victor lowers his voice and looks around at the Crown members.

Victor: Never let your guard down, and don't miss any opportunities.

Victor: As always, we'll just fulfill our own evil.

William: We'll call a meeting as soon as the situation develops.

William: Until then, each of you fulfill your own evil.

-

Kate: --Roger.

After finishing the meal, I called out to the broad back that was about to leave the dining hall.

Roger: Hey. Looks like your hangover is cured.

Kate: Thanks to the medicine, thank you very much. ...Um, I have something to consult you about.

Roger: Oh really? Me? Well, let's hear it.

I exhaled and looked at Roger's face.

Kate: After hearing about Alfons' destiny...I've been thinking about it.

Kate: Won't you let me help you find a way to change the cursed destinies?

Roger: ...Let's change locations.

He took me to an empty lounge.

Roger: Now then, let's hear your intentions.

I sat on the sofa, facing Roger, and opened my mouth again.

Kate: ...I don't want to forget Alfons.

(Roger has been searching for a way to change destinies for a long time.)

(I know how difficult it is to find it, but...)

Kate: If there's a loophole in destiny...somewhere...

Kate: If there's a way to remember, I desperately want to know!

Kate: If I knew the way...I could remember the person I love.

Kate: And Alfons too...

If his destiny is to not leave an irreparable void in anyone's heart, and he doesn't connect with anyone or show his inner feelings...

Kate: When he wants someone he truly loves to remember him someday...

Kate: He won't have to push that person away, right?

(If possible, I wish it were me.)

(Because...I fell in love with him.)

(But even if that doesn't come true, I want him to be happy someday.)

Not in a convenient illusion, but in this reality.

Roger: A loophole, huh...?

Roger narrows his eyes and strokes his chin.

Kate: ...Yes.

Roger: In the basement, there are newspaper articles about mysterious events, case files stolen from the police...

Roger: And medical records from hospitals.

Kate: ...Investigation materials related to "the cursed"?

Roger: Yeah. Especially regarding "mirrors," the royal records were almost blank, so there's a particularly huge amount.

Roger: If we go through the past materials again, we might find something new.

Roger: I've been focusing only on the cursed themselves.

Roger: I haven't read them from the perspective of "whether there's anyone who remembers."

Kate: ...!

Hope shines through at those words.

Roger: Well, there might not be any discoveries at all.

Kate: Even so, it's okay. Please let me investigate with you!

Roger: Alright. I don't have any missions scheduled until the call for the "Purification" club case.

Roger: Since we're investigating curses, it falls under your duties as a Fairytale Keeper, lady.

Roger held out his hand in front of me, forming a fist.

Roger: It's late at night. If we're doing this, it'll be from tomorrow.

Kate: Yes!

I lightly bumped my clenched fist against Roger's.

-

The next day, after breakfast, on our way to the basement with Roger...

Alfons: Oh?

We bumped into Alfons, who seemed to have just returned to the castle.

Kate: Ah...welcome back.

Roger: Hey, Al.

Remembering that we parted ways after being told I was a nuisance, my heart pounded with an unpleasant sound.

Alfons: The two of you, going out together?

Kate: N-no...

Roger: What, are you interested?

Before I could hurriedly deny it, Roger suddenly put his arm around my shoulder.

Kate: Roger!? What are you doing?

Roger: What's wrong with it? We're going to be cooped up in a closed room all day, just the two of us. Let's get along, shall we?

(With that kind of talk and attitude, Alfons will misunderstand...!)

Alfons: I see. It's good that you have a good friend to play with even when I'm not around, Kate.

Kate: ...

My wounded heart ached at his indifferent attitude.

After giving me a sidelong glance, Alfons quickly tried to leave.

(I didn't want him to be jealous. But...)

**flashback to tavern room**

Alfons: --You don't love me.

**flashback over**

(I don't want those words to become the truth in Alfons' mind...)

Kate: Alfons...!

Alfons: ? Yes, what is it?

Kate: ...I still like you.

Alfons: ...Huh?

Roger: ............

(I don't want to be misunderstood.)

Kate: Even if it's a nuisance to you...this is my truth.

Alfons: ...............

Kate: Roger, let's go!

If I kept looking at Alfons any longer, my chest would feel so tight that I couldn't bear it...I ran down the stairs to the basement as if fleeing.

Alfons: ...............

Roger: Haha...It's been a while since I've seen you so speechless.

.

.

.

.

.

.

Chapter 18 His POV

If you’d like to support my translations, feel free to buy me a coffee here! :)

[dailyanarchistposts]

Author: Collective Action Topics: austerity, australia, health care

The Abbott government is busy laying the groundwork for a massive attack on the conditions of the working class in April’s federal budget. In charge of preparing the ground is Abbott’s hand-picked Commission of Audit. In the line of fire: Medicare and your right to access a GP. The plan: Rob $750 million from Australia’s poorest whilst giving $5.9 billion dollars to private health insurers.

The Commission of Audit

The Commission of Audit is an assortment of business lobbyists and Liberal party mates. The Commission is headed by Tony Sheppard, president of the Business Council of Australia (BCA) and (until October) chairman of Transfield services. As head of the BCA he argues for lower taxes, abolition of the fair work act, and various attacks on the social wage. As chairman of Transfield Services, he profited from mining, coal, and up to $180 million in government contracts for the operation of refugee prisons in Nauru.

Commission member Peter Boxall is a former Chief of Staff to Peter Costello, who spent time working for the IMF during the “structural adjustments” of the 1980s, and played a key role in implementing John Howard’s “Work Choices”.

Amanda Vanstone joins this disreputable bunch bringing her experience as a Howard government minister responsible for attacks on the unemployed, students, and pensioners, the abolition of the Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander Commission (ending any semblance of self-determination, as flawed as that body was) and of course, the imprisonment of many thousands of refugees.

What’s in a co-payment?

The first shot across the bow aimed in the new attack on Medicare was fired by former Abbott advisor Terry Barnes of the Australian Council of Health Research (ACHR). The ACHR is a “think tank” funded by Australian Unity, a health insurer with a lot to gain from any attack on Medicare. Barnes published a paper to coincide with the election of the Abbott government which called for the private health insurers dream – compulsory upfront fees for Australians utilising Medicare.

Barnes wants a six dollar Medicare “co-payment”. His argument is that poor Australians go to the GP too often, and that an additional six dollar upfront fee would send a “price signal” that would harmlessly discourage over use of GPs. Barnes claims that his proposal would save the Medicare budget $750 million over four years.

But a six dollar GP tax is not the only health co-payment that Australians are already slugged with. Australians already pay “out of pocket” for a raft of health care services. There is no dental care coverage under Medicare leaving most Australians unable to see a dentist unless they can pay upfront. There a significant “gaps” between the cost of services and what is covered by Medicare, and access to medical specialists routinely involves significant upfront expense for Australians on Medicare.

The effect of all of this is frightening. Co-payments fund 17% of health care in Australia. One in six dollars of health care expenditure in Australia is not covered by any insurance, public or private, and is instead forked out directly by those who can afford it least. In the United States, so often denounced for its backward and regressive healthcare system, co-payments only account for 13% of health expenditure.

And the Liberal government is gearing up to whack another six dollar charge on top of this. Far from sending a harmless “price signal”, a six dollar co-payment is a brutal measure that would reduce access to GPs by those who need them most, and already use them least.

Under Utilisation

The idea that Australia’s poorest over use GP services is both obnoxious and untrue. Terry Barnes is on the record as saying that a six dollar upfront payment would not stop anyone who is truly sick from attending a GP, as this only represents the price of “two cups of coffee”. Anyone who thinks six dollars is nothing has never attempted to live on the minimum wage, let alone the dole, family payments or a pension, in Australia.

Australian workers already make choices between rent, food and health care on a weekly basis. Cost already dissuades Australia’s poorest from accessing medical services when they need it.

Current research on working class Australian’s use of health care already shows that “poorer people are already under-utilising healthcare, and their rate of under-utilisation corresponds to their level of illness”. Mapping health care use against average income in Australia already shows that people living in Australia’s poorest neighbourhoods are “three times more likely to delay medical consultations than those living in the wealthiest suburbs”.

The highest use of GP services in Australia, and the highest concentrations of GPs, are not where people are poorest, or where people are sickest (which coincidentally is where people are poorest), but rather where people are wealthiest. The richest use GP services the most, there are more GPs in wealthier suburbs, and Australia’s wealthiest are less likely to fall ill and die young.

Being poor and working class, attempting to live on a shitty wage or poverty level pension, is a major health hazard in Australia. The wealthiest 20% of Australians live an average six years longer than those of us surviving in the ranks of the poorest 20%.

Health Cash for big business

We’re told that Medicare costs too much. A six dollar copayment, effectively a tax levied disproportionately on Australia’s poorest and sickest, might save the health budget $750 million over four years. But there is one area of health spending bloat that the Abbott government will never touch. This year alone the government will spend $5.4 billion subsidising private health insurance.

The private health insurance rebate is an enormous transfer of wealth from tax payers to private, profit oriented health insurers, such as the one funding Terry Barnes’ sick attack on what remains of universal healthcare in Australia.

The private health insurance rebate was meant to make private health insurance more affordable by keeping premiums low. Introduced in 1999, this massive payment to health insurers has occurred at the same time that average health insurance premiums have risen 130%. Average prices (inflation) in the same period have only risen 50%.

The justification for this massive rort was that subsidising private health insurance would save money in the long run by reducing costs to Medicare. The most recent analysis shows that this $5.4 billion subsidy does little to shift costs from Medicare, and its abolition would save the government at least $3 billion a year.

Conclusions

The class self-interest of the government’s health policy is blatant: Tax the poor, throw money at the rich. The so-called Commission of Audit is stacked with the same big business cronies and Liberal mates who have always attacked the conditions of working class Australians, and now they are coming for what remains of Australia’s public health system. If the health budget is unsustainable, and the poorest really do have to be slugged with an additional six dollar GP tax, it is only because the government continues to throw bucket loads of money at private health insurers. The truth is that private health insurers want Medicare dismantled, so that more Australians are forced into their health insurance rackets, paying ever greater premiums for a diminishing health service.

[fromtenthousandfeet]

The Goose That Laid the "Golden" Egg

When Jungkook's Golden album came out I have to admit I was really confused about exactly who the songs were supposed to appeal to. The explicit lyrics in Seven and 3D really didn't fit with your average BTS fan. The collabs were strange, too. Usher and Justin Timberlake? Was this album geared towards old Millennials? Jack Harlow and Latto (who, by the way, is hardly a household name here in the US) - rap enthusiasts? DJ Snake and Major Lazer - EDM fans? Was the album geared towards men or women? Young or old? Like who the heck was the target market?

And then one day it hit me. I was asking the wrong question! The target market didn't matter one iota. The right question was cui bono? Or rather, who stands to gain? This got me started digging into the song credits on JK's album. And here's what I discovered - every collaborator has writing credits.

Let's break it down.

3D featuring Jack Harlow. Harlow has writing credits. Justin Timberlake has writing credits on the remix.

Closer to You featuring Major Lazer. Diplo, a.k.a. Thomas Pentz, has writing and producing credits.

Seven featuring Latto. Latto, a.k.a. Alyssa Stephens, has writing credits.

Standing Next to You Usher Remix. Usher Raymond IV has writing credits.

Please Don't Change featuring DJ Snake. DJ Snake, a.k.a. William Grigahcine, has writing and producing credits.

The features are paid up front for their collaboration, and then, because they have writing credits, they will continue to earn royalties from streams and sales. Not a bad deal for the folks listed above. The same goes for the well-known song writers and producers on the album, like David Stewart, Andrew Watt, Jon Bellion, Shawn Mendes, Ed Sheeran, and many others. Here's an article about how royalties work for those who care:

I shudder to think how much was spent on marketing Seven/Golden. I assume HYBE America paid for marketing expenses since Scooter was the one doing A&R while leveraging his extensive web of contacts in the music industry. I don't know this for certain, though, without seeing HA and BH's expenditures. Either way, someone paid iHeartRadio (among others) for media play and radio airplay. And then there were paid advertisements all over social media platforms, including forced adverts on YouTube that counted towards Billboard charts.

So much money was spent on Spotify. Paid playlists, paid playlist positions, Spotify Discovery Mode. I know Spotify also modified the search algorithm so JK's Seven would pop up first in the results when one searched for Jimin. If I remember correctly, this happened in YouTube as well (such a dirty move). Like, somebody got paid to rewrite code to override the search function.

More money was paid for media play with Billboard, Rolling Stone, Forbes, and I'm pretty sure NME and Consequence of Sound, too. There were probably many adverts I didn't notice. And then there were performances, awards, and his ad campaign which I won't discuss but I've definitely wondered who paid whom for that endorsement deal.

I don't need to go on and on rehashing 2023, but what I want to point out is that BIG MONEY was spent on the roll out of Jungkook's first single and subsequent album. Was Seven the most expensive single in pop music history? And cui bono? Not Big Hit, since essentially none of the in-house writers and producers were involved. Streams don’t yield big payouts and the digital singles and albums were often sold at a discount. Jungkook didn’t make huge bank since he had zero writing or producing credits. But Scooter Braun's clients and industry friends seemed to do pretty well. And just about every company that's related to the western music industry received payments for pushing and playing the songs from Golden.

So, I see two potential scenarios here.

Number One! HYBE used Golden as a means to, shall we say, line the pockets of the western music industry (cough...bribe...cough) so that releases from HYBE labels will get treated favorably in the future. Also, given the scope of marketing, media play, playlisting, and radio play, Golden could have been used for market research to determine where the company gets the most return on investment in terms of reach and charting. I think you can see this with the rollout of Illit's Magnetic, which has heavy Spotify Discovery Mode and a huge focus on TikTok, but very little standard media play via the traditional music media outlets. And no posters.

Number Two! Scooter Braun saw this album as an opportunity to financially enrich his friends, colleagues, and the companies he has investments in, like Spotify. Was he siphoning money out of HYBE by promising to make Bang PD's dream of western validation come true? Can't you see Scooter whispering sweet nothings into Bang's ear? "Mr. PD, give me a big budget and I will make you the biggest music mogul in 1,000 years!"

Whatever the grand scheme was behind Golden, one thing's for sure, the western music industry and social media platforms made out like bandits.

FYI:

HYBE America lost more in 2023 than Big Hit earned.

HYBE America Sales: 226.3 billion Net Profit: -142.4 billion won

Big Hit Music Sales: 552.3 billion Net Profit: 140.3 billion won

142 billion won is just under 105 million USD. Yowza.

In other news, HYBE Corporation was designated a conglomerate today. I'll try to unpack the implications of this if anyone is interested.

[litnerdwrites]

Clandestine Affairs (III)

A/N: Sorry for the wait, but I have some big exams in a little less than a month, so fics are gonna be scarce. Good news, though, is that this is the last bit of set up I need for things to really get going. Expect the plot to really get going after this. Also, I've decided to start migrating some of my works to AO3. I still post here, but I'll be uploading there too, if that's something you prefer. So far, I only have the first chapter of Clandestine Affairs up, with some slight edits, but nothing major. Just some fixed typos and a couple extra lines to make the dialogue flow better towards the end, and yes, the tumblr post has been updated to match it. Two will be up either today or tomorrow, since it's getting late where I am. As always, enjoy the chapter, and feel free to comment, request, or even if you want to be tagged when I upload any fic, or just this fic.

WC: 2603

TW: Canon typical violence, blood.

Kingdom of the Wicked Masterlist

Clandestine Affairs Masterlist

Chapter 2 Chapter 3 (You are here) Chapter 4

Amara didn’t respond to the note.

Nor did she respond to the one she found the next morning. 

Or the next. 

Or the next. 

A week goes by with her ignoring each note that finds its way to her.

Luckily, she didn’t find herself needing to find alternative sleeping arrangements that week, although she knew it would only be a matter of time. Especially as the days grew colder, she wondered if she’d be able to resist a bonfire and a warm body should she find herself in the streets for a night. Had it been any other person, she would’ve jumped at the opportunity, but this wasn’t a normal person. It wasn’t even a human. It was one of the Malvagi. 

Her mother had told her of them, of the seven wicked Princes of the Underworld. She told stories of their icy skin, red flecked eyes, and that once you catch their attention, you’ll never escape. It had been a century since the Malvagi stepped foot on earth, with the only indication that they might one day do so again being a warning the coven elders had received; When witch blood spills across Sicily, take your daughters and hide. The Malvagi have arrived. 

Before, Amara wasn’t sure how much she believed in The Devil or the return of the Malvagi, but the recent murders taking place, along with her encounter on the beach, she wasn’t so sure anymore. Still, none of the coven elders had given any indication that something was amiss. Were they unaware of the Malvagi’s return, or, perhaps, did they simply not wish for the covens to begin panicking, possibly leading to discovery by either the brotherhood or the Malvagi. 

Amara’s shoulders slumped as she let out a sigh, head turning to gaze at the clouds instead. A basket of groceries on her arm. There wasn’t much she could do about the situation, regardless. As things stood, the coven elders didn’t trust her, and the other witch families in Palermo chose to keep to themselves to avoid discovery. If she caused a stir about it now, it could lead to more trouble, which, given her circumstances, is the last thing she needs. 

Reaching into her pocket, she pulled out the leftover coins she’d been given, silently calculating her remaining expenditures as a chill ran down her spine. She shoved the coins into her pocket, and scanned the street ahead, as though she were plotting the rest of her shopping route. Her eyes lingered on alleyways and store windows, and other shadowed street corners or alcoves she could find. 

Her heart thundered as she took another step up the street. Then another. 

She forced her brows not to furrow, and her lips to twitch upwards. She chatted with vendors, haggled over the price of produce, and had just enough left over to buy a shawl. Still, the pin pricks against her neck never once faded, no matter how quickly she darted through the market, dodging shoppers and vendors as she attempted to ditch whoever had been stalking her. Yet, despite her efforts, the presence persisted. 

Amara had been followed before, be it during the day or night. Sometimes men with unsavory plans for her, others were simple thieves. She’d even had an admirer or two follow her before, but none were this relentless-

Her mind stuttered to a stop, even as her feet pressed forward. 

Perhaps her stalker was no mere man. 

Given what she recently learned, it was quite possible. Especially if what she’d been told about the Malvagi was true. Had The Prince of Lust grown tired of her refusal and decided to seek her out? If he had the chance, would he attack her in public, around so many people? No human here could stop him, surely. If not he, then perhaps it was a subordinate of his?  

The idea that he was stalking almost had her shivering in fear, but she was saved from having to try and force down her fear when she felt her body collide with something. 

Well… Someone. 

“Are you alright?” a softer voice calls gently. 

“I- I’m sorry,” she muttered, holding a hand to her chest, and keeping her eyes down. 

“That’s not what I asked,” the voice said again, right as a soft hand appeared in front of her,“Are you alright?” 

Shakily, Amara glanced up. The woman before her had short, dark hair, in beautiful curls, and her dark eyes shone with a warmth she had missed. Gently, Amara reached for her hand, and let the girl pull her up. 

“I- I’m fine, thank you,” she muttered, after realizing she hadn’t responded. 

The woman cocked her head to the side, observing her. 

“You don’t look alright. You’re still trembling, and pale,” she responded. 

Amara flinched at her words. 

“I- Sorry,” she muttered. 

The woman’s brows furrowed, taking in the state Amara was in. Her brown hair stuck to her clammy skin, and the blood seemed to have drained from her warm, bronze face. Despite her best efforts, her entire body trembled as the pinprick sensation grew closer. Clearly, the woman notices, given the way she glanced behind Amara, trying to discern if anyone or anything had been the cause of her distress. 

“My name is Claudia,” she gently introduced. 

“Amara,” 

“Oh, Amara Willows, yes? Aurora Willow’s daughter?” Claudia asked, eyes wide. Amara flinched at the mention of her mother, and Claudia seemed to notice, wincing as well. “I’m sorry. I understand that her loss must be hard on you,” she tried to sooth. 

Amara merely nodded, not having the strength to indulge in that conversation. Instead, she changed the subject. 

“And you are… Are you like her? My mother, I mean. Are you like me?” she asked carefully. 

Claudia nodded with a smile. 

“You still seem awfully pale. Shall we talk over a drink? My treat,” 

“You don’t have-” 

Claudia held up her hand at the start of her protests. 

“I insist. Let’s talk, one woman to another. Besides, it’s the least I owe after the way I brought up your mother. It wasn’t my intention to be rude, so let me make it up to you,” 

Amara wanted to refuse, but anxiety gnawed at her, and the prickling feeling had yet to let up. She couldn’t risk leading it to her home, but the thought of being alone made her stomach turn. Reluctantly, Amara merely nodded, ignoring the holes those eyes continued to bore into her, and followed Claudia through the market. 

_____

The cafe Claudia had brought her too was a quaint little place, out of the way of the main market, with the seating area and kitchen on the first floor, and what’s likely an apartment above. Multiple small cabinet shelves were dotted around the room, lined with books of various genres, different kinds of plants, as well as other little trinkets. Garlands of leaves and flowers were draped over the shelves, tabletops and even hung down from the support beams. Natural light flooded in from large windows in the back, giving the place a soft, inviting glow. 

Amara shifted in her seat as Claudia returned, drinks, and even some pastries, in hand. 

“Thank you,” she muttered, wrapping her hands around the cup. 

“Drink. It’ll warm you up,” she encouraged. 

“I’m not cold,” 

“No?” Cluadia’s head cocked to the side, “Then is there another reason you were so pale, and shivering as though you’d wandered through a blizzard?” 

Amara stiffened, having no response. 

Blessedly, she no longer felt the prickling sensation, or presence that seemed to follow her. Part of her wondered if it was truly fine to let things be, and forget about it… But with the murderers… 

“Do you- Do you think the recent murders have something to do with witch hunters?” Amara blurted, voice low. 

Claudia raised a brow. 

“Hm, perhaps,” she took a sip of her own coffee, “But they like to make examples out of their victims. Publically,” 

Amara hummed, taking another sip. 

“Then you think it might have, possibly, been something else?” 

Claudia turned to the window, eyes far as she gazed out at the street, where parents walked with children, or servants ran simple errands. 

“I wouldn’t rule them out, but given what we are, it’s not out of the question to suspect more unusual culprits. Especially when our people are seemingly being targeted,” she explained, quietly. 

Amara nodded.

“I see,” 

“Is this about your mother?” 

She flinched at the question, but didn’t answer. It wasn’t about her mother, but perhaps that was selfish. Her brows furrowed at the notion, heart seizing, the way it did right before the news was delivered about her mother’s fate. From beneath her bangs, she caught Claudia nodding, likely thinking that it was about her mother. Amara wouldn’t correct her. 

“I- If not human, then who- What do you think did it?” 

“Werewolves? A vampire infestation? Perhaps even a demon,” Claudia listed, “Some of the coven elders believe it’s related to the Malvagi themselves,” 

Amara stiffened at the mention of the Malvagi. 

“Is there a reason they think that? Or is it just a guess?” she asked, taking another tentative sip. 

“Apparently there was a warning they received some time ago, stating that when witches started dying, it would be a sign of their return,” 

Amrara gave a stiff nod. 

“But they don’t have any other reason to think the Malvagi are involved, do they?” 

“Not that I know of,” she confirmed. 

Amara felt Claudia’s gaze on her as she took a bite of her pastry, but when she gained the courage to actually meet her eyes, she fought back a jolt of surprise. Something older, wiser, stared back at her, as if truly seeing her for the first time. She fought the urge to audibly gulp. Eventually, it seemed, Claudia snapped out of her… Whatever that was. 

“One of my friends fell victim to the killer too,” she continued, turning to the window, as a note of something somber made its way into her voice, “Vittoria Di Carlo. Her sister, Emilia, has been searching for the culprit too,” 

I nodded, knowing exactly who she was talking about.

“I know,” she muttered, “Or, I know about Vittoria anyway. And, I’m sorry. It’s never easy to- to lose someone,” 

Claudia nodded. 

“For what it’s worth, I’m sorry for your loss too,” she offered. “If I may offer some advice, from one Strega to another?” 

“Of course,” Amara nodded. 

“Be careful. Especially since I know you like your late night walks,” Claudia all but implored, “Be it hunters or Malvagi, it isn’t safe to wander at night,” 

Her grip tightened on the cup, and her stomach began forming knots. She couldn’t bring herself to tell Claudia the truth, or to even insinuate that she went out at night for any other reason aside from her preferences. She wouldn’t be able to take it if she did. The pity, the shame. No. Amara could handle it without worrying anyone, or needing charity. 

“I’ll do my best, thanks,” 

The two girls chatted a bit longer, as Amara came out of her shell somewhat. Soon, they even gushed over some of the books in the store, until there was no way she could stay any longer. The sun would begin to set soon, and Amara had to get dinner started. She gave Claudia a hug goodbye, thanking her for another ‘be careful’ warning, before she walked away from the bakery. 

Something about that encounter left her feeling lighter. She practically skipped through the streets of Palmero, as vendors began putting away their stalls and businesses began shooting out any strays that lingered a bit too long. Bar keeps and tavern owners began lighting lanterns and setting out their menus, some even switching to their open signs.

All of them were also signs to her that she was running a bit late. Usually, such thoughts would have her sprinting through the streets to make it home before the bookstore closed, but after the day she had, she couldn’t bring herself to let go of that light feeling. She couldn’t force herself to hurry back to the cold bookstore, where she’d force herself into a hot kitchen, trying to make sure dinner, a dinner she hadn’t even thought of yet, was completely perfect. 

Amara’s blood went cold, and her face blanched again. All of a sudden, she felt every ounce of joy drain from her body, and an icy chill replaced it. The hair at the back of her neck stood and the pricking, the same one from earlier, ran all the way down her spine. The sun had just about set, and shadows crawled out from the darkness. Suddenly, she noticed how dead quiet it was. An unnatural quiet. The kind where not even the sound of nature could reach her. 

She took an uneasy step back, eyes already darting around, searching for danger. This was the route she walked many times before, and yet, now, a tugging in her gut pulled her back. It was telling her to run. 

She spun on a heel, only to feel a grip on her upper arm, so fast, so sharp, she barely registered it before she was tugged back into the darkness. 

Her heart pounded, and she began swinging her basket, trying to hit whoever grabbed her.

Icy fingers latched around her wrists, stopping her attempts in their tracks. A sharp pain exploded across her back and head. 

Then her vision became spotty. 

As it cleared, she noticed the toned chest that pressed her to the wall. Soft, dark hair tickled her forehead as her attacker leaned over her. When she finally met his gaze, pale blue eyes stared back. 

Amara’s eyes widened further when she noticed the tips of the elongated canines that peeked out from beneath his upper lip. 

Her mouth fell open to scream, but icy fingers clamped around her face before any sound could escape. 

Tears lined her own, slightly darker blue eyes, and the man’s mouth twisted into a pleased grin, before he brought his lips closer to her. His breath brushed her ear, and she shivered. Amara forced her eyes shut, body trembling against the wall, wrists still in the man’s hold. He let out an amused chuckle, then brushed those elongated fangs against her ear. His voice was like silk, as he purred into her ear.

“Do you know what I am, Strega?” 

Eyes still clamped shut, she forced her head to nod. The man- creature- cocked its head to the side.

“Are you sure, little witch?” he asked, hand lossining around her mouth enough that she could make faint sounds. 

“V-Vampire,” she whimpered. 

His eyes danced with glee and his grin turned sadistic. 

“Very good. Such a smart witch,”

“Please,” she whimpered, only for his hand to tighten again. 

“Now now, little witch,” he tutted, “Show some gratitude. I come bearing a gift,” Amara’s heart raced faster, and she shook her head again, only for him to tighten his grip to the point it was painful. “Don’t be ungrateful now, It’s rare for a human, or even a witch to receive such a gif-agh!” 

Amara’s eyes shot open at the vampire’s pained gasp. She registered the blood dripping from his mouth, and how his eyes widened in shock. She forced her eyes to trail down, only to let out a muffled shriek when she saw it. A blade had pierced the vampire's abdomen. 

“I’m quite certain that the lady is wholly uninterested in whatever gifts you, or your kind, have to offer, leech,” 

[darkmaga-returns]

I am sick and tired of all the constant lies. The Biden Administration blames Trump for its $1.8 trillion deficit. The interest expenditures will be about $1 trillion alone. Now, if you just accept that at face value, you are part of the problem when the United States will crash and burn. This makes it sound like tax revenues have declined. In 2020, the last year of Trump’s presidency, the total tax revenues collected were $3.42 trillion. In 2023, the revenues taken in from taxes was $4.4 trillion. And the U.S. government now estimates its total revenue will be $5.49 trillion for fiscal year 2025.

According to Forbes, if we confiscated 100% of the top 10 wealthiest people, we would get $1.5 trillion, but that still will not eliminate the deficit. It would destroy all of those companies, create huge unemployment, and wipe out our countless pension funds. But hey, they are the problem. It is never the politicians who are off to rob others and hand it to you to buy your vote. It’s be honest. Socialism is corruption because the politicians have to promise you something to buy your vote. They no longer know how to run for office without promises to steal from one class TO HAND TO ANOTHER. There is no such thing as efficient and proper management because government is the answer to everything, even climate change. According to their top experts, the climate would never have changed if we had paid more taxes.

Since the war with Russia began in February 2022 during Biden’s Administration, he has pushed for a total of $175 billion to create more billionaires in Ukraine than in America. Interestingly, $106 billion directly aids the government of Ukraine, while the balance funds “various” U.S. activities associated with the war in Ukraine, namely overthrowing the Russian government and surrounding countries and ensuring the future of our politician’s investments will be profitable. This is never documented or fully explained.  Thus, Ukraine accounts for about 10% of Biden’s deficit. But that, too, is Trump’s fault.

Come on! It’s all Trump’s fault for not raising taxes back to 94% as they were for World War II, 91% for the Korean War, and 70% for the Vietnam War. If we look at the accumulative interest expenditures and war, about 80% of the national debt has been for playing policeman of the world. This has NEVER benefited the people. If you refuse to pay the taxes they impose WITHOUT representation, as it was in 1776 since they, too, represent only their own self-interest, you go to prison. This is freedom?

They always say to tax the rich. As I said, if you take ALL the assets of the top 10 billionaires, you would NOT eliminate this $1.8 trillion deficit. But that is just the tip of the iceberg. They changed the definition of who the rich are. Before World War II, the definition of the rich was $5 million, while a Cadillac was $600.  They began to raise it to $250,000 a year, but then it was clarified as “household” income.

So, if you and your wife combined were at $250,000, you were that horrible, evil, greedy rich person they need to shake upside down to get every penny in your pocket. Don’t worry. It’s for God and Country and the lifestyle of members of Congress who work so hard to figure out if there is something else they can tax.

Once upon a time, it was theorized that if the government borrowed, it would be less inflationary than printing. But those days are gone. That is when it was illegal to borrow against government debt. Today, debt is just money that pays interest the same as it was during the American Civil War.

If we add each year the total interest expenditures, you will see that generally, about 70% of the national debt is based on just interest, as we will reach $1 trillion this year. Guess what? China holds about 10% of the US national debt, so interest is going to China, but it does not stimulate the US domestic economy. We should stop borrowing, for it would be cheaper and less inflationary if we just printed to cover the deficit rather than borrow. Then, capital will lend to the private sector, and we will see a huge economic boom. Things have changed in economics – it is about time we recognize Keynesian Economics has failed.

[ten-cent-sleuth]

A Galling Yoke, Part 5

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for the Location: Tearoom square on my July Break Bingo card

See this post for main info, including a masterlist and synopsis. See this post for warnings.

Word Count: 3.8k

Pairing: Sherlock Holmes x f!Reader

Rating: Teen

Rogers fetched you from the wine cellar just in the middle of your regular review of its stores. Your bellyaching about his deplorable timing was only silenced by his quirked brow and curt “Mr Holmes said it was urgent, ma’am”.

Mr Holmes.

Any irritation washed away. To your inconvenience and your pleasure, you found that whatever trials and triumphs you derived from your staid lifestyle as unattached mistress of your own home were easily displaced by the trials and triumphs derived in Sherlock’s presence. The latter simply tended to be so much deeper, so much weightier than the former.

That did not stop you from shooting Sherlock a dark look as Rogers led you into the front sitting room.

“We agreed to meet after luncheon, sir,” you scolded him.

Furrowing his brow, he clicked open his pocket watch. “It is twenty past noon. I suppose I do eat a little earlier on days I have plans for an investigation, but…”

“We are going to a tearoom,” you said, though amusement was beginning to break through your voice. “I meant hours after luncheon.”

He flushed. “Ah. Yes, of course. Well—”

You waved your hand. “This works fine. It shall still be open for business; we shall simply have to stay there for a while to be around for the rush hour.”

“Hours in your company, my lady? However shall I go on,” he said so dryly that it didn’t even sound like a question.

You snickered, then the possibility struck you that he had come this early precisely for that reason, if only subconsciously. Shaking the notion out of your head, you said, “Allow me to change into a tea gown before we depart.”

He gave you a strange look but nodded. You startled when you found Rogers standing…well, rather like standing guard in the hallway.

“Your ladyship,” he greeted, as though these were normal proceedings in Voss House.

“Er…Rogers,” you returned, not wanting to get into it, not at all.

You hummed to yourself as you headed to your chambers. Clearly, while Sherlock knew what was expected of the upper classes, he still hadn’t wrapped his head around you subscribing to those expectations. He likely had never heard you utter the words “tea gown” before today. At Ferndell, you were free to do anything and be anyone; now, you didn’t think you even knew how to act so freely.

Twenty minutes later, you re-entered the front of the house and stopped short at the sight of Sherlock waiting. His lips barely lifted, but his pleasure was unquestionable as it shone from his eyes. Unlike other gentlemen, he did not compliment your fabric or your figure, as was expected; what did surprise you was that he just as much refrained from making a snide remark about the expenditure or the frivolity.

“My lady,” he said softly, offering you his arm. His right arm.

“Have you forgotten your schoolroom lessons, Mr Holmes?” you teased. “How shall you take your hat off to your acquaintances on the street if I am on your right side?”

He arched a brow in challenge. “I shall not acknowledge any acquaintance at the cost of failing to support the side of yours that needs it.”

You cleared your throat. Another surprise. Then you took his arm.

Once he led you a few paces forward, you noticed Rogers standing by. You raised your eyebrows at him—was he watching Sherlock?—but did not question him.

The London air was thin and fresh with winter, though the sun glowed warmly from its zenith. You managed both the occasional stabs of pain or shakiness in your leg and the curious glances from other pedestrians wondering at your abnormal stance with the steady presence at your side. His muscled arm was a sturdy rock beneath your gloved fingers and his vigilant gaze an unbroken shield around you.

So secure did you feel because of him that you almost did not register that he was speaking to you for the uncertainty in his voice: “Are you sure I shall not be a hindrance to this mission? From what Enola and her, ah, contacts tell me, tearooms are quite the lady’s respite from gentlemen.”

“Quite sure,” you replied. “It is not uncommon for a young lady to bring a male friend or indeed a suitor to visit with her friends in a tearoom, and they need not even be chaperoned for it to be entirely proper. It may be a mite odd that it shall only be the two of us, but my being a widow and your being a known figure in London ought to mitigate that.”

“Am I truly such a known figure?” he questioned. “What if all the wagging tongues you promised me shall hold themselves in recognition of a detective in their midst?”

“I had not thought of that. Hmm. We shall have to hope that my presence frees those very tongues.”

“Your presence?” His attempt to lighten his voice so that he sounded incurious did not quite succeed.

“Indeed. As a maiden, I was the daughter of the Earl of Coltidge; as a wife, I was the property of the Earl of Pittford’s youngest son; as a widow, I am recognisable, noticeable, in my own right.”

Sherlock hummed thoughtfully. “Yes…by now, you have been in charge of your finances and movements in London for four times longer than you had been under Mr Sulyard’s thumb. I do not imagine that you had sat idly by in all that time,” he mused. “You must have seized the opportunity to forge your own reputation, carve out your own corner of the ton. The ladies who frequent tearooms—they shall feel comfortable in your presence?”

You tipped your head at him. “Very good.”

He huffed at your jab yet—if you were not imagining it—pulled you closer to his side all the same.

Upon entering the tearoom, Sherlock informed you under his breath of his observations: who took no interest in the newcomers, who was suddenly sneaking glances at Sherlock out of the corner of their eyes and likely planning to hurry away as soon as possible, who snapped their mouth shut at your arrival but was now whispering all the more vigorously. You bit your lip to keep your smile from showing; when you had told him the day before about Edmund’s possible affair, he had been eager to see the theory to its natural conclusion, but when you had pointed out that very little concrete evidence would be left after a dozen years’ erosion, he had dragged his heels to validate the alternative source of gossip. If the gleam in his eye as he analysed the room before him was anything to go by, however, he seemed to have forgotten his objections.

You had selected this establishment out of the many options in London because it was a personal favourite of The Most Honourable Lady Notley, the Marchioness Brindon and the unofficial head purveyor of marital problems among the first circles. If one were to hear any information about a decade-old affair, it would be coming out of her ladyship’s mouth or going into her ladyship’s ears. After you led Sherlock to a strategically located table and explained this to him, he whispered conspiratorially, “Skill is fine, and genius is splendid, but the right contacts are more valuable than either.”

You grinned at him. “I accept your apology.”

The next few hours passed in like fashion. To you, he described noteworthy behaviours—of suspicion, of anxiety, of mischief. To him, you delineated the most effective ways of finding out more about those characters based on their particular habits—at balls, during calling hours, by the servant grapevine. He wrote down these plans to enact at a later date. When you both agreed that it would be possible and efficient to dig deeper about a given person right there and then, you would take turns executing some ruse to wander closer and eavesdrop or prod.

After the third time one of you had gotten up to refill your pot of tea, a waitress had started coming around to do it for you, giving you both stern looks as though your self-service had questioned the employees’ ability to serve you.

“Gracious,” muttered Sherlock as the waitress dashed to your table and away with preternatural speed, “I see now why they are called ‘nippies’.”

Smothering your giggle with a cough, you stood up and smoothed your skirts. “Since we no longer have that excuse, I”—you threw your voice—“shall have to take a turn about the room.”

He smirked, likely enjoying witnessing the ridiculous lengths to which you were willing to go for this investigation. “Enjoy, my dear,” he drawled—for the ploy, of course, you reassured yourself.

You whetted your ears as you approached Mrs Gouldsmith’s table, the matron having glanced at you across the room a dozen times in five minutes according to Sherlock.

“—sshhh! She is right there!”

“Oh, hush, Fanny, she shan’t care a jot what ladies such as we are whispering about.”

“Harriet is right, Fanny. The Vosses think themselves quite superior.”

“Can that be true? Her ladyship has always seemed agreeable and considerate to me…”

“Of course she seems that way, Fanny: she is all things proper. But siblings are never too different from each other, and that Viscount Pashbroke is the worst sort of man.”

“Do you not recall what he did to my poor Emily?”

“Oh, yes. Fanny, you could not have forgotten poor heartbroken Emily?”

“No, no, but—was Emily truly all so heartbroken?”

“What a question! Of a certainty she was! The dear girl has already gone through four Seasons without so much as a second dance from the same gentleman in one night. Then last June, she met Lord Pashbroke!”

“Everyone in Town could see they were forming an attachment!”

“He asked to call on her, Fanny! He visited with us every other day for weeks. Dearest Emily and I were expecting him to pay his addresses anytime soon—I even had Gouldsmith begin drafting the settlement.”

“Oh, Harriet! Calling on a lady does not always lead to an engagement. Even a courtship does not always lead to an engagement.”

“The material point, Fanny, is that the gentleman raised my Emily’s hopes all summer, and then he vanished into the countryside without securing her affections. Only a person who disdained families of our sort—the untitled sort!—could be so thoughtless.”

“There, there, Harriet. It is for the best. Just think, had Emily married him, he would have taken her to the family’s favoured estate up north. Shropshire is quite the distance from Town!”

“But perhaps he would have taken her to the ancestral seat instead… It shall be his inheritance not too long from now, you know. Oh, can you imagine it? Lady Emily Gouldsmith Voss, Countess of Coltidge!”

As the ladies dissolved into raptures over their lost connexion to the earldom, you rolled your eyes and made your way back to Sherlock.

The detective raised an expectant brow.

“Naught of import,” you informed him. You would be having words with your brother about some things very soon, but that had nothing to do with the case.

You had barely resettled into your seat when the door swung open to welcome Lady Brindon and her typical entourage, namely her daughter Lady Rebecca Notley and the girl’s godfather Dr Crawford. You smiled at the marchioness, and though she returned the expression, she immediately bent her head towards her daughter and whispered something to her. Frowning, you turned towards Dr Crawford, but the man avoided your eyes.

“Sherlock,” you murmured, “I believe something is going on over there.”

He tilted his head to show that he accepted your opinion, but the furrow in his brow showed that he didn’t see it for himself.

“Dr Crawford does not look at me.”

“I did not take you for the vain sort, your ladyship.”

You glared at him. “You are most amusing, Mr Holmes. No, he and I are friends, for I…understand him in a way most do not.”

The teasing half smirk on Sherlock’s face plummeted. “And what, pray, is that supposed to mean?”

“He and Lady Brindon have been intimate friends since childhood,” you explained. “Their closeness did not end when she married Lord Brindon, and for that, they endure considerable idle gossip about the innocence of their friendship. I have never suspected aught improper between them—I am sure you see why: I have my own experiences as proof that a man and a woman can be friends all their lives and have naught romantic come of it—so he tends to seek me out for support, at least with his eyes, when they appear in public together.”

Sherlock scowled. “Well, if you are so certain, I shall engage him in conversation. I have met their ladyships and him at one of Mycroft’s events, so I shall have an excuse to speak with them.”

“Sherlock, do you not think that I ought to be the one who—?”

“You did the last one. It is my turn,” he snapped, rising to his feet and stalking towards the Notley party before you could pick your jaw off of the floor. What had soured his mood so?

Taking tiny, nervous bites of your Victoria sponge, you watched Sherlock stiffly bow and greet the trio. Your apprehension eased as his awkwardness did as well, evidently the conversation taking a promising turn as that gleam re-entered the detective’s eyes. But—oh, no, perhaps he had relaxed too much: you recognised the tension building in Dr Crawford’s shoulder blades, too little thus far to be noticed by Sherlock, but already glaring to you, whose acquaintance with the man was largely based on noticing when the people around him were pushing too hard.

Rather unceremoniously, you abandoned your half-eaten cake and hurried to Sherlock’s side.

“Lady Brindon,” you greeted brightly, “Lady Rebecca, Dr Crawford. Mr Holmes.”

After the exchange of curtsies and bows and how-do-you-dos, you forced out a light chuckle. “I hope I am not interrupting. Only, I realised having Dr Crawford and Mr Holmes in a conversation without a chaperone would become quite tedious quite rapidly. Your ladyships, you may be honest with me—have the gentlemen yet spoken of anything besides their work?”

Lady Brindon laughed. “Sirs, her ladyship has you both rather on the mark! They have spoken only of Dr Crawford’s house visit this morning.”

“That would not be quite so tedious if that particular patient had not been his and my mother’s topic of conversation all afternoon as well,” interjected Lady Rebecca, eliciting a sharp look from the marchioness, which went unheeded as the girl smiled rather wolfishly at you. “Indeed, I do not believe you shall be as much the saviour as you wished to be, my lady, for surely you shall wish to discuss her as well. Are you not acquainted with Ms Algar?”

You blinked, scrambling to recall everything you knew about the only Notley daughter. Though not malicious, she hungered for drama—her mother merely relished knowing what others did not want known—and felt enough entitlement to fish for it if necessary. In that case, this Ms Algar was somebody you were not expected to like.

With an angelic smile, you turned to Dr Crawford. “How is Ms Algar?”

His gaze darted between Lady Brindon, Sherlock, and the tearoom door before settling on you. “Quite well. She is quite well,” he answered. “That is, she is quite the same as the last twelve years. I…I have been her physician all this time, and I had not known you had met her, your ladyship. Indeed, I did not even know you were…connected to her, until Lady Brindon, er, informed me this afternoon.”

“Very few people do, I would say,” you hummed, ignoring the crook of Sherlock’s eyebrow.

Dr Crawford’s shoulders slumped. “I hope that means you do not think I was trying to keep this from you, my lady—”

“Nonsense!” you reassured him. “There is a reason Lady Brindon keeps your company and chose you as Lady Rebecca’s godfather, and I am certain that reason is your honesty and artlessness. Is it not so, my lady?”

The marchioness nodded with a serene smile, and even Lady Rebecca’s surly disappointment at your nonchalance lessened in the face of fondness for her godfather.

Reddening, Dr Crawford smiled at you all. “You are kindness itself,” he told you. “It is no wonder that you are friends with Ms Algar despite—” His smile broke. “That is, despite…”

“Despite circumstances,” you suggested, your heart rate spiking at the riskiness of it.

Fortunately, the smile returned. “Yes, indeed. I am sure she is uplifted to know such goodness exists after her attack.”

At that, Sherlock’s attention flew from you, where it had been this entire conversation, to the doctor. “An attack, you say? You mentioned a bump on the back of the head, but you would not tell me more…”

“Mr Holmes! Of course not!” you gasped. No wonder Dr Crawford had been tense! “That is no topic for mixed company. I apologise, your ladyships,” you added to the Notleys with a rueful smile. “It appears my jest about a chaperone had more truth to it than I intended.”

Lady Brindon waved away your concern. “It is of no consequence. Rebecca is always so eager to hear the gory details of everyone’s troubles.”

“Mama!” the young lady hissed.

“Still,” you said, “as apparent chaperone, I best ensure Mr Holmes gets home without offending any sensibilities now. It has been a pleasure—God bless you all.” 

After you and Sherlock had taken leave of the trio, you returned to your table to retrieve your effects and settle your tab. Then, you set back off for Grosvenor Square.

“What were you thinking?” you reproached him, to which he paid no attention as he beamed and exclaimed—

“I do believe we are dealing with a homicide after all!”

You snuck a glance around the street and sighed in relief at its emptiness before pinching the arm he had again offered you.

“Ow! What was—?”

“We are in public, Mr Holmes,” you said, even more reproachfully. “Do lower your voice, or at least temper your enthusiastic tone, about murder?”

He grimaced. “Indeed. I suppose I should be more considerate of the fact that I am discussing your husband, too, should I not?”

“Oh.” You squeezed his arm. “To be frank, that had quite slipped my mind.”

He barked out a laugh. “I take it you are not disturbed that someone murdered your dear Edmund, then?”

“Not particularly. Perhaps the disturbance shall set in later. For now, I am simply curious. What has made you certain?”

“Ms Algar was attacked and struck on the back of the head.”

You waited a beat. “Yes?”

“Twelve years ago!”

You sighed. “I recognise that Mr Sulyard died twelve years ago, but—”

“Died from an attack to the back of the head,” cut in Sherlock, his voice lowering in volume but growing in fervour.

“I was told he died from trying to drive a phaeton while drunk at an ungodly hour.” You recalled serving tea to the messenger before he broke the news, that poor awkward officer whose eyes would not meet yours but whose face you would never forget.

Sherlock’s incredulous cry broke your reverie: “Did you not read the same coroner’s report as I?”

“I know not,” you said with an eye roll, “for you are the one who put it in my hands.”

You smothered a grin at his grumbles about your contemptible sass.

“The coroner noted that Mr Sulyard had only sustained a severe bump to the head and the bruising where he landed,” said Sherlock with a surprising amount of patience. “Normally, in a carriage crash, one receives defensive and reflexive injuries from reacting to the incident before hitting the ground, not merely the injuries of impact. The coroner conjectured that Mr Sulyard was different because he was intoxicated and his reactions would have been impaired.”

Thinking back on the few times you had observed drunken behaviour, you nodded: you had not understood much of the coroner’s report, but Sherlock’s explanation made sense so far.

“And yet,” he whispered, “the actual toxicology report showed that Mr Sulyard had not a drop of alcohol in his body.”

“What? But then…” You shook your head. “How could the coroner have missed such an inconsistency?”

“Warwick is a frumpish fellow simply waiting to be forced into retirement,” mused Sherlock. “He must have written off the toxicology result as the blunder of a nascent science.”

You shook your head again, wrestling with all the puzzle pieces that refused to fit in place. “You must have arrived at that conclusion yesterday, as soon as you read the report,” you said. “Why are you only certain of homicide now?”

“The inconsistency was suspicious, yes, but one must have an alternative explanation before ‘suspicious’ becomes ‘damning’,” he replied. “Ms Algar is that alternative explanation. Or, rather, she is a piece of it… Struck in the head with a blunt object, just as Mr Sulyard was… Her incident, at the same time as his… And of course, their prior connection.”

He glanced at you, and you pursed your lips before exhaling forcibly.

“Worry not, Sherlock. I have already figured out that Ms Algar was my husband’s lover; you shall not have to spell out that to me as well.”

No, Lady Brindon’s whispers and looks, Lady Rebecca’s goading, and Dr Crawford’s discomfort had spelled it out quite effectively already.

Sherlock offered you a tentative smile. “I was not worried about that,” he said. “You handled yourself with complete aplomb there. The way you directed that conversation without anyone—well, anyone other than me, of course—realising that you were directing… I am most impressed by your deductive ability, my lady.”

“Deductive—? Sherlock, that is not deduction,” you scoffed. Identifying Ms Algar as your husband’s mistress, perhaps, but leading a conversation? “It is… It is…”

“You would not call it guesswork, would you?”

“Not at all!”

He hummed. “No, indeed, you do not guess: you calculate the path by which you shall avoid offence and curry favour without compromising your dignity. You balance probabilities and choose the most likely. It is the scientific use of the imagination.”

You rolled your eyes; well, his flair for the dramatic had certainly not flagged in the years gone. “It is social manoeuvring, that is all, Sherlock.”

“You know my method. It is founded upon the observation of trifles. And, my dear lady,” he quipped, “there is nothing more trifling than social manoeuvring.”

Considering how he had so easily gone from being playful with you in the tearoom to snapping at you about talking with Dr Crawford to reassuring you while walking you home, you could not but agree.

Thank you for reading. Please let me know if you would like to be tagged for updates. :) This has probably been my favourite prompt to research for so far; the history of tearooms in Britain is fascinating! I really thought this was gonna be my shortest chapter yet and then it ended up being the longest by a thousand words… Well, feedback is always welcome! A cookie to anyone who can point out all the Arthur Conan Doyle references. ;P

[ingek73]

I thought I knew royal greed – but King Charles profiting from the assets of the dead is a disgusting new low

For decades, parliament has been far too lenient about the royal family’s finances. This avaricious practice needs to end

Norman Baker Fri 24 Nov 2023 13.08 CET

Over the centuries, the royals have continually bleated poverty and demanded more money from the taxpayer.’ Photograph: Reuters

As a royal author, I have come across plentiful examples of royal greed. It is standard practice for the royals to seek to minimise their personal expenditure while maximising their income from other sources, normally the public purse.

But the revelation that King Charles III’s personal slush fund, the Duchy of Lancaster, is having its already bulging coffers augmented by the estates of people who die in parts of England with historical links to the royal estate plumbs new depths of disgusting avarice.

Like many so-called traditions, the feudal hangover that is bona vacantia should have been consigned to the dustbin of history centuries ago, but it has been all too tempting for successive royals to preserve this royal fruit machine that pays out again and again. Over the past 10 years, it has collected more than £60m in the funds.

Under this system, the Duchy of Cornwall, owned by Prince William, can claim the assets of people who die in Cornwall intestate – without a will – if no relatives can be found. Charles’s Duchy of Lancaster does the same when their last known residence is within what was historically known as Lancashire county palatine.

Edward VIII found cash from those who died intestate in the boundaries of the duchy was sitting in an account in case claims arose against it. He simply stole a million pounds from it, leaving almost nothing in that kitty.

George VI did very well out of the loyal servicemen who died serving their country in the second world war, who originated from within the confines of the duchy and had no will. “For king and country” took on a whole new meaning.

As disquiet about the practice of bona vacantia grew after the war, the royals announced that moneys collected would henceforth be given to charity – after processing costs had been deducted, of course. In the case of the Duchy of Lancaster, this came to about 4% compared to 15% for the Duchy of Cornwall.

Yet a Guardian investigation now reveals that matters are even worse than we have been led to believe. Put bluntly, we have been lied to. Monies we all thought were going to charity have instead been used to improve properties owned by the duchy, increasing the income stream that flows from them into Charles’s pockets.

We have the most expensive monarchy in Europe by far in terms of state support, and one that benefits from unique tax treatment available to nobody else. No inheritance tax is paid. The so-called private estates of the duchies of Cornwall and Lancaster are not private enough to pay corporation tax or capital gains tax. Even income tax is only paid voluntarily – if it all – no receipts have ever been made public.

The civil list, which in 2011 gave the royals £7.9m a year, was replaced, after palace lobbying, with the sovereign grant, which 12 years later is up to £86m a year. Over the centuries, the royals have continually bleated poverty and demanded more money from the taxpayer, while at the same time refusing point blank to reveal the extent of their accumulated wealth.

They even refused to provide this information to the last government that seriously tried to dig into this – the Labour government of the mid-1970s, with the then home secretary Roy Jenkins pursuing the matter.

Back in Queen Victoria’s reign, the government was told she was desperately short of cash to undertake her duties so a big uplift was provided. She was not short of cash, and the money provided by the then government was instead used to buy Sandringham and Balmoral. I recognise that behaviour from my time in parliament. It’s called fiddling your expenses.

My calculations suggest that the king is worth as much as £2bn and probably more. The bulk of this has come from excessive generosity on behalf of the taxpayer, either through direct handouts or indirectly through unique tax exemptions. But antiquated and indefensible arrangements such as bona vacantia have played their part too.

Parliament, which over the decades has been far too deferential, far too trusting, far too easy going, needs to get a grip. The disgusting existence of royal windfalls from dead people should be ended forthwith. The duchies of Cornwall and Lancaster should be transferred immediately to the publicly owned crown estate; they only escaped from being transferred along with other royal lands in 1760 because they were then deemed worthless. Plainly, this is no longer the case. The public accounts committee should begin a thorough investigation into the funding and wealth of the royals.

Monarchists should worry. Opening the doors on royal finances and practices will reveal a terrible stench.

in regards to:

[thricemartyred]

@atcmicbxtty said: "You're really mean...." Unprompted

—————♡—————

{♡} - An uncharacteristically sympathetic crease in his brow, ❝I…oh, no, that wasn’t…❞ His natural instinct to defend himself or to somehow attempt to justify the malignancy of his actions through some convoluted means of warped rationalisation, for the first time in what felt like at least two decades, was halted. Suddenly, his mouth felt uncomfortably dry and the demon was momentarily lost for words as he struggled to hold her gaze. She was only a kid. She looked so upset by what she had witnessed, and she didn’t even know the half of it. Dante swallowed hard.

Fleetingly, he glanced over his shoulder to watch the lover he’d just publicly and exploitatively revoked all feeling for dragging his heels as he headed off in the opposite direction whilst licking his wounds like a kicked puppy, and then looked back to the young girl. He had said some irreparably cruel things to his discarded lover, all the while laughing right in his face, mocking him, humiliating him, for fiendish amusement and in the name of Lucifer - worse, in front of the kid. At what point had he become so used to viciousness that he had actively started to become it? The sense of superiority he had felt from the upper hand he'd arrogantly brought to bear that night had dissipated with alarming gravity to him. Where there had been accomplishment, there now sat his contrition, bare, hovering in the space where glory had briefly resided. He hadn’t felt like that in a while - at least, not in its raw state. Usually, when his conscience would inevitably catch up with him, he turned to substances to tame his rising guilt.

In insufficient lieu of something considerably stronger, his hands fumbled to retrieve an unlit cigarette from his coat pocket. ❝…Yeah, well, you weren’t supposed to hear any of that shit. And you shouldn’t even be out this late! What are you, like, fourteen?❞ His lighter sparked and he inhaled from the cigarette, shifting on his feet in a state of restless agitation. ❝Go home! It’s a school night!❞

He appeared fundamentally ill at ease with exchanging this conversation, seeming to almost lean away from her as if she might spontaneously combust if he got within five feet of her. His reluctancy to speak to her? Probably on account of being labelled the local child killer by most who had known him before his mortal death due to the sheer enormity of what it transpired that he had done. Though he had been but a child too, manipulated into spilling the guts of his peers, of snuffing out innocent young lives preceding violent sacrilege against their cadavers, in the false guise of holy faith. He could still taste the flesh in his teeth. For a moment, he appeared like he might actually be sick, narrowly managing to ward it off with a protracted drag on the cigarette held between his tremulous fingers. On second thought, better make it two. Odd numbers were bad luck. Dante regarded the girl with a narrow gaze, ❝Can you stop looking at me like that? Look, I’m sorry, okay? Fuckin’ Hell…!❞ Too overwrought to consider the offhanded language, the demon rested his head wearily in his hand and tried not to heave. An apology hadn’t passed his lips in a long while, his utterance of those words coming as a surprise to himself. If only he would learn to say them more often. It would be an ineffectual expenditure of feelings though, even if he did. People such as him, they were unworthy of forgiveness, and besides, Dante had already repented his sins - and look where he was now! Cast out of Heaven, a servant of Hell. Indicatively, he was Satan’s Bitch. And Dante was hopelessly devoted to every Goddamned second of it.

So why now did he falter beneath the scrutiny of a little girl? Perhaps, sheltered within the darkest compartment of his inner self, there was still a tiny, shivering fragment of goodness left inside him after all.

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