#“womanly professionalism"

[kingofteamskull]

im so sorry not even sorry everyone but transmisandry cannot be real because regular misandry is not either. you cannot feasibly tell me men are oppressed in a special way

[notetaeker]

Nov 8, 9 2022 - Tuesday, Wednesday | tranquil’s challenge 25, 26

Although I am actually drowning in papers, I felt really sick these few days and ended up watching movies instead 🤧 I already posted abt it but if you haven’t watched Julie and Julia it’s heartwarming and inspiring 10/10 would recommend!

🌱 Do you find the process of learning something new discouraging or uplifting? What advice would you give to others to appreciate this journey more? I would say both? It's really discouraging if it doesn't work but when it does it is so so so uplifting and so rewarding. I think I myself only recently have been able to appreciate the journey more. I'm usually a really quick learner so in the past I've always been frustrated when I don't get something right away. Seeing 'trying' as an accomplishment is probably what helped me to change this attitude. I see the effort as my end goal when I start with something new (for me this week it was knitting). So even if i fail miserably at it, I still accomplished my goal (which was to try). That helps with getting through the 'discouraging' part of it until the effort starts paying off and next thing you know you're knitting a hat :')

💇🏽‍♀️ Have you ever dyed your hair? What colour would you dye your hair, if you could dye it any colour? Yes once (box dye) but it doesn't count because it was only visible when the moon aligned correctly and the shadows of noon fell at a specific angle lmao I would rlly like to try lavender / light purple / lilac hair. Either that or like the same vibes but pink.

[sherlock-is-ace]

.

[world-of-advice]

[beatrixstonehill2]

"This is..... so much more thrilling than I ever could've imagined! I think I'm beginning to sympathize with women who drop everything to become trad wives or porn stars. Kidding...... maybe. As you all know my team were tasked with moving to South Africa for a five-year archaeological expedition, I guess you could say. My team are all women, and we were warned that the customs in this region of South Africa are very relaxed toward women. Almost like the deep south in the US right now. I told them we'd be pretty far from major population centers and it shouldn't be an issue but..... that was apparently wrong information.

We arrived and saw our lodging was right in the middle of a charming small town near the quarry my team intended to study. Immediately we were met by local guides who gave us the rundown. We'd be driven into the city twice a week for major shopping, otherwise we'd stay in this town. We were checked out by a local doctor, who had us strip naked, asking us about our sex lives, history of partners. The man laughed when we all said we slept with under ten men each, handing us our own vial of fertility drugs, assuring us that number would get higher very quickly.

Our guide told us to be respectful and not spurn the curiosity of locals, especially the men, in both the city and the town we'd be calling home for five years. Immediately, upon waking up the next day, a group of fishermen, all in their twenties and thirties came upon us. They were some of the most fit, chiseled men I'd ever laid eyes on. All of them wearing only shorts, their heavy erections visibly pressing against the fabric. We said hello, and before we knew it we were being passed around like mere toys. I guess the rumors of a certain group of men having large endowments is..... very much true. I'd never been fucked so hard in my life. Most men I've slept with were so clumsy and afraid to do anything I might deem offensive. These men did not care one bit about my pleasure, or even my safety. They were studs in the truest sense! We were fragile mares, helpless like maidens as we were held down and brutally fucked for hours.

When they finished, our holes flooded with what had to be a liter or more of semen, we looked at each other, and despite having been essentially gang raped, we all agreed it was the most thrilling, glorious sexual experience of our lives. So, spurn we did not! All of us made sure to wear skirts and dresses so our holes were readily accessible for the locals. Needless to say the constant sexual intervention has delayed our expedition quite a bit. We've all lost tally of how many men have fucked us. Thousands, by my estimation, and it's wonderful to know I'm so sexually experienced now! I very quickly stopped seeing it as rape, more so I was fulfilling my womanly duties to the local men. I daresay this is how humanity fared for thousands of years before puritanical religions ruined everything.

We've been here a year and four months. We're all five months along with our second batch of children. These pregnancies are looking markedly larger than our first. It's so exciting to see our wombs expand so quickly. To our surprise the men did not simmer down whatsoever as we became immensely pregnant with at least triplets. On the contrary, the larger our uteruses stuck out, the more men would rush over to ram their shockingly large cocks into us. It's incredible to realize what my body was always capable of! I always treated sex so daintily, soft and erotic, come to find out my body was capable of being forty weeks pregnant, my womb filled to the bursting point with four kicking, ten-pound children, as dozens of men pound away at my swollen, dilated sex. My body has taken so well to this I feel like I'm finally achieving its true purpose. Seeing my body endure so much sex, cocks forcing their way into my holes so large they're less fit to impregnate a girl than scramble her innards.

It's naturally grinded our professional affairs to a halt. But I don't see any of us complaining, in fact I'm looking forward to getting so pregnant I might lose the ability to get up and walk, like many local girls. It's positively thrilling to consider I might be little more than a bed-bound, fuckable womb in a few short moths, my sex wettens are the mere thought. The quarry has been there for hundreds of thousands of years, I'm sure it can wait. Until then, I think I'll ask that local doctor to increase our fertility drugs, on a scientific level I'm morbidly curious to see just how many kids can fit in my womb. It's so exciting! I'm hoping I be filled with over twenty, imagine, all those men pounding away at my poor body, as I stare at my towering belly, pinning me down, an entire classroom of children writhing away inside me. Such a thing..... would necessitate repeat testing for many years to come. Not sure we'll be making the five-year deadline. But that's fine, I don't mind calling this place home far longer."

[prettyboykatsuki]

Ari nooo I can feel childhood friend Oliver burrowing into my brain like a physical ailment.😭 Thinking Abt finally getting to the point where u can answer the question "do you like football?" With "a little, I had a friend who was really into it once." Without feeling like there's a knife in ur ribs.

U being the one who's worked past it and managed to land at a distant 'proud of my old friend' stage, genuinely happy for him, and him seeing you again and loosing his footing bc he has done NO introspection WHATSOEVER.

childhood friends to lovers is my literal kryptonite and this is so…… God…

oliver leaves ur entire relationship so fucking unresolved 😭 like once he’s recruited professionally, he just… packs up all of his shit and leaves. you try for a few months but it quickly becomes clear that this permanent distance and all of your complicated, messy, teenage emotions are no longer something you can deal with. it hurts for the first few years, to see him on TV and in interviews and various dating scandals. u have to let go, and in that - u choose to just think of him as all of good things he was to u and not the bad

but oliver… oliver just put it aside. he was extremely busy. and you know, girls were throwing themselves at him so he just did whatever he felt like. being a fuckboy felt good, felt natural. it was good to be shallow and easier to detach. he never thought about anything between you at all, not even in passing. his womanizing and playboy reputation and taking romance lightly. it was fine. he stopped caring about everything except soccer. bleeds his heart into the sport and leaves everything else behind. his egoism in a way. it made him well and truly untouchable.

but eventually things slow down. it has to have been years. like really, truly years.

you message him when he’s back honey, asking if he wants to catch up. your mom really wants to see him, and oliver feels this cognitive dissonance. it unsettles him

and he sees you. you’re starting to look… womanly maybe. but you’re mostly the same, if not more comfortable. maybe happier. and you seem so genuinely happy to see him. and its been years and oliver is a different person now (is he?), but you look at him the same. he comes over to say hi to your mom and crams himself against the wall of your bedroom like he did when he was 16 and his chest is tight from the pain.

he feels so hollow all of a sudden. it just all suddenly feels meaningless and he just. sits in it. slips. into what or who he doesn’t know. you laugh the same but you wear perfume now. its hard to describe. its like grief and somehow anger. he’s almost angry that all of this is still here, that youre still here, that things can be so different and unchanged. its blinding. its disgusting. you’re the same. naive and difficult to let go of

it makes his skin crawl how much he still feels for you. he resents you in a stupid way and can’t help but express it through sarcasm. how else can he vent still being this fucking tormented by you years later?

[decaying-words]

The Innocent

All chapters Jonathan Crane x Reader • 18+ Explicit • 4.1k words TW & tags: NonCon, fear kink, masturbation, awful everything AO3 • All my stories

"She whimpers audibly, her scent turning acrid and pungent now; fear, she reeks of fear. I pant, a hundred meters behind her, putting enough distance to remain a formless creature while still appearing very much real in the dim light. The soft tremor turns into heavy shaking when she turns her head behind her shoulder, as if to convince herself that this is just a dream, just like the others she’s had. Then she screams, oh! she screams…"

The Innocent

Foreign music notes of a perhaps forgotten song vibrate in my dry throat in low hums, barely covering the insistent scratch of the fountain pen darkening the cream coloured papers splayed on my antique desk. The watch which delicately sublimes my bony wrist with its dark brown Italian leather and finely carved metal hands indicate three hours and fifty-six minutes in the afternoon; I still have four whole minutes, I realize with a palpable excitement that is most unwelcome in my line of work. My patient is, without a single doubt, already waiting in the other room; I will not greet her before the time has come, for it is absolutely crucial to not reveal any ounce of delight or impatience. In fact, I must remain perfectly professional, detached and clinical, or else I am taking the risk of exposing my ulterior motives and intimate desires. 

Four minutes is exactly the amount of time needed to adjust my tie (dark brown as well; a color not too contrasting to my marble pallor and which makes me look distinguished and inspires confidence, a key component in my profession), inspect my impeccable tweed vest made of Irish virgin wool dyed an exquisite amber color, and delicately clean the lenses of my round glasses with a microfiber cloth. Three hours fifty-nine; the last notes fade on my chapped lips when I leave my cognac leather armchair and direct my wiry frame to the door, spidery fingers holding the brass handle which feels pleasantly cold against my tight skin. 

Within my aging ribcage are percussions worthy of Ravel’s Bolero; intense in nature and laced with the fruitful musicality of controlled nerves. The entrance is methodical, natural and restrained, with a smile, polite enough to be welcoming but faint enough to remain professional, and soft crow’s feets rolling in a pleasantness that seems genuine. There are no emotions in my eyes; yet, dissimulated behind my glasses it might be hard to tell. My voice is warm and comforting, despite the crystal-like brokenness of its undertones which has been forged through the years.

Her smile, painted in a shiny coral red, is wide and transpires a heavy relief. She has been looking forward to our session all week long, I am sure; she reminds me of a teapot in the way she lets her worries fester until they turn ugly and make her completely dysfunctional. Her fingers cross and uncross nervously on her lap, as if incapable of knowing what to do with her own body, before she stands up, flattening her perfectly ironed marine blue pencil skirt, and retrieves her matching blazer jacket. I hold the door open and she penetrates my office with a footstep so light it could have belonged to a ghost; I notice the floral notes of her perfume, horrifyingly sweet and childish.

Through the nine sessions we had together, it is worth mentioning that her outfits are always delicately picked, colors matching and completed with a set of earrings (one on each lobe), a gourmette bracelet with her name engraved (a baptism gift, I reckon), and a now very familiar pearl necklace which I abhor passionately. Her hair is always impeccably styled down and her face painted just enough to be womanly without looking like a whore; something important, I suppose, for it matters greatly to her father. She reminds me of a ventriloquist’s doll, carrying a fabricated superficiality that betrays the profound emptiness of her soul. I am not certain she likes her appearance very much, the short heeled suede shoes, the old-fashioned manicure or the vulgar pearl necklace; but rather that she likes the simulacre of control on her life this shows on the outside, especially to her father, a figure we never cease to talk about.

My patient does not sit down until I instruct her to, the anxiety to pick the wrong choice and disappointment still viciously anchored in her childhood; an emotionally absent and academically demanding father tends to create such complex insecurities in the younger hearts. I would know. As always, we will be talking about it; and as always, she will unravel the same pointless secrets in an uninteresting logorrhoea that could very well bore me to death if it weren’t for the topic of her recurrent nightmares, cautiously sprinkled in her stories and immensely more fascinating —from a clinical point of view, of course. 

I am taking place in the armchair in front of hers, crossing one leg on top of the other, not dissimilar to two long and pale sticks enveloped in soft and tasteful fabric. My elevated ankle reveals the smallest ounce of marble skin, adorned with arched tendons which roll and disappear beneath the dark Egyptian cotton of my socks. I sense her heavy gaze following the slender silhouette of my legs to the tip of the deep brown leather of my derby shoes; a rosy tint blooms on her cheeks and my lips twitch in amused curiosity while she plays nervously with the pearls of this dreadful necklace which she is, in my humble opinion, either too old or too young to wear. She feels desire for me, despite being a couple of decades older than her; an expression, I believe, of her yearning for a paternal love, approval and affection.

My notebook lays graciously on my lap, angled in such a way that makes it impossible for her to see what I will be writing down, my treasured pen already in my hand. Adjusting my glasses on the long bridge of my aquiline nose, I offer her yet another muted smile, a silent invitation to begin the session; she appears flustered, blushing some more as I seem to have interrupted her train of thoughts —probably too vulgar for the image of herself she is desperately fabricating. I wonder if she is a virgin still, having spent the essential of her miserable life catering to her father’s needs and putting aside her own intimate desires; this would explain the subtle perfume of her throbbing sex floating in my office.

I find myself more than passively listening to her most uninteresting week in a way that freezes my nerves and makes me question my career choice, gently guiding her back to the heart of her confusing weaving as she wanders and rambles incoherently. None of her anecdotes are of importance to me, subtly urging her to open the can of her anxieties and core reason for her very presence on my couch; her recurring and unexplained nightmares. 

A couple of months ago, this patient reached out to me in an attempt to exorcize her most intimate thoughts and find a more peaceful slumber. When asked the nature of her night terrors, she confessed, with great difficulty and restraint at first, having this peculiar dream for years now in which she finds herself wandering around the unknown alleys of a surrealist city reminiscing of a dark and sterile-looking maze. She can never tell where she is, every window and every door looking the same, every turn sensibly similar to the next, the streetlights aggressively cutting harsh shadows against the smooth walls of the buildings. 

As her journey progresses, she notices a shadowy form following her every step and which does not make a noise aside from an ominous buzzing that makes the lights crackle; though it has not touched her yet, its presence alone is dreadful and suffocating enough to make her survival instincts kick in. She runs through the maze-like alleys in a vain hope to escape the figure, never successful in her doing; the shadow creeping at every corner, slipping through the cracks of the building like a liquid void, looming over her like a toxic cloud, and always watching her with empty eyes and whispering incomprehensible and otherworldly things in a gnarly voice resembling a sinister borborygmus.

She wakes up screaming, in tears and drenched in sweat before it can seize her.

There is an obvious answer behind her anxiety, one draped in the cloak of her oppressing father; and yet, despite the last few unproductive sessions and unfruitful attempts to take in my hypothesis, she rejects all and any idea of daddy dearest being the root of her misery. My poor sweet girl. Through her almost touching callowness if it weren’t laced with pungent naïveté, I find great intellectual pleasure in studying her profound fear; sometimes, when the moon hits and soaks my office in a creamy light, I dissect my numerous notes, each scribbled word reminiscing me of her giant doll-like eyes turning glassy with emotion, her painted lips aquiver with wretched anguish, her neatly cared eyebrows knitted in visible despair. She reminds me viciously of a newborn deer, frail and fragile; a sight so delicious it never fails to make my turgid sex throb in interest. I have learnt since to keep my legs crossed in front of her, of course.

Her fear is at the image of her personality; carefully crafted by her visceral fantasies which she struggles to control, as if her fabricated identity would cease and disappear if she knew how to confront it. There is something delectable in her innocent emotions, something exquisitely cruel in how laughable of a person she is, and I find myself morbidly curious to see her façade break and release her true self, dying and being born again. It is exhilarating really, the prospect of witnessing her weak mind shatter and rebuild itself, morphing into something pure and liberated, surpassing her ugly cocoon.

Fear is the most sublime emotion, a capricious mistress that transforms all beings into primal creatures; there is a beast inside all of us, I firmly believe, a döppleganger, infinitely mightier and profoundly fascinating, that only fear can free and liberate. I based my entire life on understanding the beauty of fear and how to elevate and transcend it, achieving our most glorious form; prying at people’s most intimate insecurities and feeding them the putrid fruits they truly do need to alter their mind irremediably, for their own benefit, I am certain. As such, it is past the clinical need but rightfully with a voracious desire and spiritual intention that I wish to see and unravel my Innocent’s breaking point. 

The sound of her trembled sob wakes me from my contemplative state, and I realize with great indifference that I missed her last couple of sentences, which I believe gave her yet another heartache. My occulted gaze devours the sight of her pained face, glassy eyes crying perfectly round and warm tears, her bunny nose reddening; I do not care much for her grief, an emotion I find particularly repulsive and grotesque and which she seems to feel quite frequently; this might be why I find her so unpleasant to be around. Instead, I hand her the tissue box that she politely accepts, wiping her tears and runny nose. 

The corner of my mouth twitches in disgust when I see her nervously touch her pearl necklace once again. This abominable pearl necklace that embodies everything about her that I hate; her child-like appearance despite being well into her thirties, her synthetic demeanor forged by an unyielding desire to be loved, her emotionally incestuous relationship with her undeserving father and her complete and total lack of self-esteem. 

Today’s session comes to an end and I am afraid we did not progress much, to my great dismay. I offer her the same frigid smile in which she always seems to find comfort when I open the door and shake her hand, a stark contrast to the warmth and subtle stickiness of her skin. She thanks me profusely and I nod in return, wishing her a pleasant rest of the day; I will be seeing her next week.

My simulacre of a smile fades as soon as she exits my office, a boiling irritation tinting the tip of my ears a crimson color, akin to a single rose in a snowy garden. I take an involuntary peek at my reflection in the window as I run a wiry hand in the dark feathers of my hair, silvering at the temples, a few gray strands adorning the generally brown mass. My thick eyebrows are knitted together in profound frustration, collecting today’s notes and sitting at my desk to study them. I cannot be satisfied with the glimpse of her unfledged anxieties, our exchanges do not nurture me professionally or otherwise ; slumping heavily in the leather armchair, a deep sigh swelling my tight chest, I lose myself in the labyrinthic corners of my mind, all the while ignoring the aggressive hardness of my sex, its throbbing feeling like the greatest treason in this precise moment.

I will not bring myself to completion tonight, for I find her fear vulgar and unworthy of my seed, a womb so barren it feels utterly meaningless. I will not even touch myself, I decide, denying her the attention and importance she desperately yearns for, refusing to besmirch my pride for such an insensitive mind. She is spoiling the sap of her soul in a way that is perfectly unacceptable to me and makes her look profoundly hideous; and I refuse to harvest the rotten fruits of a putrid heart. Instead, I will spend the night lost in my thoughts, with deep indignation for sole company.

It took me a complete day to recover from my turmoil and hatch a plan I deem satisfying, and four more to establish a detailed inventory of her nightly habits; following her at a reasonable distance in a now familiar fashion, carefully noting down any information of importance, I managed to know exactly when she finishes work, which Café she frequents, where she goes grocery shopping, which metro she takes home… During the day and in between two consultations, I conscientiously study the map of her neighborhood, carving in my memory every alley, every path, every building until I have a clear representation of my hunting territory. Victorious is a word that comes to my mind after such rewarding labor.

Tonight is the night. I am wearing my real skin, flesh made of burlap and soiled rag, fur made of dry straw and rotten thread stitching my articulations together. The used rope rolls like tendons around my throat, the noose loose enough to breath but not enough for it to be comfortable; a simple pleasure that will leave bruised memories on my neck like a passionate lover would. I caress my clothed form, the sensation unpleasant and rough to the touch and yet so deliciously stimulating, a sensation that never fails to make me hum appreciatively, heartbeat inappropriately lively for a Scarecrow .

It is ten hours and forty-five minutes on a Thursday night; she has been to the library tonight, devouring romance novels with her third cup of herbal tea –something horrifyingly fruity, I assume. An activity she indulges frequently, seeking refuge and comfort in the elegant place, something I cannot blame her for, considering the depraved state of the rest of Gotham, in stark contrast to the magnificence of the old architecture. This habit will also work in my favor, draping myself in the thickness of the night, my elongated figure barely noticeable in the corner of the street; at best, two glowing orbs pierce the obscurity, reminiscent of an animal of some sort, or better yet of an unsettling monster.

I hum the broken notes of an unknown song, a simple habit that feels right, lured in the dark and waiting for her to penetrate the first alley; I recognize her ghost-like footstep, short heels clacking subtly on the pavement, naive and unaware. Oh, my sweet girl.

She does not sense me for the first two hundred meters, her oblivious demeanor both entertaining and frustrating. There is something viscerally exquisite about seeing without being seen, teasing a very particular part of me; an almost erotic melange of power and impunity. I came to realize with age and experience that hunting is not dissimilar to foreplay, and therein lies my current problem; foreplay is not endless teasing, for I am neither patient nor interested in maintaining myself on the edge of my pleasure. And when I am being ignored for too long, I cannot help but feel somewhat insulted; ultimately, I want her to see me.

My fingernails tap and scratch the cold bricks, an abominable gurgling noise escaping my fatigued throat. She freezes instantly, and my sex twitches in sensible interest which I attempt to calm down, a feverish excitement pooling in my stomach. I distinguish the tremor in her silhouette and her breath hitching ever so slightly, a subtle perfume floating in the air, one that I know by heart now and makes my mind sing and mouth salivate. She does not look behind her, a wise choice I would say under more normal circumstances, her pace quickening in the narrow alley right between the first and third street of Gray Avenue. 

I inhale the acidic perfume of my body; I would like to say that my entire form is impregnated with the residuals of an old chemical toxin I’ve developed decades ago, but perhaps it is simply my own essence, now corrupted to its very core. I am certain that the delirious effects of these quasi pheromones will soon hit her as well and change her like I expect her to.

As she navigates through the almost pitch black alleys, fingertips grazing at the walls to help her find her way, I wheeze a wretched noise from within my ribcage, dreadful sounds I have been practicing since I was born and which never seems to get old. My poor girl is sobbing earnestly now, an arm wrapped around her middle section as if to seek comfort, almost running away from me, her short heels making a music akin to a typewriter in the night of Gotham. I am fully aware I have her complete attention, but I wish she would just look at me.

I run after her, vomiting more guttural gibberish from my distorted voice, fingernails hitting and scratching every surface in a pleading cacophony. She whimpers more frankly, I can tell how delicate her nerves are at this very moment. In her panic, she picks the wrong turn. Exquisite.

She looks around her with agony and confusion, persuaded that she would be welcomed by a bridge crossing the river of the Old Street; instead, she is met with a damp and sinister dead end. She whimpers audibly, her scent turning acrid and pungent now; fear, she reeks of fear . I pant, a hundred meters behind her, putting enough distance to remain a formless creature while still appearing very much real in the dim light. The soft tremor turns into heavy shaking when she turns her head behind her shoulder, as if to convince herself that this is just a dream, just like the others she’s had. Then she screams, oh! she screams…

Her crystalline voice breaks and shatters, pure and visceral, high pitched and perverted with terror; I am so hard I could hammer a nail in raw wood. I move in a dislocated fashion, long limbs akin to spider legs, the nightmarish look making her trip and fall on her bottom and crawl back, fingers desperately digging in the cold pavement until a nail breaks, curling her form into a ball in a damp corner. She cries so hard her face turns ruby red, smeared mascara leaving dark streaks on her puffy cheeks, glistening saliva bubbling on her screaming lips – oh, how beautiful she is, my sweet girl. My cock feels heavy in my now awfully tight pants; under different circumstances, maybe I would have offered her a different fate. 

She hides her face in her arms, fingers grabbing ferociously at her hair as if trying to wake herself up, but she doesn’t, no, she doesn’t wake up, and the reality is sinking in, especially when I am standing not even five meters in front of her. There is a bitter, stinging smell in the air, and a recognizable warm golden puddle underneath her shaking body that glistens beautifully under the moonlight; I purr in between two groans, witnessing her weakest form dissolve and collapse into the void of her mind that I have conceived. I want to create her anew, an abomination made of flesh and terror, and she will recognize me as her cruel Creator. My low distorted voice echoes in the muted alley, inspired and impassioned.

Are you afraid, child?

She screams louder, screams for help, screams for her life. But no one will save her, not here, not in Gotham, not this pathetic piss soaked girl . I mock and taunt her, towering over her as she chokes on her own sobs, desperate and painfully lonely. Why won’t anyone save me , she must be thinking. Why did Father lock me in this cell, she must be thinking. Why did Father abandon me in the cornfield. My laugh sounds more like a croak, sinister and penetrating, while she begs me for her life. 

Do you know who I am, child?

She does not. I blame it on her delirious state, on her body pumping her full of adrenaline, and most probably the toxins my body produces and which she’s been inhaling. This will not do, however; I want to ruin her in a way that matters, and for that to happen I need her to know who I am, what I represent. 

I crouch in front of her weaker form, barking her name and demanding she looks at me, which she does, obediently so; I reiterate my question, my hands hunched like claws scratching the walls around her. She cries harder, but her body produces no more tears, exhausted and drained; she screws her eyes shut and so I have no other option but to grab her hair viciously, forcing her to look at me.

And she does, oh she does , giant glassy eyes that lost their innocent spark and instead glow with a fury only trauma could forge and terror could sublimate. She sees the humiliation and the absence, the neglect and the judgment; she sees what she could have been if it had not been taken away from her. She does not say it but she mouths it, the two syllables of her misery.

Father.

My cackle is nothing short of demoniac, entire body jerking wildly enough to remember my turgid sex still leaking its filth in my ruined pants, heartbeat frantic as I am slowly but surely reaching my peak; release is not only needed but deserved , I believe, as my hand crawl inside my pants and free my cock, seizing it in a vicious grip that is mostly pain under her terrified and disgusted gaze. I take in her beautifully wrecked face as I pump myself with vigor and intent while croaking heavy moans, my eyes devouring every single wrinkle, every tear and tremor, swallowing the sight of the tense tendons of her throat choking on her sobs until I hiss in disgust at the repugnant pearl necklace. 

She does not need it anymore, I believe. And so, in a movement aquiver with lust and desire, my knotted fingers slip under the chain akin to a snake closing its embrace. She shrieks in pain when I pull tightly, a most needed evil I am afraid although ephemeral, the horrendous necklace eventually giving in to my brutal punishment and breaking. I hear the clattering of the pearls falling and rolling on the pavement, hand still tightly locked around my cock as I fuck my fist earnestly in deliciously wet noises; she caresses the skin of her bare neck, as if understanding something, her terrified eyes turning back at me and begging me to let her go. Oh, my sweet child, be certain that I will miss your honeyed pleas…

My orgasm comes quickly, long spurts of milky cum spilling on her throat, the soft flesh now adorning a unique, more appropriate and beautiful set of pearls. A generous gift, one she will remember fondly, I am certain. Her lower lips tremble as more tears roll down her cheek, although not a sound comes out of her mouth. I understand, it is a lot to process. Therapy can be difficult sometimes.

I left her alone to collect herself. Once home, and after a quick yet invigorating shower, I became busy writing down in great detail tonight’s experiment and, one must admit, its most triumphant outcome.

The day before our scheduled appointment, she informed me that she would not be able to come, pretending to have a cold. I understood, of course, and asked her if I would see her next week then. She said that she wasn’t certain, and that she would call back. She never did.

[ayu-stuff]

How would you humiliate an intelligent older woman who's confident and professional at her high level job but secretly a big dumb pants filling baby at home?

Let's break down your ask, honey.

First, it's clear you're not an intelligent woman. Simply because you're in my inbox begging to be humiliated as the "big dumb pants filling baby" you are. Who would call intelligent a woman -or, to be fair, a petulant toddler- that secretly craves being outed as a baby to all her coworkers? Someone who leads a double life, but would actually love to be cooed and laughed at by her younger interns?

Second, I doubt you're confident -again, you're here-. Your confidence is just a poor façade and we all know it. Even your younger coworkers know it, sweetie! Behind your stern look and your womanly ways, there's nothing but a stupid little girl who should suck on a pacifier instead of taking work responsabilities. And, trust me, young women always know who's faking it. You're just a toddler to their eyes, kiddo, and they all laugh at you behind your back.

And, you can't be professional at all. Honestly, I would not be remotely surprised if you confessed us you've worn pull-ups to work before. Or if you've worked from home while marinating in your messy diapees. Have you, honey? I'm sure.

As for ideas to humiliate you... it would be too easy, stinkerbell. Wear childish panties to work and make sure your waistband is always showing. Keep a paci on your desk until someone asks. Convince your boyfriend (or girlfriend) to flirt with one of your interns so you truly feel like a baby. There are too many options, darling!

[ap0wersstories]

Charlotte and Elaine: Corporate Sluts Part 1

Important Note*

The following story is 100% fiction with zero real world relevance, non-consensual sex/sexual assault or underage sex of any kind is wrong and should never be accepted. If you are considering or have committed such an offence I suggest you get serious psychiatric help.

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Charlotte and Elaine were trying to climb the corporate ladder. Charlotte was 24, ambitious, spoilt, and never afraid of acting a little slutty to get her own way. She often teased men simply to get ahead and then would drop them the moment they were no longer of any use. Elaine meanwhile was 21 and while aware of her sexual ways, she was naive to the many dirty thoughts that men had about her. She often dressed in clothes that showed off her slim long legs, and knew that there were men she worked with who she had wrapped around her little finger. 

They were both worthy of the leers and looks from men; South East Asian, slender, gorgeous faces, and happy to show everything off. They were absolutely beautiful and they knew it. They both joined their current marketing company quite recently and were keen to make an impression on clients, they knew that client’s ultimately held the power, so make them happy and you make lots of money In bonuses. They were competitive and eager to please, so when a new multi billion dollar client came on board they were both falling over themselves to get close to them. 

Their manager quite obviously knew this, hell they’d tried using their womanly prowess on him, he was getting sick of their attitude and despite their keenness to impress they were too focused on acting like sluts than actually doing their jobs properly. But he knew how he could secure this contract for a really long time. Neither of the girls had been around long enough to hear about the stories from higher ups at various companies, stories that could truly shock. Most of them centred around the high powered men (and sometimes women) of companies having sex parties that include unwilling participants being gang raped and abused. This company happened to be one of those companies that had these parties on a regular basis. 

The manager called them both in at the same time and standing up he spoke, “Charlotte, Elaine I’ve been noticing you doing everything you can to get close to the latest clients from South West Tech. Well here’s your big opportunity, they’re having an event tonight that I want you both to represent us at. I will be speaking with them afterwards to find out which of you impressed the most, whoever they choose will be given the bonus you’ve both been fighting for. Make sure you’re dressed to impress, you can both leave early to get ready. Be at this address at this time, not earlier and definitely not late. Don’t embarrass us!”

He say down taking his gaze off them and they knew there wasn’t anymore to be said. They left the office obediently to go home and get ready, both of them excited for the potential to impress and land a big bonus! They didn’t say anything to each other as they left, they didn’t disliked each other but they also recognised that they were in competition and in their minds had to do whatever it took. 

Charlotte got home thinking she might have the advantage with a few extra years on her, sometimes youthful exuberance could be annoying where she felt her professionalism set her apart. She found a really nice white dress number that hugged her curves perfectly and showed off her great form. It had 3/4 sleeves on it and while she felt it was professional enough, she thought it would send the old men wild.  

Elaine went for a slightly different approach, she’d heard that a lot of these men were kinda perverts and she wanted them thinking with their dicks and not their heads. She knew Charlotte would be a better professional than her through experience, but she wasn’t interested in giving up this chances at a fat bonus. She chose to wear a black top that opened slightly down the middle and showed off her slim neckline and shoulders, while also choosing a short white skirt that had remnants of what a schoolgirl might wears. To complete that sultry sexy look she wore knee high white socks with nice high heels. She knew she would turn the men wild!

They turned up at the address both 1min before the agreed time, both of them thought it strange they were so specific but then they thought it might be a test. They arrived at the door looking at each other, their mood was tense but again there wasn’t any hate, just competitiveness. Charlotte spoke first, “you’re looking really pretty Elaine, dragged out some of your schoolgirl days clothes?” It was a compliment but clearly backhanded, Elaine wasn’t going to back down though, “yeah that’s right Charlotte, all my school stuff still fits me. Your school days were such a long time ago, surely none of it even exists anymore. Your looking very….um..nice as well. The dress looks very mature.” Again a backhanded compliment designed to make sure the other person knew it was game on tonight!

Charlotte didn’t have a chance to respond, the door opened abruptly and there was a man in a black suit. He looked them up and down, “you two Charlotte and Elaine?” They nodded, and he stepped aside letting them enter. They went down some stairs so they were going into what appeared to be a basement club or place of some kind. They went through several doors that required key cards, code locks, and fingerprint identification. This was clearly an exclusive place to be invited. Finally they got through the final set of doors, another with a keycard pass, and it opened out to a semi-dark circular room. It had the feeling of an underground cult or secret society, there were only men in there, without counting the girls estimated about 40-50 men, all of them aged 45+. As soon as they walked in they felt the gaze of all of the men on them, it was like they were undressing them with their eyes. The man that collected them lead them to the centre of the room and almost immediately the men all circled around them. 

The mood in the room was something that neither girl felt comfortable with, it was a mood of anticipation and excitement and with them at the centre of it they began to look at each other concerned. One man from the group stepped forward, Charlotte and Elaine recognised him as one of the executives they had tried to impress. “Welcome girls, welcome! Your arrival has been greatly anticipated! Take a look around at every man here…” slowly they gazed around then looked back at the man, “because every man here, will be fucking your brains out tonight!” That final comment cemented the feeling both of them were having, they were in a lot of trouble! “It was so nice of you to dress so beautiful and slutty for us, but then you won’t be wearing those clothes for much longer. You wanted to impress us, you have and if it’s any consolation your participation tonight will ensure our company remains your companies top client for a long time to come!”

He was done talking, the anticipation was reaching fever pitch, he clicked his fingers and straight away two men grabbed both girls from behind pinning their arms back two other men then turned up right in front of the girls with scissors. Before they started though the girls started protesting and fighting back, “stop please!” “No, no, no!” “Please let us go!!” “We’ll do anything, we won’t tell, please just let us go!!” Before the men with the scissors started the executive stood up to them and slapped both girls individually and hard. “You listen to me you slutty little cunts, we’ll enjoy your screams, you’re begging for mercy, and you’re moans as you give in. But let’s get one thing straight right now, disobedience will not be tolerated. Fight back, bite down on cocks, saying “no, stop, or don’t do that” will only result in punishment. And believe me we have no issues about punishing you, we have very skilled people at delivering abuse and torture that you have never imagined. SO SHUT THE FUCK UP!!!”

As he backed away the men with the scissors went to work, the man working on Charlotte started cutting it from the middle in front of her pussy and up. It was a light and easily cut fabric once he got to the top it flapped away from her body uselessly revealing her white bra and panties. He then pulled the dress off her and the man holding her arms helped disrobe her so she only had her bra and panties left for dignity. For Elaine she obviously was wearing far more revealing and simple to disrobe clothing, the man with the scissors didn’t actually need them. He simply ripped her black top open and with the help of the man behind yanked it off her slight frame, while he then pulled down her short skirt letting it drop to the floor uselessly.  Elaine was wearing red laced silk bra and panties. Both women were in bra and panties. The almost in unison both men with scissors cut away their bras strand by strand exposing their perfect breasts to an almost audible hush from the horny men surrounding them. Then they seductively dragged the scissors over their breasts and waist, finally getting to their crotches. They rack poked the ends of the scissors into their pussies through the panties, and then together they cut away each strip letting them drop to the floor. As soon as both pussies were revealed the group of men crowded them even more and were audibly grunting and groaning, they each wanted to devour these girls. The men with the scissors then put them to the side and with the help of the men holding the girls arms back they picked the naked ladies up with their legs spread and pussies totally on display. 

The crowd of men were now on the women, hands were feeling all over their young silky bodies; the hands rubbed, massaged, and groped their bodies. Their tits were constantly being groped hard, and their nipples flicked, sucked, teased, and every so often pinched. Hands were rubbing up and down her legs, and naturally it didn’t take long for those hands to make their way to their pussies. Finger after finger entered them; poking, prodding, stroking, and finger fucking. The girls were moaning and sobbing at the abuse, one of the men as a humiliation picked up both panties and after rubbing them on his cock he shoved them in their mouths, muffling their cries and moans. Man after man was given their chance to use his fingers on them, before two men that appeared to be late 50s even early 60s stepped up and buried their faces in their crotches licking then. The girls both arched their backs as the men stimulated them in a way they’d never experienced before, they moaned as the men got their pussies so wet that they couldn’t help but feel their orgasms building. Their hands were dangling down but strangely instinctively they found themselves holding each others hands as their bodies built to a massive climax, squeezing down on the others hands they each let out a massive, “mmmmmmffffff” into their panty gags and twitched as the men delivered their first orgasms. They still cried at the humiliation of having control of their bodies taken away from them, they twitched as their bodies came down from cumming. The men pulled their heads out of their crotches, their pussies sopping set now. 

The men holding the girls brought them over to tables that had leg and wrist bindings attached to them, the two tables were set up so both heads were next to each other. They were strapped down, even though there was nowhere to go and nothing they could do. The executive stepped up, “you enjoyed your orgasms didn’t you girls, well it’s our turn now!” The executive pulled his pants down revealing his hard cock, it was probably on the larger side but not massive, “I think I’m going to take…the younger one!” He stepped up to Elaine and rubbing his meat against her pussy feeling the heat coming off her, he shoved his cock in brutally, her pussy was still wet and super inviting. She wasn’t tight like a virgin but she was still a great fuck, he grabbed her hips and began thrusting hard into her. For Charlotte another man stepped up, he appeared to be in his 60s, “I’ve been a board member since the age of 30, these nights are my favourite nights of the year! You might be the prettiest fuck ever though!” He rubbed his old wrinkled cock against her young 24yo pussy and shoved it in, immediately he began thrusting his meat inside of her while crouching over and sucking on her gorgeous nipples. 

Two men then showed up beside each of their faces pumping their middle aged cocks, one of them said menacingly, “remember, you bite down and we WILL punish you!!” They pulled out the panties from their mouths and almost immediately they both shoved their cocks deep in the girls mouths causing a mixture of gags and muffled moans. The men fucking their pussies were pounding with such force that every thrust was making their tits bounce. Not wanting to feel left out other men had started groping and feeling their soft silky bodies and groping their tits. Their hands were in such a position that men could access them to help jerk them off. Their bodies were nothing but play toys for these men to use as they pleased. The men fucking the women were upping their speed as they felt their first orgasms coming, they grunted and groaned like animals possessed knowing their balls were about to explode. They both seemed to sense the others timing and almost at the exact same time they cried out in pure ecstasy, “FUUUUUUUCK YESSSSSSS!!!!!” “FUCKING TAKE OUR CUM YOU FUCKING SLUTS!!!!!” And with that both girls pussies were flooded with their rapists cum, the executive was in heaven as his cock continued squirting his semen into the 21yo cunt. “FUCK YES, THIS IS WHAT YOU WERE BORN FOR!!!! YOU’RE FUCKTOYS, NOTHING ELSE!! IT’S TIME YOU LEARNED YOUR PLACE IN THE WORLD IS ON THE END OF A MAN’S COCK!!!”

The girls sobbed as they felt the men squirt more and more cum into them, finally though they both began to go soft and they eventually pulled out with the girls feeling cum dribbling out of their pussies. They weren’t given any rest though as the men that were using their mouth’s immediately switched places and filled their cum soaked pussies with their cocks. Two other men immediately filled their mouths as well ensuring their gang rape would be absolutely constant. Charlotte and Elaine had no idea but there was a hierarchy to the men taking their turns. The executives and the board got first crack at using the women based on their rank, age, and standing in the company. Each man would step to the girls starting with their and use them hard as if they’re a fleshlight while their colleagues brutally raped the girls pussies. Their bodies were in a constant state of usage and they were never afforded rests. The girls bodies continued to betray them time and time again as they couldn’t help but orgasm to their brutal gang rape. Man after man stepped up and raped their young fertile pussies sending load after load of cum into them. The men constantly hurled foul abuse at the girls calling them “fucktoys”, “whores”, “sluts”, “cunts”, and saying “we’re gonna rape you until we can’t get hard!”

The girls had no choice but to lay there and take it as the men took their turns raping their sloppy cum filled pussies. While this was going on the men not fucking they were getting so turned on that they were busting loads into condoms, put aside for later use. Finally after hours of brutal use of their battered pussies the executive put a halt to proceedings. “Alright everyone, let’s take a breather!” He walked up and inspected the two women, they were panting trying to catch their breath, their pussies were both swollen and cum drained out of them. Over the course of that period they’d run a train of 23 cocks on Elaine and 22 on Charlotte. They were totally exhausted and totally ruined, cum coated every part of their insides. Both women were convinced they must be pregnant. The executive was impressed, “great stuff men, their pussies will never be the same again. I think they were actually enjoying having a train run on their pussies! So the question is…are we ready for round 2?!” The men cheered loud, their sexual frustration and lust would not be satisfied by simply fucking their pussies!

Some men undid their bindings and dragged them over to two u-shaped metal poles that were stuck to the ground. There were steps that they were placed on before rope was used to bind them bending over the poles in a semi-crouched posture, Charlotte and Elaine felt excess cum dribble down their legs. Their minds were so broken they couldn’t imagine what more was to come. The executive and same board member as before stepped up to answer that question, it was the board member that spoke first, “you’ve had your warm up sluts, now comes the best part. All those men that just raped your sloppy battered pussies, they’re going to do it all again ON YOUR ASSES!!!” The men all cheered while the girls cried and sobbed, with Charlotte meekly begging for mercy, “please no! I can’t take any more!” This enraged the board member, “YOU FUCKING SLUT!!! YOU WERE WARNED ABOUT DISOBEDIENCE, NOW YOU GET TO FIND OUT WHAT HAPPENS!!! AND LET THIS BE A LESSON TO BOTH OF YOU!!!”

The board member went over to a table which had all the tools for torture they could possibly want, on this occasion the board member chose a bamboo cane. He tapped it on her legs, then her tits, then her damaged sensitive pussy. Then taking a step back he cracked it hard on her perfect ass cheeks, Charlotte felt a surge in adrenaline at this abuse, “ahhhhhhhhhhhh!!!” The board member cracked again, “DON’T YOU DARE FUCKING TELL ME TO STOP, OR I’LL HIT YOU MORE AND HARDER!!!!” With the knowledge she couldn’t tell him to stop she just screamed and sobbed. Elaine was tied down that she couldn’t see anything but she heard it all and could see the pain in Charlotte’s eyes as tears rolled down her cheeks. The board member switched tactics in his words, “BEG US TO RAPE YOUR ASSES!!! BOTH OF YOU BEG US, TELL US YOU WANT OUR COCKS IN YOUR ASSES!!!” He whacked another stroke on Charlotte and followed up with a strike on Elaine, Charlotte just wanted the pain to stop so I’m her sobs she said, “please I’m begging you rape my ass!!!” Elaine wasn’t interested in getting another cane to the ass, “please rape me!!! I want your cocks in my ass!!!!”

Both men stepped up and dribbled lube onto their ass cheeks and onto their cocks. They roughly rubbed the lube so it was worked into their assholes then pressed the tips of their cocks into their asses and forced them inside the girls. Both girls screamed with renewed vigour as the men forced their cocks inside their asses, neither of them had experienced anal sex before so they were both anal virgins, just as both men wanted! Their cocks slid further and further inside with the lube aiding them in their pursuit of getting as deep as possible. The board member was first, his wrinkled cock buried inside Charlotte as much as he wanted he used both hands to simultaneously spank both ass cheeks that were showing the lines of abuse he’d inflicted on her using the cane. Charlotte jerked and screamed at the abuse, her asshole clenching down on his cock as he spanked her ass cheeks. He then started shifting his weight moving his cock inside her asshole, “mmmmm yeah baby! Take my Cocks in your ass!!”

The executive had also reached a satisfactory point inside Elaine’s pristine ass, he grabbed her hair so it was almost like a pony tail and used it for leverage as her begun thrusting inside of her. For Elaine she was in hell, her ass felt like it was being split in two and she was hyperventilating at the thought of prolonged ass rape by these men. She wasn’t given much of a chance to focus on those thoughts as the same two men that first used their mouth as before stepped up. The hierarchy continued. They forced their cocks in their mouths muffling the screams as they gagged. The executive and the board member were really starting to get momentum on her ass and were properly ass fucking them now, every thrust designed to get deeper and harder. Finally the board member felt his cock ready to explode for a second time and rammed it in as cum shot out of his cock and into her ass. “FUUUUUUUUCK!!!! TAKE MY CUM IN YOUR ASS YOU SLUT!!!!”

The executive followed suit immediately afterwards, witnessing the board members abuse on Charlotte sending him over the edge, he grunted like an animal as his cock exploded cum inside of Elaine, “FUCK YES CUNT, FEEL MY CUM FILLING YOU UP!!! Both men continued to squirt cum inside of the women as every twitch would squeeze down on their cocks. Finally the pulled out and as their cocks came out the women felt  the cool air enter inside their gaping asses just as they closed. They weren’t staying closed for long though as the train of men continued their system of one man on the mouth and one man in the ass. 

The rest of the men were equally as abusive to the girls, spanking them, pulling their hair, writing filthy degrading messages on them in marker pen. They even got out nipple clamps and attached them to their hanging tits with weights attached. Every thrust causing more pain on their abused tits. Their asses were used brutally and constantly, every man giving the women an ass creampie, meaning cum was filling up their insides and leaking out. Finally after another few hours of constant abuse the final man deposited his cum inside Elaine and for the first time since their last break there was not a cock inside of them. The girls were practically catatonic, barely conscious. The men who’d gang raped them for hours that night stood proudly over their victims knowing their were ruined piece of meat now. The executive stepped up, “well done men! These girls are used up rapetoys now! I’m actually impressed they’re still conscious!!! We’ll be sending out the link to be able to watch all of the action and relive it all later tonight, be sure to keep it secure. As for these two, probably best to say your goodbyes as it’s unlikely you’ll ever come across them again, except maybe in future underground porn vids!”

The men all laughed, a few came over and gave the girls spanks on the ass, slaps on the face, and spitting at them. The girls were totally and utterly broken. The executive gave someone a nod and the girls were taken down from their cruel bindings, they’d been in that position for hours. They were dumped on a soft-mat like from a gymnasium, barely moving and breathing. The executive walked up to them, “you think this might be the end? Well it’s not, I’ve got some clients of my own coming and they will make sure you’re treated exactly like you should be. 

With the final comment they were dragged off to a cell where they lay there recovering. The stench of cum and sex all over them, they wished they could just roll over and die. 

[bleachification]

⸻ CHAPTER FIVE; ALL MEN ARE EQUAL

pairing: dazai x f!reader (fantasy au)

warnings: mentions/themes of depression

chapter list: this is CHAPTER FIVE of a multi-chapter fic series. PLEASE read the chapters below (in order) before this one or you will be very lost!!

prologue

one

two

three

four

word count: 3.5k

+ + + + + + + + + + + + +

Back in your homeland, at the Imperial Palace, the largest constructed facilities are ones of sport and training. Sharpened swords and polished armour take the place of bookshelves on bedroom walls, and the practice of scripture is seldom found. Higher education, though no less important than warfare, is strictly limited to scriveners, court officials, and the professional erudites of your father’s choosing. In the face of current conflicts, most of your father’s people are far more absorbed in military affairs and bureaucracy than arithmetics, the sciences and the humanities.

Although, when it came to you, it was like a switch went off and all those sentiments were turned upside down. 

By a certain age, your tutelage switched from scholarly knowledge to that of etiquette and what he referred to as ‘womanly affairs’. Those usually consisted of things like sewing, music, and art classes. The only one you ever enjoyed was the horseback lessons. 

But thankfully, your father’s one track mind meant you were never discovered for—or suspected of—possessing further-education books and studying politics, diplomacy, and military tactics on the days general schooling lessons were cancelled. It is why you find yourself in the royal library, hours before you are due to meet Dazai for dinner. 

Hundreds, if not thousands, of marble shelves line the walls from floor to ceiling. Each one is stacked, end-to-end, with leather bound tomes and tea-stained manuscripts. There is a fireplace in the right corner, carved from blackened stone and crackling with warmth. Around it sits a pair of dark-green, thickly-cushioned armchairs, along with a matching sofa that is wide enough to fit at least four people. 

You walk further in and are greeted with four arched windows spanning the length and height of the space, each one clear as the summer sea. You squint, momentarily blinded by a sudden passing ray of sunlight. Birds are chirping underneath the morning sky, and branches of a looming willow tree sway in front of the left-most window. You take in the sprawling garden view; a labyrinthine maze of hedges take up the centre, and a large assortment of decorations speckle the grounds. Smaller fountains, rainbow flower beds, and iron-wrought benches are only a few of what you can see. 

You look around a bit more, noting the study tables anchored to the floor and the winding staircase that leads to the open-plan second floor. The library is well-kept, as shown by the pots holding blooming flowers along the window sills, but the dust lining the shelves indicates that no one has used the archives in a long time. You wonder why—it is the first and only comforting place that you have found in the cold, lonely palace. 

You make your way down the stacks before a section catches your eye.

A Comprehensive Guide on Abilities and a Meta Analysis on their Structural Archetypes; 

The Scholar’s Circle’s Codex on Yokohama’s Political Affairs;

North vs. South: A Dynastic Tale of Continental History. 

You grab all three and almost lose your balance from the weight of each text. More and more books are added to the pile in your arms until you can no longer see straight ahead. 

With a huff, you drop the mountain of pending research onto an oak-stained study table and quickly get to work. 

Hours pass, the concept of time long faded as you lose yourself in the world of preternatural powers, warring states, and the cluttered institutions that make up the Kingdom in its most present form. 

The striking differences between Yokohama and the Northern Empire are more vast than you had ever imagined. It's a stark contrast—governance, industry, arts, religion and everything else you've come across so far. Not a single commonality to be found.

“How has…? But wouldn’t the roots originate from the dark ages? Let’s see…” you mumble, talking to no one in particular. 

“Have you found a specially interesting read?” A particular person asks. 

You fall out of your seat in surprise. 

“General!” You squeak, reeling from his sudden appearance. 

The mild-mannered Fukuzawa gives you a gentle smile and moves to help you up. He hooks two large arms under your own and lifts you back onto your chair. The scene reminds you of a mother cat picking its kitten up by the scruff of its neck.

You drop your head onto the table in embarrassment, refusing to make eye contact until, hopefully, a meteor comes falling onto earth and crushes you to death. 

“Good morning, General,” you mutter. 

“Hmm.”

You peek up at him with one eye. “What?”

“It is five in the evening,” he replies, bemused. 

“What?!” You bolt up, shame long forgotten. 

It takes you a second to realize how orange the library is, cast in the hues from the setting sun. 

You drag a hand over your face, rubbing the fatigue from your eyes. “Shit, I didn’t realize how late it had gotten.”

Fukuzawa raises a brow. 

“What? You’ve never heard a noble cuss before?” 

He taps his chin. “I can’t say I have. You truly are a breath of fresh air, Your Highness.”

You grin. “As are you, General. And please…”

He listens, head tilting in curiosity. 

“It is [name]. We are friends, are we not?” Your false sincerity coats your words like a second skin.  

The sun dips far below the horizon, robbing the world of its light. You take in the storm clouds in the distance, absentmindedly wondering if the Empire would experience the same downpour later in the night. 

Fukuzawa ponders your question for a moment longer before answering. “We are, but I am also your subordinate, so I am afraid I must decline.”

“And if it is an order?”

Fukuzawa’s eyes sparkle. “Then I am under aristocratic obligation to comply.”

In a tone laced with authority and bemusement, you proclaim: “I, acting Monarch of Yokohama, hereby order General Yukichi Fukuzawa to act beyond propriety and address me by given name only. No titles, no fancy designations. Just [name].” 

“As long as you are willing to grant me that same honor, [name].”

You grin. “See? Isn’t that so much better, Yukichi?”

The General only laughs and turns to take a seat across from you. The armour he dons makes a clanging noise as he settles himself. Patches of dirt litter the surface of the metal while other areas sport minor indents—likely from the force of a blade's flat or hilt. 

“Did that hurt?” You nod towards the largest dip in the steel. 

He looks down at his left side, around the area between his upper ribs. “Couldn’t even feel it.”

“Of course not,” you wave, returning your attention back to the pages. 

“I see you are interested in…” Fukuzawa leans over the table, peering at the emboldened titles of each tome. “Yokohama politics, history, and culture?”

“The pen is mightier than the sword, as they say,” you muse. “And a bright mind is far mightier than those stumbling blind in the darkness of their own ignorance.”

“I do wish more members of the court shared that sentiment. It would certainly make my migraines less frequent.” 

You faintly recall the term from a book you finished earlier. “The… inner court?”

“The very same. A parliamentary round table of aristocrats and representatives, headed by the Four Noble Houses.”

“The Four Noble Houses? You mean…” You cringe, an unpleasant memory resurfacing. 

Fukuzawa’s eyes gleam with amusement. “Ah, yes. I recall a certain purple-faced duke drenched in the colours of His Majesty’s most favoured cabernet sauvignon.”

You smile sheepishly. “I messed up, didn’t I?”

“Formally? Yes.”

You groan and drop your head in your hands.

Fukuzawa lays a palm on your shoulder and gives you a gentle pat. 

“But reasonably? Absolutely not. He deserved ten times worse than what he got.”

“Someone needed to stand up to him,” you point out. 

“Sadly, there are not many people who can.”

You sigh at that and go back to your research. The moment you set your eyes back on the book, the pages in front of you begin to blur and mesh into a whirlpool of ink. 

“Maybe it is time for a break…” you murmur. 

Fukuzawa leans forward and studies your fatigued expression. 

“What have you learned so far?”

You snort. “You mean other than our sordid history? The decades of hatred and conflict brewing between our countries?”

“Ah, yes. Besides that fun little facet of our politics.”

You run through the miles of information you had just absorbed, each little bit coming together piece by piece to paint a very clear picture of the modern world—one where mystic abilities, gods of old, and monsters coexist in disharmony. 

‘Abilities’ as you have come to know them, are practically non-existent among the lower caste in the Northern Empire. The only ones who wield them are of noble blood, aside from the rare few commoners—unfortunate individuals who would be executed for merely holding power outside of their status. Even then, barely anyone manifests one. In recent years, the only ability-user you know of is Chuuya.  

In Yokohama, these powers are respected, admired, and much more plentiful. In your textual observations, it is noted that the military and governing leaders are chosen for their abilities. 

“Hm… what is yours?”

 You are curious. What sort of fate-bending, death-defying power could this seasoned warrior have?

“Mine?”

“Your ability. You must have one, being the head of such an elite corps.”

“My ability…” he pauses. 

You raised a teasing brow. “What? You’re not going to tell me?”

“Just considering the risks of doing so. You have proven yourself to be both smart and deceitful. A deadly combination.”

“Are you saying you don’t trust me?” You place a hand on your chest in mock offence, scoffing in indignation. 

Fukuzawa laughs—that familiar smooth rumble that you have come to find placating. “Would I be wise to?”

“Of course not.” You wave a dismissive hand. “But you should tell me anyway because I am curious and stubborn and will likely find out on my own regardless.”

The general’s gaze is filled with a kind of warmth that is unknown to you, only interrupted by a flicker of a melancholy that twists his expression momentarily." It happens so fast you almost mistake it for a trick of the light.

“You remind me so much of her…” He mumbles under his breath so softly you pass it off as a whisper of the wind. “Very well. I will tell you.”

The sun has all but disappeared from the horizon, the shimmering moon slipping in its place. The dark, glittering night falls onto Fukuzawa’s features beautifully, making  him seem a little more weathered and a little less mundane as he explains his decidedly non-mundane powers. 

“It allows me to control my soldiers’ own abilities. I am able to manipulate their capabilities, help navigate their potential, and expand the boundaries of what they can do. That is my ability,” he explains. 

You mull over Fukuzawa’s words, a bit surprised at the nature of it all. The powerfully built military veteran looks at you like he knows what you are thinking—knows that you are confused on why someone with his battle prowess has such a passive skill. 

“You forget, Your Highness, that before I am a warrior, I am first and foremost a leader. Without my men, I am nothing, and without me, many of those men would not have survived until now,” he states. He says it like a fact, and perhaps in some ways, it is. It makes more sense the longer you think on it, his ability is almost perfectly suited to his position. You wonder what yours would be if you manifested one. What about Dazai? Would his ability reflect bloodthirst and coldness? Or would it be the opposite of what you know him as?

You make a mental note to come back to that question later, and direct your attention back to the conversation at hand. 

“[Name],” you correct.

Fukuzawa blinks. “Sorry?”

“You called me ‘Your Highness’ just now.”

“I apologize. Force of habit,” he drops his head in a slight bow and the moonlight streaming through the open windows reflects off his gray hair, transforming it into a silver mane. 

Fukuzawa apologizes to you a lot, like a father fumbling for words in front of his newborn, careful not to be anything but kind. If anything, you find it endearing. As well as a little… disappointing. 

“General.”

Fukuzawa’s smile drops at your change in tone. The worry in his eyes is clear. “Is something wrong?”

You give him a small smile, a tad tense. “No. Not really. Though, I would like to ask you something. Would you humour me?”

“Of course. I will answer anything within reason,” he reassures. 

You rest your cheek against your palm, curiosity and wariness burning bright. 

“Why are you so kind to me? I know how this country views the Empire—views me. I am not blind to the scornful glances nor hidden insults thrown around. I am numb to them. But you… Kunikida… that peculiar doctor as well, you are all much too cordial with a sworn enemy. Is it pity? Some misplaced sense of duty? Or perhaps it is all fake and you are all laughing behind my back as we speak.”

Silence spreads through the empty library, the only noises are the crackling of the fireplace and the gentle swishes of the willow branch behind you. The only thing you hear is your pulse thrumming against your skull.

If Fukuzawa is taken aback by your bluntness, he does not show it. Despite only knowing you for this short period of time, he is probably already used to your brusque manner of speech. He folds his hands in front of him and leans backward, taking some time to come up with a suitable answer. You can practically see the gears turning in that head of his. 

A few moments pass before he finally speaks in a serious, yet gentle, voice.

“Do you think yourself undeserving of our respect?”

You shake your head and answer: “Not at all. I am only surprised you would willingly impart it to me.”

“I cannot speak on Sir Kunikida or Dr. Yosano’s behalf—although, I imagine they share the same thoughts—but I am kind to you because it is common sense. I am kind to you because I am honoured to serve under your reign,” Fukuzawa assures. His expression softens. “I am truly sorry about the harassment you have had to endure. I will do my best to keep them in check, but if it happens again, do not be afraid to use your status. You are their ruler. Do not let them forget it.”

A lump forms in your throat and you force yourself to swallow it down. The support eases your heart, but the anxiety does not fully disappear, nor does the cold tingle of resentment in your chest. They probably never will. For now, you will accept his words, but with caution, as you are still very much in enemy territory. You will need to lead with your mind to survive, not your heart.  

And Fukuzawa? The gentle general is merely a stepping stone, not a friend. 

“I… am grateful. Tha—”

“General Fukuzawa!” In a very familiar fashion, the doors to the library burst open to reveal a man, effectively cutting you off. 

Kunikida stands beneath the frame, face alarmingly red and breaths coming out in short, laboured puffs. Out of the corner of your eye, you catch Fukuzawa grimacing. 

“What. Are. You. Doing. Here?.” The minister spits out each word with barely contained anger—more accusation than actual question. 

“Chief Minister.” Fukuzawa bows and slowly inches himself towards the door, closer and closer to the fuming blonde. “I see you are… upset.”

Kunikida’s eye twitches. “Upset? Upset?!” His voice hits an impressive octave and you briefly wonder if he’s ever considered a career in opera. He certainly has the knack for it. 

“I—” 

“The outdoor arena is on fire.”

The general clears his throat. 

“Right. I did tell them not to try out those new techniques without me around, though His Majesty’s soldiers were never ones to adhere to the rules.”

“A black hole opened up in the ceiling and swallowed three stable boys. They were… fully nude when they fell out an hour later.”

Fukuzawa blinks. 

“That’s… new.”

“You have five seconds,” Kunikida says flatly. 

“Well. Duty calls. I shall have to put out some fires… er… literally.” Fukuzawa makes his way to the open doors and is about to leave when he adds: “Have a wonderful  night, [name].”

“Good luck,” you laugh. 

He gives you a small wave before disappearing down the hall. 

You turn your attention to Kunikida who is now slightly less red, though still glowing a nice shade of pink. 

“Good evening, Chief Minister. To what do I owe the pleasure?” You ask. 

“I am here to bring you to dinner service. Perhaps you have forgotten? You seem to be engrossed in our literary offerings,” he answers plainly. 

Kunikida stays standing, but has walked further into the room, hands clasped behind him as he studies the books you chose with furrowed eyebrows. 

“I enjoy reading. Is that such a crime?”

“I am only surprised you were able to find this place. After His Majesty banned entry, most just ignore it as they pass by.”

You cock your head to the right. “I was curious about that. Why? It is a beautiful library—a sunlit treasure trove of knowledge. I would imagine most people would be clawing at the doors for just a glance, yet it is as barren and untravelled as the deserts in the West,” you muse.

 Your curiosity is only a mild interest until Kunikida’s gaze sharply turns away from yours, blatantly avoiding your poking and prodding. His averted eyes cause what little inquisitiveness you had just felt to balloon into a wave of eager investigation. 

“Kunikida.”

He adjusts his glasses and nervously glances at his timepiece. “We are going to be late if—”

“Kunikida.”

He sighs, relenting. 

“If nobody uses this place, why is it so well kept? There are no dirt patches or cobwebs, but the dust between pages suggests that no one has opened them for many years. ”

“If I were to make an educated guess…” Kunikida stops for a moment to think. “I would wager that His Majesty misses what it used to be, and is only trying to preserve the last of that magic. Though the memories here are much too vivid and much too painful for him to come back to.”

What it used to be… 

A flicker of something… a fleeting feeling… No. A memory. At the very back of your mind—

“But I do not think he will continue to do so.”

It vanishes, and you fall back to reality, grasping at nothing and nowhere. 

You shake yourself out of your daze, a bit peeved at the interruption, but curious all the same. 

“Do what? Preserve this place? You believe he will let it just… crumble to ruins?”

Kunikida takes a seat and folds his gloved hands together. The lines on his forehead appear as he tenses, preparing his next words with careful precision. He works his jaw, tension releasing and forming with each movement, as if he is warring internally, fighting to either let the words out or keep it in. 

You hope he chooses the former. The more information, the better. 

His expression settles and a stern look replaces his calm visage. Whatever he has to say must be serious.

You catch yourself tapping the side of your thigh anxiously under the table and clamp your fingers down on your leg… hard. Your father did always say that a royal must be poised and perfect, and he made it extremely clear that such emotions were to be erased and forgotten. 

And if they weren’t… 

A chill runs down your spine at the memories.

“I am well aware that you are, and pardon my candor, untrustworthy.”

You almost snort. Not the first time you’ve heard that and it certainly won’t be the last.

Kunikida continues. “But I believe it is only right to tell you as His Majesty’s spouse. King Dazai is… he is…” Kunikida pauses as he fumbles for the right word. 

A clock ticks. Kunikida settles on a phrase. 

“Unwell. A disease of the mind and heart that has stolen his will. He is here only to serve a purpose and that purpose is not to live out the rest of his life. He exists, but for years now he has not been… here. Almost as if one wrong move and the line His Majesty balances upon disappears and takes him with it.”

Time slows. The air thickens. Are you breathing?

“Slowly but surely, he is fading away,” Kunikida pauses and swallows as he tries to work out his next words. 

“Some days I believe he is better. Most days I do not allow myself to indulge in such a lie.”

—

˚ · . tags: @zjarrmiii @aiizenn @emyyy007 @letsliveagaintoday @bejeweledgirl @nat-the-gayass-down-bad-mf

[thegeminisage]

[emerges from 2.25 resolutions panting and covered in blood] it's staaaar trek update time

tuesday we did ds9's "to the death" and, of course, voy's "resolutions." augh

to the death (ds9):

i completely forgot every single thing about this episode due to what came after. hold on a sec while i go skim the transcript

OH YEAH. jem'hadar gateway

i think the premise of this episode is a little faulty. "you have to help us put down these rebel jem'hadar or else they'll get you too" hmm are we sure? are they really just mindless feral beasts who want nothing more than to conquer or should we be thinking with our brains that they're sentient people who desire freedom from their masters? i guess we only use morals when it's convenient lol

also, i get SO TIRED of people calling worf a pussy. and conflating his morals or even having morals at all with BEING a pussy. he's obviously not a pussy and he has proven this in battle and out of battle about 1000000 times on screen by now. give him something else to do, PLEASE

that said, a few decent sisko scenes in this episode. he had to lay down the law a couple of times and also saved that one guy's life

i did also like learning a little more about the jem'hadar, especially re: their lifespans. i hope that one guy really does make honored elder <3

resolutions (voy):

this episode changed my brain chemistry. i have watched it multiple times a day since first viewing. absolutely my favorite voy ep yet. i've been putting off writing this update because i was afraid

firstly, it had a great b-plot. tuvok almost getting mutinied and by HARRY KIM who never gets anything to do? mwah. at first i was disappointed it didn't devolve into actual mutiny, but the more i think about it, the more sense it makes. tuvok isn't stupid, he can sense which way things are headed and he knows capitulation to loyalty, an admirable trait, is desirable over outright chaos. he is also trying to do what janeway wanted for her crew, and janeway herself would likely listen if everyone aboard wanted to do something, even if she had her reservations. that's part of what it means to be captain.

the a-plot..........

AUGH

the. i can't even put into words

he's been in love with her the whole time. like, this is canonically a confession of long-held feelings. that's not left up to interpretation, even if whether or not they fucked is (and they definitely fucked). it makes me want to rewatch so i can decide in my mind palace when exactly this happened for him. HER NEEDS COME FIRST. ANYTHING HE CAN DO TO LIGHTEN HER BURDEN

and she never asked for this kind of devotion. he just wanted to give it to her

that's the fun thing about chakotay. he's so contradictory. the deeper you go, the gentler he becomes. on his outside he's very tough and dangerous, he can and will hit his suboordinates, he will kill people, and then when you strip everything back and get him at his most bare he just wants to build things for his wife and find peace in making her happy

it's also so good for janeway too like...she struggles so hard with staying hopeful, but she's learned to white-knuckle hope so hard as a means of survival that when she's forced to let it go it devastates her. optimism not because she believes in good things but because she will MAKE good things happen and when she can't and they don't, and she doesn't have power or control or even the illusion of those things anymore, that's what gets her

chakotay is fine giving up power and control and living moment-to-moment, but janeway lives looking forward. and in that way they complement each other SO well

i love also that janeway worse so many dresses. it hints to her not being able to be as feminine as she might like to be on the job, because when she unwinds in the holodeck she's also wearing a dress and in this elaborate romance novel where she is in a very womanly role. i loooove that like she's still a woman she's just a professional first. so when she wears a dress it's a vulnerability thing, permission given to see her as human woman, just like when chakotay is gentle with people. because the last person he was gentle and loving to was seska who betrayed him utterly in every possible way. he doesn't let people in but AUGH HE BUILT HER A BATHTUB HE BUILT JANEWAY A BATHTUB VOYAGER WASN'T EVEN OUT OF CONTACT RANGE YET AND HE WAS ALREADY TRYING TO MAKE THINGS BETTER FOR HER GOD KILL ME

ANYWAY. ANYWAY. they're also both normally very serious, largely because of the burdens placed on them by life circumstances, so it was SOOO GOOD to see them gradually become more playful with each other

him holding her while her experiments fell apart. him holding her on the walk back during the storm. their hand touches. the way he touched her hair pre-massage. the hustling outside with the phaser when she called for him. the way he couldn't stop staring at her in the bath towel. it is so. IT IS SO. devotion. borderline worshipful. AUGHGHG

his love language is ACTS OF SERVICE like KILL ME

i can't believe they never touch on this romance ever again. ik he gets with seven eventually, and ik im gonna love her, and im also gonna be into janeway/seven, so why choose?? that said, it shouldn't be this way. it should be janeway chakotay. they are perfect. they shouldn't have had to breakup

anyway shoutout to the four pregnancy fics i've read so far. i can't believe i didn't think of it. chakotay meanwhile already like having pregnancy trauma because of seska. AUGH

lightening her BURDEN brought him PEACE

also lol the way he was like. when he said that bit. yeah this is an ancient legend and then he was just bsing her, he should do that more often. but also AUGH, BECAUSE. THAT MADE IT EASIER. TO SAY

FULL ON. CANON LOVE CONFESSION. AND THEN WE NEVBER MENTION IT AGAIN???????

i have to end this update now before i start screaming.

okay. tonight: ds9's "quickening" and voy's "basics part i" which will both be inerior to "resolutions" forever no matter what amen.

[ui-tenpen-mui-fuhen]

Untraceble (cont.)

part. ii ~ notes / ideas on a working fic. dumping out ideas, mostly processing thoughts and gojo’s feelings in this slow burn. no narrative really. but here i try to guess gojo’s dating life.

He found himself wanting to see you more often.

Now for one, this was a daunting realisation. Second, he wasn’t one for long-term relationships. Flings? One night stands? Sure - he’s had his fair share of those. But none of that honeymooning stuff. The girls realise it sooner or later.

That maybe he just wasn’t boyfriend material. It wasn’t like he was a playboy either (except for that one time), it’s just that the job doesn’t really require for normal relationships to happen. Going home at ungodly hours after fieldwork with his students, fighting special grades, and having to explain himself everytime that -

“No, I am NOT cheating on you!” he yelled in frustration. When would this girl stop being so delusional? Hands on hips and with pouty lips, the girl he was seeing for one month somehow made herself comfortable in his home. He wasn’t sure if he liked that. After all, he thought it was a casual sort of thing, a beck-and-call situation. “If you we’ren’t cheating, why did some girl named Shoko keep sending you her location on DMs and saying you needed to go there now?! At 2am! And at an abandoned hospital? Whoever the fuck this Shoko is, you and HER are fucking sick!”

Shoko laughed at him the next day. “Knowing you, you probably convinced her to have break up sex, am I right or am I right?” taking a drag from her cigarette.

“We did.” he admitted.

“Asshole.” she scoffed, leaning her head back and blowing out a trail of smoke. Sighing she said, “When will you ever learn Gojo?”

And when will he? He doesn’t seem to know when his bachelor days would end. Not that he gave it much thought, anyway. Being the self- and pro-claimed strongest didn’t give for time to rest. He did try dating someone in the jujutsu world before but even that barely ended well (he just wasn’t into the politicking and social hierarchies). If it wasn’t for his clan trying to get him to settle (which meant they wanted to have an heir), then maybe… he won’t be as rebellious.

“Hey, it’s not like I’m a womaniser.” he said, a half-hearted attempt at a defense. Shoko only stared, then suddenly guffawed, and then proceeded to give a list of all the girls he dated since losing his virginity at 18 (because apparently this marked his streak) up until present.

Wow. Shoko knows too much.

So for now, he’s going to keep you under tabs. Not like he was showy with the girls he dated, but he wants it to be a little different this time. He tells Shoko (almost) everything about his dating life, usually because he’s in search of some womanly perspective, but he figures that she may not be the best at giving pointers either.

And for now, he still didn’t know what to make of you yet. But you were cute. Not audaciously flashy like some of the girls who pried for his attention. You were a little silly, which was also adorable. Poking fun at him and calling him “Snow White” and stopping by a bakery and likening him to meringue pies. He didn’t mind, it’s surely been a while since he laughed heartily.

He thinks you’re starting to grow on him, and wishes badly that this wasn’t an investigation.

He chose not to report everything to the higher-ups. After all, they fear people they can’t understand.

Certainly he doesn’t really need to tell them that he’s been extending his break time for those meringue pies and long walks with you? And certainly… you don’t really need to know about what he does, professionally. He’s decided on that.

“Asshole.” he thinks Shoko might say.

[rontra]

who The Fuck is manhunter

god this is such a good question. who the fuck IS manhunter. well okay so let me pose a counter-question. what if women sucked and were not fun to hang out with. do we still support their wrongs?

no okay (visibly trying not to laugh) heres the girlcrush of the day. she's got what ive jokingly called "bull-in-a-china-shop lifestyle". her name is kate she's a famous federal prosecutor who specializes in prosecuting supervillains. and brother she loves pushing for the death penalty. one day when she was pushing so so hard for the death penalty, the jury did not go for it. and she got so so so mad that she decided to go find and kill the guy herself

and she liked it.

so she blackmails some guy in the witness protection program into being her gadget guy & from then on she's the vigilante "manhunter" (yay!) who kills bad guys she thinks deserve it. when she's out there she's basically operating on a completely circular logic that goes like "well if i can't kill this villain here, i'll simply get him the death penalty in court (which i'm very good at), and if that falls through, i'll just go back to Plan A (killing him with my own hands)" and it's like girl i think you just kind of Like Killing. good luck with that

it's like what if batman not only loved killing and jumped directly to it every time, but was also working With & Inside the system at the same time to ensure there is no other way for things to end. that's a weird thing to do, right? girl? this is weird?...

& like MAYBE in 2004 america this setup was written to appeal to a certain type of reader who'd go "yeah girl the System never gives the bad guys what they Deserve lets fucking go #justice" . i couldn't really tell you to be honest (and her murder mettle is proven entirely in scenarios that are like "well maybe she's morally in the clear here because the guy in question is a cartoon snake-man who eats people") (to me personally, on its face, this all reads like the origin story for a supervillain lawyer named Death Row or something. but that's just another part of her womanly charm in my eyes.) what i CAN tell you is that deciding to become a coldblooded premeditated killer in her spare time is Really cutting into both her professional and private life and now her ex-husband is suing for full custody of their son

oh yeah. she has a son and she is like a deadbeat mother she never shows up on time she forgets to pick him up and he hates going to her house when it's her weekend she is NOT doing a good job on this one. figuring out how to actually mom this kid is also kind of a thing for her and she DOES figure it out but i have to tell you. her Divorced Milf Who Totally Sucks appeal. VERY High

man. yeah she's always getting her shit pushed in during fights because She Is Just A Lawyer but she just like Walks it off (girl...). she's addicted to nicotine in a major way. she's cold and cranky and would not be fun to hang out with. she's terrible at banter. she actually sucks to the point it makes me feel Bad for her ex-husband who has to keep hounding her like "don't forget to pick up our SON" it's kind of a feat to be honest. she just sort of is charging blindly into things and wrecking her life because she has a chip on her shoulder and Maybe Enjoys Killing but at least she's also got a certain failgirl swag about it

there is a major theme of like, legacy, but crucially (and most interestingly, imo) most of the time kate is completely ignorant of said legacies existing around her while she's stomping through the porcelain with her hooves until they rear up to bite her directly in the ass, which i enjoy very much. she is very much focused on her own thing and consumed by her own motivations and does not really give a shit about these things and it's a major issue every time. even "manhunter" itself is a name that's been used by multiple dc characters (sometimes simultaneously) (including a whole cult), which suddenly becomes a problem for her when someone starts murdering all the other manhunters until she's the only one left standing. uh oh! i was just doing my own thing and thought the name sounded cool! noooo!

there's also the very pointed matter of her gear which is all "borrowed" from just like. the lockup. (girl...) so she's wearing someone else's suit and someone else's gauntlets and using someone else's weapon (actually one of the previous manhunters! there's that manhunter lineage again!) and while the audience is treated to a whole issue elaborating on the backstories of these things, kate herself is completely unaware and uninterested in the significance and legacy of these hand-me-downs because she picked them out at complete random to go do premeditated killing. it's really underscored in an interesting way how much she just is kind of bulldozing straight through everything--whether it's her own life or her proverbial predecessors--towards her own ends

the whole lineage and legacy thing is something of a Theme i guess. especially when it turns out her own biological father is an absolute sicko with a murder charge and he's on his way right now to bulldoze her life for his own ends. that's funny. maybe she's got that serial killer gene from riverdale,

jokes aside i would give her a 10/10 failwife cringemilf rating, with ample extra points awarded for being divorced, for the broken ribs, and for how much i would hate hanging out with her if she were real. this is a certified manhunter post. i hope you enjoyed it.

(reading manhunter 2004 and shaking my head sternly the whole time but also smiling. so people know i don't support the death penalty but i Do support women's wrongs)

[eternal-echoes]

“Perhaps more than ever, our world is in need of women who can restore an authentic feminism. Early feminists sought to promote equal rights for women. They spread the word that women are capable and competent—able to take care of themselves without needing men to rescue them from poverty and ignorance.

While it's noble to empower women, some within the feminist movement have made women feel less than womanly if they're hoping for a man. Marriage is sometimes viewed as a hindrance to a woman's full potential. An authentic feminism recognizes that marriage is a healthy dream and a noble aspiration. If a woman dreams of being a single professional, God bless her. If she dreams of being married at home with eight kids, God bless her. True feminine liberation is giving her the freedom to choose for herself without looking down upon her goals. Besides, if she's seeking a soulmate, perhaps the two of them would be able to do more for humanity than either of them could have accomplished alone.”

-Crystalina Evert, How to Find Your Soulmate Without Losing Your Soul

[bubbleonice]

Reading for Bill Skarsgard - Ideal type.

Ten of wands:

This is a person who:

Being a martyr.

Unable to say No.

Being task-oriented.

Worrying what other people think of you.

Performance-punishment.

Making other people happy instead of themselves.

Waiting for their big break.

As a personality type this is someone with a creative side who is very talented, but who is also suffering performance punishment. They are so accountable that in both their professional and personal life they end up carrying all the responsibilities. Ten of wands people are often weighted down and sometimes worn out. They believe if they just keep going maybe someone will see how much they are doing and come and help out.

Ten of wands people are the ones that will help everyone but rarely receive any help themselves. They often blame themselves unnecessary and guilt keeps them trapped with all the work and worry. Ten of wands people are often people-pleasers to their own detriment.

While they see themselves as simply being generous, in truth they are just too afraid to address their own needs. As a result they are constantly shouldering other people’s burdens, leaving themselves worn out and neglected.

Queen of pentacles:

For physical characteristics, the Queen of Pentacles has the quinessential female form. She isn't showy or stunning but is typically feminine. So womanly figure, natural look, and carries a certain grace about her. She's not celebrity material but is more the down to earth, honest to goodness appealing if not all that physically attractive. Womanly, natural, down-to-earth. Queen of Pentacles is steady, strong, and wise. She isn't as cunning as the Queen of Swords, as bold as the Queen of Wands, or as intuitive as the Queen of Cups, but she possesses a very ancient and true strength, caring, no-nonsense, gets things done, will rather roll up her own sleeves than ask a man to do something for her. sensual,in-her-body,a natural lover,in tune with nature,healthy,strong,physical,great sense of humour. There's no mystery about her, she's the girl next door.

I hope you enjoy this reading. And please keep in mind that this is done for entertainment purposes only. I use tarotcards and oracle cards actively in my readings, as well as my intuition. Energies come and go, what is relevant for today’s reading might change in a few weeks time. But some aspects will always remain constant and the same. Thank you.❤️

[sl-newsie]

Query: Q x 00 Agent- Ch. 4: Weakness

It’s too quiet. 

Normally I allow the bustling sounds of London to lull me to sleep in my apartment. The unnatural silence makes my thoughts spring to life and I slowly open my eyes. I’m lying in a white room, in a white hospital bed, in white linens, while wearing a white surgical gown. So much white you’d think the place was sculpted from fresh snow.

“Ah, you’re awake.”

The sound of Q’s voice is both startling and assuring, somewhat contradictory. He’s seated in a lounge chair to my right holding a tea mug.

“Earl Gray, I presume?” I rasp in a groggy voice.

“Yes. Sounds like you could use some too.” He picks up an extra mug from the counter and gently hands it to me, which I take with what grateful smile I can muster from my drowsiness.

“Glad to have you back in one piece, though I must say you could’ve done without the theatrics.”

“Bond’s rule of thumb is that you do whatever it takes to make the enemy lower their guard. In my case it’s usually seduction.”

Q’s face twists in a look that’s a mix between confused and disturbed, raising both eyebrows at me. “You kissed him?”

I set my mug down and sit up straighter, flashing him a smirk. “Someone sounds jealous.”

“Not even remotely. You just happen to form a crush on everyone you interact with on missions?”

I let out a dramatic sigh and shake my head. “I will miss that scientist. He was cute.”

“Is he your type?” 

Is this conversation for professional or personal inquiry?

“I wouldn’t know my type.”

This leaves Q looking more puzzled, but he ignores it and pulls out a file from his bag.

“While your mission was a slim success, I must say that there is some bad news. I’m afraid Agent 003 from the Middle East has been eliminated.”

The name makes my thoughts snap. “Jason’s dead?”

Q offers a look of sympathy. “I’m afraid so. Did he mean anything to you?”

I look away and stare off into the annoying white abyss. “He’s not supposed to. No one is. But even I go soft once in a while.”

Now Q stands up, gathers his things, and begins to walk to the door. “I wouldn’t be so soft around M. She’s being held against a rock and a hard place right now because of all this espionage business going on.”

I feel my patience growing thin. “Hey!” Q turns around. “Just because I’m a 00 agent doesn’t mean my womanly instincts turn off. Yes, I care. Should I? Probably not. But I do anyway. So if being human is pathetic to you and any other MI6 member, then so be it!”

Q once again takes my outburst very calmly. “You’ve been under a lot of pressure. For now you should get some rest.”

This only makes me angrier. “Do not mistake my morals for weakness. Not everyone can be as cold and heartless as you.”

“Who says I’m heartless?” Q argues back.

“Um. Excuse me?” Eve knocks on the partly-opened door and gives us each a worried look. “M is asking for you, Q. She also wants to see 0011 once she’s recovered.”

I groan. “How long will that take? I’m not going to spend the next month in recovery, am I?”

“That’s precisely what you’re going to do,” Eve says as Q walks out, still looking cross. “What did you say to piss him off?”

I gawk. “Me? He’s the one saying I’m weak! Just because I have friends he thinks I’m pathetic!”

“You’ll have to excuse him, Levie. The only kind of social activity he’s used to is his job and his cats.”

Another thought pops up. “Oh! Speaking of which-?”

Eve laughs. “Yes, I did feed Cricket while you were out! He misses you.”

“At least someone does.”

“By the way, Bond might stop by for a visit.”

My spirits perk up. “He’s back?” 

“He was able to find the hidden workplace of Silva, one of M’s old agents, who’s being interrogated downstairs.”

“Bond caught the bloke? Good for him. What happens now?”

Eve seems to think something over, then walks over and starts pulling my bed toward the door.

“Wait- What on Earth are you doing?”

She smiles. “You may be in recovery, but that doesn’t mean you can’t be part of the boring stuff. Let’s get you some fresh clothes, and then it’s off to the computer lab!”

She wheels me down the hall to the locker room, where Eve retrieves my personal apparel. Thankfully I left behind some extra workout clothes. After what takes forever, Eve helps me into them and then pushes me into the boring computer lab. Inside we find Q and Bond looking over a large screen.

“Welcome back, Bond. What’s the damage so far?”

The older agent looks me up and down in my weakened state. “The damage we should be discussing is yours. What the Hell happened to you?”

“I had a run-in with a bullet during my mission. Don’t be demeaning, it’s bad enough I’m forced to be bedridden for a month. Just tell me what’s going on so I might help.”

Bond gets an amused smirk and he gives my hand a hearty shake. “Q tells me your mission was a success, despite your injury. Congratulations. Right now we’re decrypting Silva's laptop.”

The screen above keeps flashing new wavy and intricate patterns as Q searches. I feel useless considering that tech is not my strong suit.

“Excuse me for not understanding. I’m just the one who follows orders and does the punching.”

“There’s more to being an agent than punching,” Q mutters.

Then Bond seems to recognize something. “It’s London. A map of London.”

Finally! Something starts to make sense- What the-?

Now all the floor hatches are opening throughout the room, causing Q to get a confused look.

“Wait. Why are the doors opening?”

Bond goes sprinting out of the room, and then Eve leaves me by rushing off to find M. What could possibly- Oh God.

“Q, detach the laptop! Kill the laptop!”

But it’s too late. All around us screens fizzle and erupt with static. Every firewall and security measure put in place is shattered, with Q’s screen displaying the words: ‘Not such a clever boy.’

“Shit. Shit!”

“Language, Quartermaster,” I grunt from my bed, useless to do anything.

“Lecture me about it later, 0011. The whole system’s going through security protocol. He hacked us!”

“Then Silva's going to escape.” I reach over and grab a radio. “Bond, do you read me?”

“He’s gone!” he shouts.

I hand the radio to Q. “Work your magic, Quartermaster.”

He shakes himself out of a trance and nods. “Ok. Ok. Bond? Where are you?” After a second Q gets his answer. “He’s headed downward, towards the train tracks.”

Q sets his jaw straight and rushes over to start looking through the computer. While he’s giving Bond instructions, I grip the counter and start to pull myself across the room.

“Careful. There’s a train coming,” I hear Q say.

What is it with Bond and bloody trains? I’m almost to the end of the computer lab-

“Where do you think you’re going?” Q asks behind me.

“Going to help.”

“In your condition? You won’t make it to the elevator.”

“Rather try than just sit here and do nothing- Ugh.” I let go of the railing, starting to feel dizzy again.

I hear Q step behind me and then feel his lanky arms lay me back down in the bed.

“You haven’t made up for your blood loss. You need to rest. Bond can do it himself.”

“I’ll rest when we don’t have an act of espionage infiltrating our government…” I start to black out.

“Now’s not the time to be reckless,” Q argues.

“Can’t help it. You’re just too enticing not to.”

He lets out a laugh. “Ok, you’re clearly delusional. Here, breathe this. It will make you sleep."

I feel something being pressed to my nose. “I don’t want to sleep-”

“Breathe this now or I will straddle you, hold you down, and knock you out myself!”

Who knew? Q is actually dominating.

“Hm. That last option seems tempting. Fine, I’ll do it.”

It doesn’t take long for the sleeping drug to kick in, and soon my mind melts into black nothingness. It’s like I’m falling, falling in an eternal abyss with specs of light flying past me. I’m just disappointed I unable to help stop that creep…