#honestly they’re a minefield

[rustbeltjessie]

I found this—a bio from my LiveJournal profile, c. late 2003–while looking through some old files on my computer, searching for something else. I normally save this type of content for my side blog but I had to share this one here because it’s such a perfect summation of who I was (or at least what my persona was) at the time.

And to be honest? Other than the fact that I no longer exclusively use she/her pronouns, and no longer have enough confidence to say I have ruthless sex appeal? …Not much has changed.

[brunchable]

Super Uncle Bucky || Bucky Barnes x f!reader

Pairings: Uncle Bucky Barnes x Auntie reader.

Themes: Chaotic humor, Babysitter Bucky

Summary: Bucky, out of his element, struggles to handle three mischievous kids who put him through a chaotic tea party, leaving him covered in stickers and glitter as you laugh and document his defeat.

A/N: You guys are just eating up my Bucky oneshots with kids so here's another one.

"Yup, that’s me. You’re probably wondering how I ended up in this situation. . ."

Bucky stood in the middle of the living room, his once immaculate hair now a wild mess of tangled locks. His shirt was soaked, clinging uncomfortably to his skin, while toy cars, Legos, and what appeared to be mashed-up cookie crumbs surrounded his feet. His metal arm gleamed brightly in the overhead lights, decorated with an assortment of glittery stickers — unicorns, dinosaurs, and rainbows — courtesy of the tiny hands that had attacked him earlier.

A cacophony of laughter and squeals filled the room as three tiny terrors, dressed in various superhero costumes, ran around him in circles. Bucky’s gaze shifted from one child to the next, his brow furrowed as if he was assessing a battlefield — and, honestly, this might be more dangerous than any fight he’d faced.

One of the kids, Chloe, with braids and sparkling blue eyes, clambered up onto the couch, raising her arms in victory like she’d just conquered Everest. 

“You can’t escape, Uncle Bucky!” she declared proudly, giggling uncontrollably as Bucky tried to carefully pick his way through the minefield of toys.

Another child, Chase, with a Captain America shield as big as he was, lunged at Bucky’s leg. 

“Gotcha! You’re under arrest for being grumpy!” he shouted, his voice filled with the determination only a five-year-old could muster.

Bucky sighed deeply, glancing at the living room monitor cam with a look that screamed, Send help.

— Two Hours Earlier —

“Are you sure you’ll be okay?” you asked, hovering by the front door with an amused smile tugging at your lips. “I can always call Nat—”

“I’m fine,” Bucky grumbled, rolling his eyes. “I’ve faced HYDRA agents, alien invasions, and Steve’s 1940s music tastes. I think I can handle a few kids.”

“Three kids,” you corrected with a grin. “Under the age of six. And they all think you’re ‘Super Uncle Bucky.’”

He smirked, crossing his arms confidently. “Piece of cake.”

With a lingering, somewhat skeptical glance, you blew him a kiss and slipped out the door, promising to be back in a couple of hours. Bucky watched you leave, his smile fading slightly as a sudden sense of unease crept up his spine.

“They’re just kids,” he muttered to himself. “How bad can it be?”

He turned around—three sets of wide eyes stared up at him, glinting with mischief. The youngest, Charlie, barely two years old, clutched a half-eaten cookie, crumbs tumbling down his chubby cheeks.

“Are you gonna fight monsters with us, Uncle Bucky? OH! Can I make your left arm look pretty?” Chloe asked sweetly, holding up a toy sword.

Bucky blinked, glancing at the sword, the cookie, and the Captain America shield in the Chase's hands.

“Uh...”

“Roar!” Charlie suddenly screeched, charging at his leg.

“Or... tea party?” Chloe suggested, a sparkly tiara slipping over her eyes.

Bucky let out a breath. “Yeah, sure. Tea party sounds—"

Chase threw his shield at Bucky's head with surprising force. “I wanna fight!”

“Tea party!” Chloe insisted.

“Bear hug!” Charlie latched onto Bucky’s leg like a tiny Hulk.

Oh boy.

— Present —

One of the children tugged on his pants, drawing his attention. Bucky looked down to see the youngest of the group — a chubby-cheeked little boy with a tuft of dark hair and bright green eyes, holding up a stuffed bear.

“Bucky bear!” he squealed, thrusting the toy up at Bucky’s face. “Hug!”

“Right, yeah, of course,” Bucky said, gingerly accepting the plush bear and giving it an awkward pat on the head. The boy beamed up at him, seemingly satisfied with Bucky’s less-than-stellar performance.

“Uncle Bucky!” Chloe on the couch shouted, bouncing excitedly. “Can we play tea party now?”

“Uh��” Bucky hesitated, looking around the chaos of the room. “Tea party sounds…calm?”

“Yeah, yeah! But you gotta dress up!” she insisted, hopping off the couch and rummaging through a pink box that looked suspiciously like it belonged in your closet. She pulled out a lacy bonnet and shoved it in Bucky’s direction. “Put this on.”

Before Bucky could even think to protest, the other two kids joined in, eagerly shoving various frilly and sparkly accessories at him. With a resigned sigh, Bucky crouched down, letting the kids pile hats, scarves, and bracelets onto him until he looked like a very unfortunate cross between a Victorian-era duchess and a Mardi Gras parade float.

“Uncle Bucky is so pretty!” Chase declared, clapping his hands in delight.

Bucky glanced at his reflection in the living room mirror, nearly did a double-take, and then grimaced. He looked like a walking nightmare in pink.

Maybe the super-soldier serum could help me survive this, he thought wryly.

“Okay, tea party it is,” he muttered, his dignity hanging by a very thin thread.

— Thirty Minutes Later —

Bucky sat crammed into a child-sized plastic chair, his knees nearly touching his chest, as he held a tiny teacup between his fingers. The kids sat around him in a semi-circle, their eyes bright with excitement.

“Would you like some more tea, Your Highness?” Chloe asked in her best impression of a British accent.

“Yes, thank you,” Bucky said solemnly, holding out his teacup. Chase with the Captain America shield delicately poured imaginary tea from an empty plastic teapot, his face set in serious concentration.

“You know,” Bucky mused, taking a pretend sip, “you kids aren’t so bad.”

That’s when the tea toy kettle started “whistling.”

Confused, Bucky turned his head — and was promptly doused with water as one of the boys squeezed the kettle’s handle, a gleeful grin on his face.

Bucky sputtered, wiping water off his face, and the room fell silent. Three pairs of wide, innocent eyes stared up at him, waiting to see how he would react.

A slow smile spread across his face.

“Oh, you little punks are so going down.”

What followed was a blur of tickle attacks, high-pitched giggles, and Bucky chasing the kids around the room with his “super-speed” (read: exaggerated slow-motion running while the kids darted around him like over-caffeinated squirrels). By the time you returned, Bucky was pinned to the ground by three wriggling bodies, all of them shrieking with laughter.

You leaned against the doorway, raising an eyebrow, trying — and failing — to suppress a grin. “Having fun?”

Bucky looked up at you, his hair sticking up in wild tufts, his face smeared with cookie crumbs, his shirt a sticky mess of juice stains, and his metal arm glinting with a rainbow of unicorn stickers. To top it all off, a frilly pink bonnet sat crookedly on his head, held in place by a giant bow under his chin.

“Oh, you know,” he drawled, deadpan. “Just living the dream.”

You snorted, eyes gleaming with mischief. “You look like you’ve been to war.”

“Worse.” He held up his hands in mock surrender, showing off chipped, glittery nail polish on his fingers. “I’ve been to a tea party.”

You burst into laughter, doubling over as the kids cheered triumphantly. “I’m getting the camera. No way we’re not documenting this.”

“Wait, no—” Bucky tried to stand up, but a small hand grabbed his bonnet’s bow, yanking him back down with surprising force.

“No escape, Uncle Bucky!” Chloe squealed, and the other two chanted, “More tea! More tea!”

Bucky slumped in defeat, sending you a pleading look.

But you were already gone, the sound of your laughter echoing down the hall.

He sighed deeply, glancing at the trio of tiny humans who had somehow become his overlords. Chloe climbed onto his back, using him like a jungle gym. “Uncle Bucky, it’s time for the royal dance now!”

Chase picked up a feathered boa and tossed it around Bucky’s shoulders. “And you have to wear this!”

Bucky sighed, closing his eyes in resignation. “Yeah… maybe I did have it easier fighting HYDRA.”

[maxdibert]

I also think that many of the people who hate Snape, are hardcore Snaters, and are in the Marauders fandom are kids? Like, literally, it’s like walking through a minefield dodging underage people who explode every two seconds, and it turns out they’re not even 18 yet. I mean, in that case, it doesn’t surprise me that they see Severus as a horrible or evil adult because, at that age, anyone over 25 seems ancient to them.

I think about Severus being 31 at the start of the series, and now that I’m 28, I’m like, how can we say anything about him? He was practically still a kid! Like, an adult? Who’s really an adult at 30? No, please! I still don’t even know how to file my taxes properly, and I cry when I mess up using the washing machine, and you’re expecting a character three years older than me to have full mental maturity? What do you think your thirties are? Your fifties?

Honestly, one day you’ll be over 25, and your life will be a mess, with no future prospects, stuck in mediocre jobs that don’t cover a mortgage, with more responsibilities than actual life, and you’ll understand Severus Snape better. I have no proof, but I have no doubts either. He’s not a character meant for kids to like; he’s a character meant to make adults feel understood.

[love-that-we-were-in]

the harder the pain, the sweeter the sun

the aftermath of Luke's quest. or the consequences of not being a hero.

a/n: hello i didn't mean to be so sad on my entrance but we move! have fun (i'm so sorry)

It shouldn’t be like this, he thinks as he steps back across Camp Half-Bloods borders. There’s still the same mill of activity, archery and pegasi and swords grating against one another. Everything is exactly as it was when he left. Some people notice him as he makes his way towards his cabin - they don’t make small talk, what’s the point of that when he’s not the hero returned. His scar, still fresh, still raised and red across his face, feels heavy. It’s almost a beacon; a guiding light towards his failure. No one comments but he can feel it, the shift in energy as he walks past each cabin. Pity for the son of Hermes. 

His bunk is untouched. 

Collapsing onto the sheets, he glances around the space. It’s only him here, faced with his own reckoning and renown. His bunk is untouched but there’s two abandoned opposite, a careful stack of belongings at the end of each. Before dinner, he’ll change those sheets. He’ll pack Cora and Eric’s belongings into a box to stow away in the big house, amongst a dozen others he’s left there over the years, and he’ll burn shrouds to them with his campmates in the evening. 

Luke wonders, as he takes in the makeshift beds on the floor, if it was even worth coming back at all. 

Everyone moves on. Within days, there’s barely a mention of either of his quest companions. Both of them were unclaimed, watching their lives tick by in the two years he’d known them with little idea of who they were. The Stoll twins were given their beds upon their arrival at camp two days after he returned. They had been claimed, sent in the right direction by Hermes himself, and Luke despises the way he has to sit down with people he’s known for years and tell them they’re back to sleeping on the floor. Seniority is one thing - being claimed is more important. 

He trains. It’s the only thing he can do. There’s no pride that comes with failure. Some of the Ares kids jeer at him but none of them try to fight him, just watch as he fights with Annabeth like old times. Knife against sword. He trains and he studies and he watches as the floor of Hermes cabin becomes a minefield of belongings as summer peaks. 

Little will change between now and fall, he knows that with certainty. He’ll still be stuck burning food for his father, willing something to happen that will earn him a deserved quest. Maybe it’s foolish, this desire to try again, to keep going on quests until he returns from one he can say was his. Not a feat of Hercules, but a tale of Luke. He has camp glory, he needs more than that.

*

Summer ends, as it always did. He says goodbye to more cabinmates than anyone, standing at the edge of the borders until the sun is nearly setting in the sky. Thalia’s tree is behind him as the last kid leaves, an eleven year old girl that had done nothing more than stare with wide eyes every time he lifted a sword. He wonders if he’ll see her next June at all. 

“Back to basics again,” Annabeth says from behind him and he rolls his eyes as she shimmers into existence, baseball cap in hand. “Do you think it’ll get easier?”

He forgets sometimes that she’s still a kid. Wise beyond her years, a strategist to be admired, but just a kid. And a first time cabin counselor. She hasn’t said goodbyes like this before, to everyone she’s housed over three months. Teenagers that had looked to her as their leader, even if they didn’t understand her being given such power. Children who revered her position and her history as if she were a Greek tale herself.

Luke had understood it, had fought for it in April when Kieran Ho had sent word to Chiron that he wouldn’t be returning that summer. She had seemed so prepared to take on the role. He hadn’t realized that it might take more of an emotional toll than she was ready for. 

“Honestly,” he leans back against Thalia’s tree, surveying the camp below them as if he’s never seen it before. Annabeth glares at him for it. “It gets harder every year. It doesn’t end.”

“Some of those kids aren’t coming back.” Annabeth says it as a statement, a fact of life that they’ve both come to terms with. But there’s a shake to her voice, the kind saved only for when she’s terrified of being wrong, so he lets it linger in the air and get carried away. He thinks that’s answer enough. 

*

Winter Solstice comes and he feels ready. Months of only fighting Clarisse and Annabeth. Meals spent with the busiest table still, but with nothing to talk about. So long dedicated to being angry, to dreaming, to waking up in a cold sweat from everything he’s been given permission to see. 

He steals the bolt. It’s a simple plan, one he doubted originally, but it works a charm. There’s no questioning how important the Gods think of themselves anymore, how above everybody else they view themselves (literally and figuratively) to be. He escapes from floor 600 of the Empire State Building with the source of Zeus’ power in his possession and no one bats an eye. 

Annabeth will never have to come to terms with losing campers. Thalia’s sacrifice won’t be in vain the way it has been since his return. Hermes won’t be able to ignore him any longer, pretending as if being a glorified mailman means more than his son. By next summer, the world will already have begun to change. 

Trekking through Manhattan, he understands now why he was destined to fail against Ladon. What his scar will come to represent in years to come. Luke Castellan was never meant to steal an apple - he was destined, instead, to change history and with that, the world.

[charincharge]

I Don't Want To Wait, sixy-nine

AN: I’ve been waiting literal years to get to chapter 69, but alas. It didn’t work out the way I wanted it to. In fact, I think this chap is going to be split in two. Hopefully the second half will be up by the end of the weekend. Please enjoy and lmk via comment or reblog if you’re still out there.

Aelin leaned her head back into the seat rest and let the wind whip through her long hair, her stress melting away with each mile they drove away from Orynth. In the aftermath of the Evalin debacle, she was more than ready for a full week of nothing resembling schoolwork or stress whatsoever. Nothing but relaxation, sunshine, and sex. She’d even made a special trip to the mall with Manon and Elide to purchase a few new nightgowns for the occasion. And she could not wait to show them off. And honestly, she couldn’t wait to have sex in a real bed. Her knees were totally bruised and red from the back seat of the Jeep. She sighed happily, imagining the week-full of scantily clad moments and couldn’t help but look over at Rowan, who was hyper focused as he made his way through the winding highways at the base of the Terrasen mountains.

She took a moment to truly ogle him. The flex of his forearm as he made his way meticulously around every curve. His furrowed brow and his recently cropped hair showing off the thick column of his throat. One of his teeth peeked from between his pillowy lips, gnawing on the skin there, completely oblivious to Aelin’s lusting.

“Aelin, look away from your boyfriend before he crashes the car,” Lysandra laughed from the backseat, causing Aedion to snort loudly beside her. “Could you be any hornier? Gods.”

“Yes,” Rowan smirked, still not taking his eyes off the road ahead of him. Okay, so maybe not completely oblivious. “You sure your parents won’t care that we’re spending the week at their beach house?” Rowan asked Lysandra for approximately hundredth time since she’d pitched the idea the week earlier.

“They’re on a luxury cruise on the coast of the Southern continent for the rest of the month,” she replied, giving her same answer no matter how many times he asked for reassurance.

The plan had come together fairly last minute, not that Aelin was complaining. She’d anticipated her spring break being a boring (but still delightful) affair of vegging out in front of the television, but this was going to be a whole lot better. Obviously, spring break was a minefield of substance use (and abuse), and Lysandra had pitched the idea of a sober week at her parents’ completely empty beachside mansion. Aelin could tell that Lysandra was feeling genuinely nervous about the prospect of being alone, and Aelin was happy to gather a group of people, who would enjoy a week of sobriety. Manon and Elide had jumped at the opportunity to be unsupervised for a week, while Dorian had pratically thrown himself across the table asking to join. (Apparently his dad had been more annoying than usual as he waited for college apps to roll in). And though Aelin had anticipated Chaol not wanting to participate, given whatever weirdness was going on with him and Dorian, he also seemed exciting to come.

What Aelin hadn’t anticipated, though, was her cousin’s presence. He was waiting at Lysandra’s, suitcase in hand, as Rowan and Aelin swung by earlier this morning. He’d waved her raised brow off with a loud, “Let’s get this sober party started!” And that was, apparently that.

She looked behind her at the pair, wondering what was actually going on between them. Despite the absence of any kind of drugs or alcohol, Aelin had a distinct feeling this week was going to be a wild one.

. . .

The house was… incredible. She’d seen pictures of it before, but Lysandra’s family used it primarily as an event space, renting it out during the summer months. It was still slightly too chilly to utilize the beach, so it sat, dark and empty. But, just stepping into the brightly lit foyer, Aelin felt lighter than air.

“You and Rowan are in the master on the fourth floor,” Lysandra said, pointing to the staircase.

“Really?”

“Aedion requested that you both be out of earshot from him,” she said with a teasing smile.

“And where is my dear cousin going to be sleeping?” Aelin asked, curiosity peaking.

Lysandra rolled her eyes, and Aelin didn’t fail to notice that wasn’t an answer.

“Manon and Elide are stopping for takeout, so text them with your order ASAP,” she said instead.

Aelin was going to push further, but Rowan came sweeping in beside her, their suitcases in hand, and starting running up the stairs.

“Race ya!”

“That’s cheating!”

Aelin tripped over her own sneakers trying to get ahead of him, but the man was built like a tree trunk, and no matter how many times she tried to snake around him, he blocked her again and again.

Finally, as they rounded the corner to master suite, Aelin was able to pull ahead. And the sight that awaited her was even better than she could have imagined.

Squealing, she took off in a run before falling back, full body flopping and bouncing onto the

king-sized bed, which took up the center of the room. She sighed happily as she stared up at the billowy canopy above her, the smell of beachside breeze surrounding her as Rowan cracked open their giant bay window. Behind a set of gauzy curtains was a private balcony, overlooking the beach and the ocean beyond it, and Aelin felt like royalty with how good everything felt. She could get used to this.

With a wide smile, Rowan came and flopped next to her, both of them bouncing in tandem off the mattress and crashing down into each other in a breathless pile of limbs.

“Hi,” Rowan said, curling his body towards hers, his green eyes dark as his hand ran its way under the hem of her shirt. She inched forward in return, leaning into the pads of his fingers as they circled the skin of her back.

“Hi.”

Her voice sounded breathless to her own ears. Although, that could be due to the fact that they’d just sprinted up four flights of stairs.

“Dinner! Text.” Lys shouted up the stairs, breaking the spell between them momentarily. She jotted off a quick text, then resumed her position staring at Rowan. Gods, he was so beautiful. And she was so lucky to have him. His fingers never ceased their movement, delicately running up and down the curve of her side, as his face relaxed into a contended smile. She briefly had the urge to pull her journal from her backpack and record this moment, this prolonged moment of touching between them, as she had before they’d admitted their feelings for each other. The shadow of a past that she barely knew anymore.

She’d brought the journal in hopes that she’d be able to write out any of her feelings regarding her murky future, but with Rowan’s face merely inches away, it all seemed so clear. She’d only ever need him. Unable to resist the pull between them for a second longer, she tugged the collar of his shirt toward her and pressed her lips to his in a soft kiss.

He mumbled something against her mouth, but she was too blissed out to really hear his words.

“Shouldn’t we go downstairs,” he laughed, as she trailed kisses down his throat. “Help Lys unpack the groceries and games and stuff?”

“Mmm, no,” Aelin said, rolling her boyfriend to his back and lifting up his shirt to scatter soft kisses against his abs. She loved the way they clenched beneath her touch. It made her feel so powerful. Rowan snorted loudly, but it morphed quickly into a groan as she fiddled with the waistband of his pants.

“Ace,” he attempted to admonish her. “Friends. Downstairs.”

“Guess we’ll just have to be quiet.”

He flopped back onto the fluffy white comforter with a muffled groan as Aelin tugged on his pants. And as she started to move over him, she errantly thought she should have texted her friends that they would be late to dinner and not to wait for them.

. . .

They were indeed late for dinner. But no one minded. The table was filled with chatter between their friends, who barely spared the freshly showered pair a glance as they walked in. They table was mid-card game already, and Aelin laughed loudly as she figured out they were playing an extremely intense game of Go Fish between bites of their seafood feast.

“Go. Fish,” Aedion said confidently, causing Dorian’s blue eyes to narrow with irritation.

“If you have a three you have to give it to me,” Dorian insisted, causing Aedion to smirk back.

“I know how to play the game, pretty boy.”

“You think I’m pretty?”

A matching smirk appeared on Dorian’s face, and the sudden moment of silence was so charged that Aelin felt herself warm slightly. Looking around the table, she knew she was not the only one who noticed. The tension coming from both Lysandra and Chaol’s tight smiles was palpable.

Well, that was certainly an interesting development.

“Dorian, do you have any fives?” Manon cut in, apparently observing the same situation that Aelin had.

The spark died quickly as the game progressed, but it didn’t escape Aelin’s attention that Chaol’s eyes flicked between Aedion and Dorian a few dozen times. He’d insisted they were fine and that the moment they spent as more than friends was just a blip in the past, but given his furrowed brow and tipped frown, Aelin had a feeling that wasn’t exactly true. Poor Chaol.

The rest of the night followed without incident — they received a full house tour from Lysandra, who showed them how to use the highly complicated smart house settings, which included internet, lights, the thermostat and auto-timed blackout shades. She also led them out to the deck and taught them how to turn on the hot tub, as well as the outdoor lights and music system. After she taught them how to turn on the projector in the theater room, and where everything had been put away in the kitchen, they decided they deserved an evening of rest. They all gathered on the family room the couch to eat copious amounts of candy and popcorn and watch a horror comedy that Aedion had picked. Aelin was glad she and Rowan had gotten in some alone time earlier, because somewhere toward the middle of the movie, she could feel her eyes getting heavy with sleep.

“You okay?” she could hear Rowan ask somewhere just out of reach of the depths of her exhaustion.

She mumbled a soft, “I’m asleep,” as she flopped harder onto his chest, and she could feel the rumble of his laughter beneath her cheek as he stroked her hair, and that was all she remembered.

She didn’t wake until hours later when the first hints of buttery sunlight peaked through the curtains of their master suite. Based on Rowan’s soft and steady breath beside her, she knew it must be really early, and a quick glance at the clock told her it wasn’t even six yet. Despite not being a morning person at all, she felt invigorated and inspired. She crept quietly out of bed, throwing on a pair of sweats and grabbing her journal before heading downstairs.

The delicious aroma of coffee awaited her downstairs, a full pot already brewed from the fancy machine Lysandra had taught them how to use last night in their detailed house tour. She looked around to see who else was awake, but the kitchen was completely empty. Instead of doing further inspection, she poured a hefty amount of hazelnut creamer into her coffee and grabbed a blanket from the stack on the end of the couch to wrap around her shoulders before making her way onto the deck.

The sun was just starting to peak over the horizon when she settled in at the outdoor table with her coffee. Awash in the beauty of the blue waves softly lapping at the shore of the beach, contrasting with the deep purple and pink sky first tinged with the first rays of the firey red-orange sun, Aelin felt like she could finally breathe for the first time in a long time.

Her worn journal was battered and bruised, and she regretted that it had been ignored in the recent months, in favor of her color-coded planner. It was her dad who’d reminded her of its existence, wondering if she wouldn’t feel better if she put pen to paper about how she was feeling. And though she wasn’t exactly sure what was going to come out, she placed her pen against a fresh page and took off. As the words formed in her messy sloping print, she found herself writing about the moment itself. She wanted to remember this sky, the way the sunlight spilled over the darkness like a molten lava, lighting up the horizon like a fire, starting deep glowing red, then turning a burning orange, until it became unmistakably golden.

She didn’t know how long she’d been writing for when the seats next to her started to fill up with her friends, but the sun was firmly fixed in the sky, daylight pouring over the wide expanse of sand and glistening atop the ocean’s placid undulations. She shut her journal and reached for her coffee mug, which had been freshly filled and was steaming again. Her glance drifted next to her where Rowan lifted his own mug, which read “World’s Best Granddad” in a scrawling script, in an air cheers, and they both smiled as they took a sip in unison.  

“So, what’s on the agenda today, Miss Lys?” Aedion asked, clapping his hand loudly on her shoulder.

Lys glanced up at him with a beaming smile. “Glad you asked.”

Lysandra had put in more prep than Aelin had even anticipated, making sure that they had multiple activity options for each day they spend there. Aelin had known Lysandra was nervous about this week, but she hadn’t realized exactly how nervous until she saw Lys’s list for potential activities and which weather they’d be best for.

Since the weather was abnormally warm for this time of year, they decided to take advantage of the sunshine and explore the local town. It was a short walk from the house, and though it was pretty much just two streets of “downtown,” it was fun to look into each of the darkened windows, seeing where tourists would line up to indulge in artisan fudge and hand crafted beach bags, decadent scoops of ice cream, and kitschy beachwear as soon as summer came around.  

“Sup, buttmunch?” Aedion swung a large arm around Aelin’s shoulders as they ambled down the main street.

Aelin’s instinct was to shrink out of her cousin’s arms and tell him to fuck off, but he had the distinct privilege of catching her in a moment where she was trying to relish the moment. She remembered how hard it sucked when he went away to college, how far away he felt, and couldn’t resist leaning into his grasp. It only caused him confusion.

“You good?”

Aelin nodded. But Aedion knew her too well.

“I heard about your mom.”

Well, that caught Aelin’s attention.

“What? How?”

He nodded toward Lysandra. “Don’t be mad if she wasn’t supposed to tell. She was just… worried. If anyone knows about parental issues…”

Aelin shrugged. “I’m okay.” But Aedion wasn’t satisfied with that answer and proceeded to pinch her side. “OW!”

She must have reacted too exuberantly because before she could say anything, Rowan was there, hovering and worrying and asking Aedion what was going on.

“I’m fine, buzzard,” she laughed, shooing him away.

“Sorry I upset your bodyguard,” Aedion chuckled. And it felt so natural to just be with him that she almost cried. She thought about the way their relationship had ebbed and flowed in the last two years, and she regretted… a lot. She loved Aedion. And cutting him out was one of the worst things she’d done in a long list of mistakes.

“He’s fine. And so am I,” Aelin reassured her cousin, who was still peering at her with the eyes she saw in the mirror every day. Damn, it was so hard to lie to him. “Or, I will be.” She took a deep breath. “I’m just looking forward to a week with no drama.”

At that, Aedion snorted loudly.

“I’m sorry, you gathered a group of stressed out couples and almost couples and former couples and expected them not to bring you drama?” he asked, eyes sparkling.

Aelin’s jaw dropped. “And which one are you?”

“I don’t believe in labels,” he replied, puffing out his chest. But his posturing was short-lived as he lowered his voice. “Dorian is… nice.”

“I KNEW IT!” Aelin hissed.

“Shush,” he chastised her, pulling her closer.

“But what about Lys?” she asked.

And she saw the way Aedion’s eyes glazed over with concern as he sought out the brunette in front of them. “She’s an incredible human, and I like her a lot.” He paused. “Maybe more than I should.” He sighed as he looked down at Aelin again. “She’s strong as hell, and she’d straight up die for anyone she cares about. It reminds me a lot of someone else I know…” He chuckled. “But, she’s not allowed to date for at least another six months, according to her sobriety rules. And she said she’ll probably follow it for longer, given how fucked up her last relationship was. And, she’s straight up told me that. And I have to respect that. So, yeah, I’m looking elsewhere.” He paused, his eyes sliding to Dorian’s swaying hips a few feet in front of them. “And elsewhere is cute.”

Aelin rolled her eyes. “Yeah, and elsewhere has a former-almost relationship sleeping next door to him.”

“I know,” Aedion laughed. “Which is why I think you should be prepared for drama,” he said, tickling her side. “I know you can’t possssibly understand because you’re in the most incredible amazing relationship ever, but…”

“You talking about my butt?” Dorian quipped, winking over his shoulder, and Aedion’s cheeks had the audacity to turn pink.

Aelin didn’t think she’d ever seen him blush before, and she couldn’t believe the shade of scarlet he turned at Dorian’s attention. Which… was worrisome, given Chaol and Lysandra’s sudden tension in their posture. Drama. Oh dear. Perhaps Aedion was right. Aelin considered herself warned.

. . .

When they got back to the house, everyone was ordered to leave the kitchen. Manon and Chaol (of all people!) had decided to cook everyone a gourmet dinner. Unbeknownst to anyone, Chaol had pursued an interest in the culinary arts and he was enamored by the technology available to him in Lysandra’s parents’ kitchen. And apparently Manon was an excellent chef, according to Elide, who had enjoyed many meals via her girlfriends’ talents. As they had walked by a local grocery, they’d picked up all the ingredients they needed for the most delicious dinner ever. They spent their time walking through the aisles, deciding what to prepare and landed on a multi-course meal that would knock everyone’s socks off. Apparently last night’s takeout was… fine, but they wanted something more elevated. Just from overhearing their planning, Aelin had deduced dinner would consist of several different salads, seared scallops, a complicated steak dish, and a dessert that Aelin would be dreaming about for hours. She thought perhaps they had watched too much Top Chef, but who was she to complain about receiving the fruits of their labor?

Since the group had hours to kill and the sun was starting to sink into the horizon and leave the house shrouded in dark shadow, Lys suggested that they start up the hot tub while Manon and Chaol manned the kitchen. Elide and Chaol had offered themselves up as sous chefs to help with any prep, but they were rejected, leaving them to join the hot tub crew. Aelin felt absolutely great about that. And as soon as she put on her bikini, so did Rowan. His hands wrapped around her waist, pulling her close and nuzzling his face into her neck. “Mmm, you smell so good,” he moaned, and Aelin couldn’t resist smiling widely as she remembered the multiple nightgowns she’d brought and hadn’t taken out yet. Rowan would be dying. And they’d be putting this master bed with its fluffy mattress and even fluffier comforter to good use. She’d specifically bought a few sexy nightgowns in colors she knew he would love – gold, green, and red. But she was careful to push them to the bottom of the suitcase and out of Rowan’s view. After arranging the clothes just so, so everything was out of sight, she placed her her journal on top to and pulled her bathing suit out.

He was already clad in low-slung shorts, which highlighted his abs in an obscene way, and she contemplated saying fuck it to the hot tub and just pulling him into bed right in that very moment, but she also knew that she should be social and that this was not just a sexcation for her and her boyfriend. When she looked at the wide expanse of his chest and thick roped arms that was hard to remember. So she pulled him out of the room quickly, not wanting to tempt herself more than she needed.

In the hot tub, Lys and Aedion were already stewing in the steamy water, seltzers in hand as they tried to control their temperature. Aelin stepped in and let the lapping bubbles overtake her, sliding onto a seat that was right next to a pulsing jet. She couldn’t help but moan, causing all the eyes in the hot tub to slide to her.

“Sorry,” she apologized, causing a round of laughter to take off.

Dorian and Elide slinked in shortly after, and even though Aelin was leaning hard into Rowan’s side, she kept an eye on Aedion and Dorian and Lys, wondering exactly what was going on between all of them at every moment. Rowan definitely noticed at one point, elbowing her side, but she ignored him.

“Ugh, I’m overheated,” Rowan complained about thirty minutes into their soak.

“Really? I’m perfect,” Aelin replied, causing everyone to laugh.

Rowan shook his head, laughing at his girlfriend. “I’m gonna take a cold shower and then I’ll be back,” he assured her, leaving her with a solid kiss that left Aelin breathless.

“Y’all are as disgusting as ever,” Aedion said, causing Dorian to snort loudly.

“That’s nothing,” he added. “Wait until you see them in the minutes before they head to their not-so-secret parking lot spot to fuck.”

Aelin’s cheek’s filled with blood at his words, but she wasn’t ashamed. “Whatever,” she laughed off.

Even Elide joined in the razzing, making Aelin realize that maybe she and Rowan were more obvious than they let on. She was so busy laughing that she barely realized that Rowan hadn’t rejoined them until everyone was getting out of the tub an hour later.

As she walked through the kitchen, she sniffed in the incredible aromas and told Manon that she was looking forward to dinner, to which her friend simply replied, “You better be.”

Dripping slightly, she skipped up the stairs to the master bedroom. Rowan was laid out on the bed, his eyes closed, and Aelin assumed that he was simply exhausted, and walked herself straight into the shower. She showered the chlorine out of her hair and took extra time to shave her legs all the way up to her hips, making sure that she was feeling good and confident about being alone with Rowan tonight.

But when she made her way out to the bedroom, Rowan was staring at her with such vitriol that she was taken aback.

“Uh, hi?” she asked, and he simply scoffed.

“Hi.” She wrapped the towel tighter around her chest and looked at him for real. He did not look happy. His frown tugged down exaggeratedly and his brow was crinkled with stress lines.

“You okay?” she asked, even though the answer was an obvious no.

“Just wondering why you’re with me if you think I’m inconsiderate and emotionally stunted,” he said super casually, as if he hadn’t said something completely insane.

“What?”

He reached for her journal, which she hadn’t even realized was in his grasp, and held it in front of them.

“Apparently you think I’m selfish and horrible and completely unworthy of your attention, so I guess I’m not so sure of what you’re doing with me.”

Aelin was aghast.

“You read my journal?”

He scoffed, as if he hadn’t done anything wrong. “Well, it was out there for anyone to see. I barely had to flip through it to see all the shit you wrote about me,” he said, annoyed as ever. But all it did was spur Aelin’s anger. How…dare he?

She snatched the journal from his hands and clutched it to her still damp chest.

“You’re not even denying it. You read my journal.”

He stuck his nose into the air, not denying a thing, and Aelin’s heart panged with a hurt so large she thought maybe she was having a heart attack.

“That wasn’t okay, Ro.”

“Obviously,” he quipped. “This is where you write how much you fucking hate me.”

She could feel herself vibrating with anger as she opened the journal in front of him. “Oh yeah? I hate you?” she sassed. “Then please tell me why I spent all of the summer between junior and senior year cataloguing every time you touched me? Because I hated you?” she seethed. “This journal is my most private thoughts and feelings,” she admitted. “And most of them are about how in love with you I am.” She took a deep breath, her shoulders shaking with every deep breath. “So you read the one page where I was frustrated that you didn’t love me too? Get over it, Rowan. You put me through hell. HELL!” she shouted. “You didn’t give me any signal that you loved me too, at all. So, sorry if I had one stupid journal entry talking about how frustrated I was with you. If you had turned the fucking page,” she said, turning the page for effect. “You would have seen how stupidly obsessed and in love I was with you, but you don’t deserve to read that either.”

She shook with her anger, unaffected by the change in her boyfriends’ expression.

“Now get out.”

“But—”

“Get out.”

She watched as Rowan gathered himself off the bed and headed out the door, and she chose to ignore the small furrow in Rowan’s brow or the clenching of his jaw, as she slammed the door shut.

How dare he. Like, really. How. Dare. He? He had no right to invade her privacy and then be mad about what he’d discovered. Not to mention, if he’d only skipped ahead a few pages in the journal he would have stumbled on a time stamped record of every time he’d touched her, making her skin light on fire with lust and wanting. I’m fact, nearly 99% of that journal was just wishing and hoping that he’d ever look her way or see her as more than a friend. It was the contents of a lovestruck puppy. But NO. He had to crack open her journal and peer inside the one, single day where she hated the wanting and the pain from wanting so bad that she had to get it out — expel the poison from inside her, knowing that none of it was really how she felt. It wasn’t true then and it certainly wasn’t true now. And he knew that! So, how dare he have the audacity to be upset about her most private painful thoughts when he was the one invading them?

She could feel tears burning the edges of her eyelids but refused to let them through. Instead, she sniffed back loudly and tilted her head to the ceiling. An old fan whirred slowly above her, letting out a soft clinking sound with each rotation. One of the blades was slightly off and kept catching the very top of the chain that dangled below. Her breathing steadied as she watched the fan do its wonky loop again and again, the clinking starting to soothe her and she inhaled and exhaled with each sound. 

What a dick.

“UGH!” Aelin pushed herself up and stalked to the door, swinging it back open.

Rowan stood exactly where the door had slammed in his face, and she watched him take a breath, presumably to say he was sorry, but Aelin didn’t care. “Don’t,” she whispered under her breath. “I’m starving, and this dinner sounds so fucking good, and I don’t want to fight.”

“I just want to talk—”

“Well, I don’t,” she snapped.

To his credit, he nodded succinctly, not pushing for more.

“I’m so mad at you,” she continued. “What you did is not okay,” she said, breathing hard and ignoring the way his green eyes pinched at her words. “That journal is my private thoughts and feelings, and you reading it without me… I thought we had boundaries.”

His eyes looked sad as he said, “But I thought we told each other everything.”

And she took a large breath to reply. Because she understood. She really did. “We do. Now. But Ro, that journal is from years and years of our lives. It starts freshman year, and I still use it today. Do you know how many thoughts and feelings I’ve had about you since then?” she asked. She grabbed the journal. “If you turned the page, you would have seen a detailed time stamped spreadsheet of every time you touched me our sophomore year. Literally time stamped. But there were so many times that I wasn’t sure about us. You were with fucking Lyria! For months,” she shouted. “So, how dare you come and be mad at me when you read how I was feeling during that time? I didn’t know if you’d be with me ever.” She took another deep breath, ignoring Rowan’s pained face. “I’m sorry you got your feelings hurt, but I’m not sorry for writing my feelings down in my journal. It was the only way I was able to survive. And youi peaking into that time without acknowledging how hard you hurt me then isn’t just tone deaf, but it's stupid, Ro. Really fucking stupid.”

“I thought you wanted me to read it…” he said, trying to explain himself.

“Well, that was your mistake,” she said, wiping a rogue tear from her cheek.

Rowan apologized, but Aelin barely heard him. She’d wanted to be apart from the drama, but as she and Rowan made her way down to dinner, she realized that they were the drama. And it was about to be everyone else’s problem.

[halfmoonism]

your feathers are priceless, beloved little bird

p5, ann & joker & ryuji || spoilers for the first palace ruler

whenever ren thinks of his first month at shujin, it’s always the same conversation in his head, the same three lonely kids against the world.

for plantober day 14: heather (bad fortune, illness, curse, death)

cw for allusions to child abuse (1st palace ruler)

“Do you think we’re… y’know, cursed or something?” Ryuji asks once, back when they still had rooftop access and expulsion was their biggest threat, the world at their tiny fingertips. He’d been glancing through a magazine with the sort of aimlessness Ren mistook for boredom before realizing the tension in his grip, and looks up.

“What?” Ann pushes herself up and off the wall, eyes firmly fixated on her phone. She, too, is far from holding herself casually. Not that Ann’s the greatest at it regardless. “No way. It’s not like we even did anything.”

Ren, ever the observer even at the best of times, sits back and says nothing, but he drops his hand to the desk and drums along a nonsense rhythm in wait.

“That’s what I mean!” Ryuji swings an arm around with all of his usual grace. Which is to say none, he almost whacks Ren in the face, but it’s not a problem when it gets Ann to snicker. He’s good at that, getting people to laugh with him. Ren’s almost jealous. “None of us did anything to deserve this shit!”

Her laugh, or what little of it lingered, vanishes. “Oh. Oh. You meant… so we’re talking about this now?”

Which is when it occurs to Ren that they’ve never actually talked about anything, not properly. Ann broke down in the cafe and Ryuji’s told him snippets during warmups, but they’re both impressive at grinning away most things that make them uncomfortable as soon as they loosen up. Which doesn’t feel quite right. He’s a persona user with them, right? He should be able to see past the masks better than the rest of Shujin, at least. These are his first friends. They deserve more.

He’s looking at Ann now, though, and sees nothing but a stone wall.

“I, uh,” and Ryuji’s seeing the same thing too, apparently, “well, we don’t gotta, I just. It’s fucked up, right? I didn’t think about it ‘till Renren brought it up—” Ren grimaces “—but look at us! That piece of shit’s been hurting his whole team and no one’s gonna side with us—”

“Obviously!” Ann shouts, face scrunched up. He’s never doubted her strength, not once, and the force of her words feels like a swing from a longsword. “Who’d side with us? They don’t care! No one even cared about Shiho until she—she—ugh, shut up, Ryuji!”

“Hey, I didn’t even—”

Ren clears his throat. They don’t quite stop, but their momentum swings towards him, and that’s good enough. “We don’t have to talk about it,” he says slowly, staring down at them both, “and we’re getting off track, anyway. Why’d you ask, Ryuji?”

Ryuji’s questioning look is careful. Somehow, Ren has to fight back a strong bitterness in his chest. “What?”

“If we were cursed.”

He doesn’t answer.

Ann’s not saying anything either, resting both palms on Ryuji’s desk like she’s waiting for a mine in a minefield. She watches Ren the same way when she thinks he isn’t looking, he knows, and he’s honestly just grateful she’s willing to be around them at all right now. “It’d make sense if I was,” she says shortly. Then, quieter, “You, too.”

Ryuji snaps his head up. “Huh?”

“Oh, come on.” Ann rolls her eyes, but she also can’t meet Ryuji’s. “Like you deserved what that monster did to you.”

Ryuji leans back at that, shoulders pulled outward like he’s ready to argue, but then he turns to Ann, really turns to her, and something in her gaze makes him deflate. Not comically or casually, but just defeated. It doesn’t fit him. “Shit. Yeah.”

For all of his bravado and heroics in the Metaverse, for all of their flashy truer selves, this isn’t something Ren can fix. Can even begin to fix. So he sits still, and they all let it drop.

[alectashadow]

The Fall Of Women

A diabolical conspiracy delivers a virus to women’s phones worldwide, compelling them to seek a male master. Law student Audrey & her GF Leah despair as women’s rights start to unravel. They ask their friend Reinhard for a nominal collaring - but will it really save them?

I rely on my writing to pay the bills: it's what I do for a living. If you enjoy this story, please show your appreciation and head over to my Patreon! You get to read my stories months in advance, and help me keep writing.

AUTHOR'S NOTE/DISCLAIMER: Given the peculiar nature of the subject matter, this story warrants a special disclaimer. This is a fantasy, not a manifesto. As famous erotica author All These Roadworks usually puts it, “my kinks are not my politics”. Do not use this story to promote a political worldview. Practice your relational life consensually, or not at all. 

I want to say a few extra words before we begin. The concept behind this story isn’t exactly new: many authors have put together stories where women lose their rights – progressively or all at once, politically or through supernatural foul play. 

They’ve tackled the subject through a variety of tones, some lighter, some darker. As is my trademark, I’ve decided to focus on the psychological element of submission, and on emotional sadism. Be warned that this is a long story, and it takes a while to get to the sex… but the payoff will hopefully be all the greater for it. 

If you’re interested in exploring the niche further, I have a list of recommendations at the end of the story. There are far too many great authors and examples to list them all here, but I have included those who have had an influence on this story. You can think of it as a form of acknowledgement as well.

As always, all characters are over the age of 18.

Now, without further ado… enjoy the read! 

___

I - A War In The Mind

My smartphone buzzes in the darkness.

I stare daggers at it, as it vibrates on the nightstand. It’s just my alarm clock, but for a second, I’m almost tempted to grab the thing and throw it out the window. 

Except… what good would that do? The damage has been done already. Destroying my phone won’t fix anything. 

I turn off the alarm, retreating back into the blankets, and closer to the warmth of Leah’s sleeping body next to me. I put my head on the pillow, close my eyes, and listen to her breathing for a moment.

It’s peaceful. I wish we could stay like this all day. I wish I didn’t have to face the world. Honestly, after what’s being done to us women, I feel like I’m kind of entitled to a full day spent resting in bed. 

Unfortunately, even that isn’t an option. Even sleeping is not safe, not anymore. 

“Another bad night?” Leah asks in a whisper, almost startling me. I thought she was asleep.

I don’t answer. I shuffle closer to her, pulling her tight into my arms. 

We don’t need words right now. We’ve talked plenty enough, and besides, we both share the same dreams anyway, as does every woman unlucky enough to own a phone. 

My dreams have been a minefield ever since the event. The images are blurry and confused, but their purpose couldn’t be any clearer than this. They’re meant to change me, rewrite me, convert me.

I dream of hands – not the soft, warm, feminine hands I like, but the strong, wiry hands of powerful men. They touch me, clinching around my throat, cupping my breasts, squeezing my thighs.

Their hands push me against the wall, and in the dreams I’m always breathless, excited, vulnerable. I always end up spreading my thighs a little, making myself open and available, or close my lips around an offered finger, sucking and moaning. 

And then the hands reach for my shoulders, or my head, and push me down, onto my knees… 

I dream of collars, too. Held by male hands, offered to me, ready to close around my neck… 

I always wake up restless and exhausted after that. It’s starting to affect my mood, my ability to focus. I haven’t had a proper night’s sleep since the event, and unfortunately, there’s no medicine or remedy that will help.

The only way I can sleep soundly again is give in to the programming. 

Sounds simple, doesn’t it? Abandon my lesbian orientation, forsake feminism, do away with any notion of consent, give up my human rights… and accept a collar from a man. 

My hands ball into fists, my nails digging into my palms. Whoever developed this payload deserves to burn in hell. Troubled sleep, torture, brainwashing – all to get us to accept, no, demand the disenfranchisement of our entire gender.

I’ll be damned if I let them have me.

“I hate this,” I say in a low whisper. “I hate them. All of them.”

“I know,” Leah says, pulling me tighter into her arms. 

Her warmth quells my sadness, but not my anger. I can’t wrap my mind around the idea that someone went through the trouble of developing something so outlandish, for such an evil purpose. 

The affront, the disgust, the… violation I feel is making me shake with hatred and rage. 

Leah seems to notice. She rolls away from me, just enough that we can look each other in the eyes.

“Are you sure about this? The plan, I mean.” 

I scan her eyes, trying to read her emotions as my eyes adjust to the dark. I… honestly don’t know. How could I know? I don’t even know what we’re dealing with, not really.

I’m no developer. I certainly can’t hack into the payload and find out what it does, or how to reverse-engineer it. People far smarter and more well-paid than me are working on it round the clock. 

All I can do is try and resist the payload until then. Prolong my resistance, at all costs. Buy time, until someone figures it out and fixes everything. 

I must have spent, oh, dozens of hours browsing the internet for clues. Shortly after the event, many women simply abandoned or destroyed their smartphones, but of course that’s no solution. The payload’s programming is in our brains now.

There’s an abundance of many other… peculiar remedies out there, and most sound completely and utterly bonkers. But there is one that does sound logical. It’s the only hope I can see.

I can’t show weakness to Leah. I’ve always been the dominant partner in this relationship, and not just in bed. Now more than ever, she needs my guidance, she needs me to be strong for her. 

“We can trust Reinhard.”

“I know we can,” she whispers, “that’s not what worries me. What if…” she swallows, gathering herself. “What if it doesn’t work?” 

What if indeed. The truth is, I have no answer for her, not a honest one anyway. But I fear the despair that would overcome her if I say that. Any hope, no matter how meager, is worth fighting for.

So I affect a confidence I don’t actually feel, and nod. “It will work. Many others have tried it.”

“O-okay,” she says, deferring to me as usual. Unfortunately, while she may be placated for now, I feel terribly antsy. Wordlessly, I slide out of bed and walk out the bedroom. I need to talk to Reinhard, right now. 

***

Reinhard is a morning person.

Unsurprisingly, he’s already awake and fully clothed, sat at the kitchen table, nursing on an energy drink before he starts his workday. 

We’ve been friends since high school. I’ve always suspected him to carry a bit of a torch for me, but he knows I’m a lesbian and has never expressed any interest openly. For which  I’m grateful.

That’s exactly the sort of reason why Reinhard is the one male person I would trust in this predicament. He’s a great friend, and I know he won’t take advantage of my situation.

In fact, I thank my lucky stars that he was visiting me when the event happened. He’s a digital nomad, and needs only his laptop to work – but what began as a friendly visit became something else when the payload hit. 

He’s been grocery-shopping and generally interfacing with the outside world for us, minimising our interactions with other people. That’s good. It’s just… not safe to be around men now, even in public. 

Even less safe than it’s ever been before. 

I join him at the table, but don’t touch the biscuits I would normally attack for breakfast. I’ve lost my appetite. 

Reinhard puts down his smartphone and looks at me, concern clear on his face.

“Good morning,” he says, cautiously. “How are you doing?” 

I gesture vaguely to try and communicate that it was another bad night, and that I don’t really want to talk about it. Truth is, I can barely sit still right now, and not just because I’m antsy.

Even just being in the presence of a man is a threat to my sanity. Immediately, the payload begins to bombard my mind.

It’s like he has this sudden aura about him. Tall, strong, with deft hands from playing the violin, and those piercing eyes, green and flecked with gold… 

If not for the payload, I’d never pay attention to a man’s eyes in a million years. I shake myself out of the disgusting reverie, fighting my programming with all my might. 

Control. I need to stay on top of my own head, and focus.

“What about you?” I croak, forcing myself to have a normal conversation. “Slept well?” 

Reinhard shrugs. “Woke up a bit after dawn, been reading ever since.” He nods in the direction of his phone.

“What about?”

His eyes narrow, as if he’s trying to evaluate how to broach his answer. “The, uh, event, mostly. Speculation and commentary. Investigation into the group that did this.” 

Right. So much for normality. “It must make for thrilling reading, I’m sure.” 

Reinhard raises his hand, apologetically. “Sorry, it’s just that… nobody knows who these guys even are, let alone why they went to such lengths to accomplish their goal. Single-minded fanaticism like that…” 

“Doesn’t matter why they did it,” I say in a hush. I can appreciate Reinhard’s intellectual interest in the subject, but as a victim, my own perspective is a tad different. “They’re monsters, all of them.” 

“Of course,” he says. We stare at one another in awkward silence for a moment, before I muster the courage to speak once more. 

“Reinhard, I think Leah and I want to go ahead with what we discussed.” Just getting the words out makes me feel better. It’s a load off my chest. 

It isn’t for Reinhard, though.

He leans forward, steepling his hands, looking at me with an inscrutable expression. He often gets like that when he’s lost in thought.

“Really? Are you sure? Audrey, I don’t know…” 

“Please,” I say. “Don’t balk on me now.” I want to tell him that he’s my friend, and he can’t abandon me now. 

I almost blurt out that his gender has betrayed mine in a way I never even thought imaginable, and he has a responsibility to help me escape a fate of oppression.

But that would be unfair. Reinhard has nothing in common with the people who did this. 

I do know he cares for me, and I understand that the situation is bizarre for him, too. So I just plead with my eyes, and let him think through whatever is swirling through his mind  right now.

“It’s not that,” he says at last. “It’s just… A nominal collaring, Audrey, seriously? I really don’t know that I would be advising it.” 

“Lots of people are doing it,” I say, trying to stop my hands from shaking. “Especially lesbians and gay men…”

“Lots of people are trying it,” Reinhard says, cocking his head inquisitively. “But how do we know that it’s working? Does the payload’s programming distinguish between a real and a  nominal collaring? What happens if, say –“ 

“I don’t know, okay?!” I say, realising only too late that I’ve shouted. I put my hand over my mouth, in sign of apology. 

Reinhard can get very intense, at times. Should a topic catch his interest, he’ll dive into it with thorough enthusiasm. His sharp, insightful ability to always bring what actually  matters into focus is one of his most compelling traits…

But not today. Today, I need a friend supporting me, not a lecture. Even so, I shouldn’t have raised my voice.

Reinhard seems unperturbed. He composes himself, sitting a little straighter, and nods for me to continue.

“Sorry,” I say. “It’s just, man, I can’t even sleep at night. I just can’t take this anymore.”

“You’re right,” he says, nodding in understanding. “My apologies.”

I bite my lower lip, looking down at the table, then back up at him. “Let’s try it, ok? And if it doesn’t work… then, we’ll see. But you’re the only person I’m willing to trust with  this. You can’t quit on me now.”

“I see,” he says, nursing his energy drink, lost in his thoughts once more. 

At last, he seems to make some kind of determination. He puts down his drink, and nods in my direction. 

“Tell you what, let’s make a deal. I’m willing if you are… but give it another few hours at least. Think about it some more, ok? I would rather you didn’t agree to something you  might end up regretting.”

“Okay, sure,” I say, conceding. “Thank you, Reinhard. You’re my best friend.”

“You too, Audrey,” he says, booping my nose. The tender moment squeezes my heart a little. 

“I’ll think about it on the way to uni,” I say, standing up. That catches his attention.

“Uni?” He says. “Do you… want me to accompany you? I’ve got some work to do, but I could bring my laptop, I guess…”

“No need,” I tell him, trying to reassure myself as much as him. “Look, I’ve been basically locked indoors since this whole thing started. I’m not letting the bastards who did this take away my life. Even if I avoid collaring, what do I achieve if I skip all my classes? Then they win anyway.” 

Reinhard seems to see my point. He gives me a warm smile, the one he reserves for moments like these, when he’s manifestly proud of me. “You’re right. You go get them, tiger.” 

Later in the morning, as I head out in the baggiest clothes I could find, my face half-obscured by a scarf and a facemask, my hair tied into a ponytail and tucked in under my hat… I admit to myself I feel like a scared kitten, not a tiger.

But at least now I have a plan. And so I steel my resolve, and head out the door, into a world forever changed.

***

I’m… not sure what I expected the world to look like, exactly. 

I’ve minimised my exposure to the outside as much as I could, in the wake of the event. I’ve been nursing this fear that I would step out and see.. I don’t even know what. Something terrifying.

But at a first glance, things look remarkably… normal. People walk the streets, commuting to work or jogging in the park. I find it reassuring, and feel way more settled as I make my way towards campus.

It’s only a fifteen minute walk away… but I’ve barely covered half distance before I run into the first visible sign that the event did happen, that it wasn’t just my imagination. 

As I turn the corner, I suddenly find a small, improvised rally – women of all ages, but mostly university students like me, holding signs aloft and chanting slogans. There’s a few men in there, too, which is certainly good to see.

I catch a few of the banners and signs. “Hands off women!” says one. A bunch call for undoing the payload, or demand the people responsible for the event be found and brought to justice. 

That makes me smile inwardly. We will fight back. We’re not going to take this lying down, not this time. I’m half-tempted to join them, and class be damned, but I have some time to decide. Apparently, we’re travelling in the same direction.

“Non-consensual collaring is rape,” I hear one of the girls say in animated discussion, with a guy nodding in agreement next to her. “Like, isn’t that literally obvious? You’re making a woman your slave because she can’t say no, even if she’s unwilling!”

“It’s mind-boggling that it hasn’t been made illegal yet,” the guy answers. “And every day they wait…”

He doesn’t need to finish the sentence. 

I do my best to push the mental image of a collar – the leather, the lock sealing my fate, a hand cupping my chin – out of my head, and take stock of my surroundings.

I can see the main university building just across the street. Makes sense that protesters would gather here, to start with – I know very large scale protests have been taking place worldwide, but to see a small, spontaneous gathering so close to my home really lifts my spirits.

For a time, even though I’m not formally part of the rally, we march as one.

It’s only when I make my way to the front of the rally that I notice most protesters have stopped. I look around in confusion, before turning to my right, where a young woman holding a megaphone is glaring at a tall, dark figure. 

I squint my eyes in the direction of the stranger. It’s a young man, some kind of neckbeard with a black t-shirt on that reads “long live the new order”. 

I too find myself glaring at him, my hands trembling with barely-concealed rage. I don’t know what infuriates me more, the idea that someone’s had a shirt custom-made about this terrible event, or the smug grin on his stupid face. 

Doesn’t he get how serious this is? Does he think this is a fucking joke? My very privacy, even my dreams are being violated by men who wish to harm me and my freedom. And every woman in the world is going through the same nightmare. How can the idea amuse him? 

The girl with the megaphone, some kind of informal ringleader I suspect, closes the distance between them, the megaphone swinging at her side. For a second I wonder if she’s going to hit him. I hope not, but I would enjoy her having a few choice words for this prick. 

If he’s intimidated, it doesn’t show. He’s ridiculously outnumbered, but has no problem staring down an entire rally, grinning like an idiot. He doesn’t take us seriously, I realise. He thinks the payload’s turned us into a bunch of zombies.

At last, the girl steps right up to him, glowering. He raises an eyebrow in challenge, but just as she’s about to speak, he cuts her off. 

“Like the shirt?” He says, his cocky grin growing even wider. “Whatcha going to do about it, girl?” 

I hold my breath, waiting for the inevitable shouting match that’s about to follow…

But nothing happens. The girl seems to visibly deflate before my eyes, taking one step back, as if intimidated. I take notice of the megaphone trembling in her hands. What? 

“That’s what I thought,” the guy says, not smiling anymore – he’s looking down at her like he’s just stepped on a bug. “Enjoy the parading while it lasts, bitch, because I guarantee you – as soon as someone puts a collar on you, you can forget ever being allowed to do something this silly, ever again.” 

If the girl looked strangely intimidated before, she now seems to shrink before him, meek and mellow, unable to raise her voice or utter anything more than a feeble protest, which I can’t even hear.

All her strength, pride, independence… it’s all gone. Her own brain is doing this to her, thanks to the payload. Slowly and systematically removing every weapon and defense she’s ever had, until she’s nothing but a harmless little girl in the presence of a man.

The guy laughs right in her face, stalking off. I stand there, petrified, my brain suddenly bombarded with traitorous images. 

In my mind’s eye, the guy doesn’t stalk off. He stands there, staring down the girl until she slides down to her knees, megaphone cluttering to the floor. He swipes her hair out of the way to slide a collar around her neck…

Hands, strong and wiry, twine her hair in circles like he’s shortening a pet’s leash. She looks up at him, neck strained, eyes full of fear and devotion…

I snap out of it, pumping a fist against my thigh. All the hope I felt just a moment ago feels shattered, and I begin to tear up. Leaving the house was a mistake. Pretending I could have a normal day was a mistake. 

It’s not safe to be around men. I know, in my heart of hearts, that the guy could have collared the girl if he’d wanted to. If he’d commanded her to accept it. 

Hell, he could have collared me.

But I’ve come too far to just go back. Like I told Reinhard this morning, if I give up my education, the misogynists win anyway. 

I just have to go in there, be careful to avoid men as much as possible, and if one tries to take me over, resist with all my might. And hope that it is enough. 

One day, someone will pay for making me feel so insecure, so scared, for all the extra emotional labour I have to do to ensure my safety. And I know that day is coming soon.

Or maybe it’s not. Maybe we’ll end up crushed, put in our place, putty in the hands of men. I try to ignore the seditious part of me that seems to purr in pleasure at the idea. 

But for now, I make my way into the university, feeling like a sheep strolling right into the middle of a wolf’s den. 

***

Uni is, oddly enough, a breath of fresh air.

While the governments of the world shuffle their feet uncertainly, hesitating and dickering, this is where the real mobilisation is taking place. Support groups are springing all over like mushrooms. 

Pamphlets recommend best practices. Always travel in groups, the larger the better. Keep interactions with men to an absolute minimum to minimise the risk of collaring. 

Of course, the university administration has been slow to react, to the shock of absolutely nobody. So, a range of spontaneous initiatives is filling the gap until, hopefully, the higher ups wake up. 

Women are starting to only attend classes held by female professors. With the help of collaborative guys, classes are being kept mono-gendered as much as possible – which leaves a bad taste in my mouth, but I see no other way. 

Any length of time spent in the company of a man might be incredibly dangerous, depending on his intentions. 

At least something is being done. I tell myself this is probably the only reason why the day goes by somewhat uneventfully, why no male student has even tried to hold a prolonged conversation with me, much less tried to collar me.

It’s sad that the world has to be like this for a while, but look, I didn’t develop or deploy the payload. I didn’t cause the event. I’m just trying to survive in a world that has suddenly become a lot more hostile. 

And so I find myself chatting with a few girls I haven’t seen since before the event, especially Cindy. 

We stay back after our elective bioethics class is finished, gossiping and discussing recent events. My absence from uni was a few days longer than hers, and she looks very happy to see me. Almost relieved, in fact.

“For a while, I was worried you wouldn’t come back at all,” Cindy tells me, squeezing my hand. “I’m so happy you’re here!” 

“Me too,” I say, offering her a warm smile. “Although I can’t blame girls who choose to stay at home. Just coming here today was…” I shake my head, sighing. Come to think of it, there are definitely fewer female students around than before the event. Again, hardly surprising.

Something flickers across Cindy’s eyes, an emotion I’m not quite sure how to identify. Her lips narrow as she stares at me, suddenly looking very serious. “Audrey…”

I arch my eyebrow. “What? What’s wrong?”

Cindy shakes her head. “I mean, of course you’re right. Some are going to bunker down until it’s over, and I can’t blame them, but… that’s not what I meant when I said I was happy you made it here.”

A faint chill trickles down my spine. I gulp, nervously. “W-what did you mean, then?” 

“There are other reasons why a girl may be skipping class…” Cindy says, her voice falling to a whisper. “You remember Frida?”

“What about her?” 

Cindy stops for a second, struggling to find the words, and to fight back the tears. “She, huh…” She makes a small circular gesture with her hands, and I hate that I recognise immediately what it means. 

Frida got collared. 

Cindy clears her throat, mustering the courage to continue her story. I just listen, stunned.

“Her new, huh… owner, I suppose, I don’t even know who he is… says she doesn’t need a degree. So she’s not coming back to class. Like, ever.” Then, her eyes widening, she rushes to amend her statement. “Not until they fix everything, I mean.” 

I’m too stupefied to pay much attention to her self-correction. My brain is in shutdown, as a battle rages between two conflicting impulses – my fury at Frida’s fate, and the traitorous thoughts implanted by the payload, trying to whisper in my ear.

In the perfect stalemate, I only have room for a kind of muted stupor. 

“She was about to publish a legal article…” I say, in a whisper. “She wanted to be a lawyer.” Like me. 

Cindy shrugs. “Well, that’s out the window. He wants a housewife, so…” 

I’m going to feel sick. I clutch the edge of the table, trying to steady myself as vertigo threatens to overwhelm me. Frida’s life, years of hardship and struggle, studying and brilliance – it was all fundamentally altered by a single encounter. 

A man’s word, and all of it was undone. She was immediately made lesser, reduced, pushed back into a traditional role. A submissive role… 

I hate how hot the idea sounds, to my payload-addled brain. At the stroke of a pen, her life has been destroyed. No wonder men enthrall us, if we fold so easily. God, the rush of power Frida’s owner must have felt, as he literally took her identity away… it must defy description.

So many years of delusions about being a man’s equal, and look at her now, forbidden from even showing up in class. No more pressure, responsibility, decisions. All she has to worry about now is please her master.

She probably spends more time on her knees than standing up, now. To clean the floor, of course, but also to slide under his desk while he does important work… providing for the household… a leash clipped to her collar… 

I slap my forehead, growling in anger, doing all I can to keep control of my brain. One look at Cindy’s flushed face tells me everything I need to know – she’s been struggling with it too…

That’s what really makes me snap. I can’t go on like this, not indefinitely. If even Frida, strong-willed, outspoken feminist Frida can fall, then so can I. I need to act, and there’s nothing to gain by waiting.

I grab my phone, furiously typing a message to Reinhard. It’s only a few simple words, but it’s all the words I need.

“We’re doing this tonight.” 

His answer comes seconds later.

“Alright. Guess I’ll go buy the collars…”

II - A Leathered Splendour

“One last time,” Reinhard says, staring at us plaintively, “I’m going to point out that I don’t think this is going to work.” 

I squeeze Leah’s hand, as much to reassure her as to bolster my own resolve. She looks up at me, expectantly. Her big doe eyes never fail to bring out the protector in me.

I typically call the shots for the both of us, but I sense a hesitation in her gaze. 

She knows I just want to plunge ahead with my plan, before my courage falters. Before I can be talked into backing out. But Leah would like to hear Reinhard out, one last time. 

I acquiesce with a sigh and a curt nod. Reinhard must have been studying me just as closely as Leah was, because he resumes his speech immediately. 

“I’ve been researching this,” he says, looking at the two collars he’s placed on the table between us. “As far as this can be researched at all, of course. But the whole internet is talking about it, and I’ve been up all night, reading…”

I stare at him with scepticism, and a little bit of annoyance. “Reinhard, I’m not stupid. I can use the internet too.” It’s frankly astonishing how quickly WikiHow put up guides on collar avoidance.

“I know,” Reinhard says defensively, holding up his hands. “But you were mostly looking at ways to dodge collaring. I decided to try something else. I think if you want to understand how the payload works, you need to look at, uh, well… catcher spaces.”

I see the old intensity in Reinhard’s eyes, which tells me this has become an absorbing interest for him. He hasn’t just been researching it – he’s probably been reading all day, trying to understand what makes all of this tick. 

I’m hoping it will come to our advantage. His analytical mind is a great asset to have in this situation. But for now, I need to try and keep up with hours upon hours of immersion that he needs to condense for me.

“Catcher spaces,” I say. “And what are those?”

Reinhard shrugs, seemingly uncomfortable with himself. “Catchers are men who have already collared a woman. Or more. There are forums and chatrooms where they gather and debate.” 

I shouldn’t be surprised, I really shouldn’t. But I grit my teeth in anger and disgust all the same.

“I don’t even… what do they even talk about exactly? How it’s our fault for being collared because we dared refuse a sexual advance from them, or wore too short a skirt?” 

“Some of that is definitely going on,” Reinhard says, his distate unclear. “But mostly advice, you know. Even some analysis” 

My eyes widen, my nails dig into my palms, and my own mind begins to accelerate. I know I really, really shouldn’t ask the question that’s about to come out of my mouth. I don’t know whether it’s curiosity or the payload that finally makes me say it.

“What kind of advice are we talking about?” 

“Mostly on the most effective ways of catching women… and how to properly domesticate them after their collaring.”

Domesticate them.

The word swirls in my brain, tainting every thought, every image. It feels so wrong and so right at once… Of course most animals can be domesticated, why should humans be any different? Why should women? 

My knees tremble, and Leah next to me is basically beginning to sway. But Reinhard talks on, oblivious. 

“Most men don’t really have a clue,” he says, “but a few are very vocal and extremely detailed in their guides. Their mission seems to share certain… techniques they have found to yield wondrous, and terrifying results.” 

I swoon in place, struggling for balance as the payload assaults my perception. 

Certain techniques…

I can certainly believe that. Take a young woman, strong, smart, fiercely independent, keenly aware of her worth, and her right to equality.

Then strip everything, piece by piece. Make her dependent, insecure, unassuming. Assign her simple caregiving tasks, dulling her intelligence through repetition and labour. Use rewards and punishments to steer her, mould her, remake her…

Domesticate her. 

And Reinhard stayed up all night reading about how to best break a woman…

It really is terrifying. And in a way, it really is wondrous.

I slap my forehead again. Reinhard blinks, taken aback for a second, before resuming his speech. He’s learning to take such reactions in stride, I guess. 

“I’m actually a little suspicious of these users, by the way. They seem a little too eager to help… it only makes sense that whoever designed the payload also disseminated as much information out there to maximise its effect.”

Leah whimpers next to me. I turn to face her, in shock. That’s the kind of submissive mewl she would reserve for me, when I push her onto the bed and make her beg for pleasure, or when I climb my way up her body, to straddle her face with my thighs… 

I’m not sure Reinhard’s noticed. “You see the brilliance of the plan?” He asks me. “The payload makes it so that things implement themselves. It’s got the authorities in a bind.  Their only option is to find a fix to reverse the payload. In the meantime, there isn’t much they can do to counter its effects.”

Is that a hint of admiration I detect in his voice? Is he impressed by how thoroughly these misogynists planned out the downfall of womankind? 

Is… Is that what Leah was mewling about?

“I think I’d be much happier if they hadn’t done such a good job,” I say, my voice dripping with sarcasm. In truth, I’m nowhere near as cocky as I sound. The performance is meant to reassure me that I can still handle all of this.

“Of course,” Reinhard says, snapping out of his elucubrations. “In any case, that’s not the point. The point is… I’m becoming convinced that the collars are a red herring.” 

“Right, exactly!” I say. “That’s what I’ve been saying! We can satisfy the payload with a pantomime, and that’s it!”

But Reinhard shakes his head. “No, Audrey. The collars are a red herring for you. For all of us.”

I blink at him in confusion. 

“What I mean is this: the collar is just an object. By focusing so much on it, we’re getting distracted from how the payload actually functions. It makes you want to serve men.  That’s a lot more insidious than just a circle of leather.” 

A shiver trickles down my spine. It makes sense, but I want to deny it, because if he’s right… how do you fight something like that?

“That’s why I said they have the authorities in a bind,” Reinhard continues. “Think about it, why hasn’t collaring been banned yet?” 

There’s a weirdly… enthusiastic glint in his eye. He doesn’t wait for me to try and fumble out an answer, either.

“You could outlaw every piece of leather on the planet,” Reinhard says, looking me in the eyes, “but how do you stop someone from choosing to just obey? To submit? It’s the collaring that’s the pantomime. The obedience, now… that’s real.”

For a second, it’s like the entire world around me holds its breath. My stomach drops, and there’s a knot in my throat. It’s all I can do to keep the dread at bay.

It’s hard to argue with Reinhard’s logic, which makes me feel even more humiliated and diminished. I know that’s just my brain trying to self-sabotage, the programming trying to convince me I’m better off letting a man do the thinking for me.

Obey, submit, I hear, in his voice. Obedience, now, that’s real.

I find myself staring in awe, battling for control of my mind, as Reinhard continues his explanation. 

“The frontline of this war is in here,” he says, tapping his forehead. “Inside the mind.” 

I open my mouth, looking for a rebuttal, but none comes. I know he’s right. 

But I also know I can’t just keep fighting the payload. My very vacillation right now is proof of this. In fact, if he doesn’t shut up, I think I’ll end up on my knees no matter if he agrees to the ritual or not. 

So I shrug, cutting the discussion short while I still can. “Well, say you’re right. Do you have a better plan in mind?” 

Reinhard leans back a moment, blinking, thinking. Then he sighs, lowering his head. “I suppose I do not.” 

Leah and I exchange a look. She gives me a tiny nod, which is all I need. I know she’s going to trust me with this, follow me into the breach. We’ll figure it out together. After all, we love one another, and Reinhard is our friend.

That has to be stronger than any smartphone virus. Hasn’t it? 

I snap back to reality as Reinhard clears his throat. “Let’s get this over with, come on.” 

I nod, with a final squeeze on Leah’s hand to lend her strength. And then, together, we flex our legs, and begin descending to our knees.

We do it in perfect sync, like we’ve rehearsed this a thousand times. Of course, we haven’t – we haven’t even talked about it.

But the ritual is etched into the brains of every woman now. Every tiny motion, every element of coreography, it’s been drilled into us, night after sleepless night. In our dreams of male dominion and female submission.

I hate kneeling, of course. Even if it’s just pantomime and it’s Reinhard. The twin symbolism of subservience and sexual innuendo isn’t lost on any of us. But as I sink lower, my eyes widen in surprise at how my body feels.

The payload, I realise. It’s working overtime to exploit this opening. It’s like a great weight has been lifted off me. I get a second wind, blasting away the fatigue and sleep deprivation of the last few days. I feel lightheaded, but also energetic. 

When my knees hit the floor with a fateful thud, part of me thinks that this is a hugely significant, almost profound moment.

It’s the part that the payload’s corrupted, I know. But it’s in there, and I can’t block it off, not while performing the ceremony it’s been demanding of my brain for days on end. 

It tells me that I could do worse than Reinhard. 

Lesbian or not, even I can sense his magnetism. He’s ridiculously eloquent, tall, strong. His green eyes are as piercing as his intellect. He looks soulful, when he plays the violin. 

With his many intellectual and physical hobbies, he’s a modern day Renaissance man. Surely even a lesbian could see value in accepting such a man’s authority over her own life?

And of course, his voice – such a low octave, the perfect pitch for resonating against a girl’s ribcage, for commanding her… 

These are alien thoughts. They’re evil and cursed, and wherever they take root, they poison the soil. But as Reinhard begins to loom over our kneeling figures, one collar in hand, it’s hard to avoid the notion that he deserves to rule. That he looks like a king.

I hold my breath as the first collar snaps around Leah’s neck. Instantly she looks smaller, mousier, less of a person. She’s trying to shrivel under his gaze. She immediately bends forward, landing on her elbows, and places a soft kiss on the tip of his black leather shoes. 

“I acknowledge myself owned,” she says, breathless, and the sight is like a punch to the gut. That’s my girlfriend, kissing a man’s feet, declaring herself his property!

I steady my breathing. It’s all for show. None of this is real. But the constant warring between my programming and my rage is leaving me exhausted and confused. 

The confusion melts away when Reinhard steps right into my field of vision, holding the second collar right in front of my face.

Every neuron in my body flares up. The response is incredible, all-encompassing, a chasm of pure sensation that threatens to swallow me whole.

My breathing comes in short, ragged pulses as Reinhard sweeps my hair out of the way. When the leather touches my skin, a jolt of electricity courses through me. 

And then, I hear it.

The click.

As the collar closes around my neck, I begin to writhe, every muscle in my body spasming and tensing. I, too, bend forward, because I’m out of breath, and I’m doubling over. The sensation rippling across my body cannot be put into words. It’s almost like an orgasm, but not quite.

The collar feels good around my neck, thick and tight. I can’t even flex my neck too much, its edge presses against my chin if I try. I imagine being forced to keep a straight neck posture, formal and servile, like I’m waiting to be inspected, and that makes me lick my lips.

The black glossy leather must make such a fine contrast with the paleness of my skin… one most pleasing to a man’s eye. As it should be.

But then, the reverie begins to fade. The pleasure retreats, and the collar doesn’t feel like a lover’s warm embrace anymore, but constrictive instead. I twist my head uncomfortably, trying to work it in a more comfortable position.

As I begin to climb down and back to normality, the repulsion returns, making me recoil in place. 

I’m a lesbian and a feminist, kneeling before a man who’s just put a collar on me. And I swear, as I look up at him, there’s some weird glint in his eye… 

Reinhard’s face rarely betrays his emotions, but as he contemplates me, kneeling before him, wearing his collar, it’s clear some considerable turmoil plays out across his expression.  My trust falters. 

For a second, there’s nothing in the world I want more than to just bolt. Start running, and never stop.

But I’ve come this far, and I will not let my doubts poison my friendship. The people behind the payload have done enough damage. This, they won’t take from me. 

I will see this through.

So I prostrate myself before my friend, wrinkling my nose at the pungent scent of the leather that hits my nostrils. Closing my eyes, I force myself to place the smallest, least enthusiastic of puckered kisses that I can on the tip of his shoes. 

I have the horrible suspicion that, pantomime or not, Reinhard won’t be able to see me as an equal anymore. Not after I’ve literally folded myself in such a slavish position to kiss his feet. But I suppress the fear.

He’s a friend, and he knows this was my only option. 

And so, at last, I say the words to complete the ritual, hating every single one of them. 

“I acknowledge myself owned.” 

III - A Tamed Gender

It’s a miserable walk to campus. 

Compared to the first time I ventured out after the event, the world around me is starting to look less and less normal. There are way fewer women around, for starters. I know they’re all either bunkering down at home, or kneeling at a man’s feet. 

Of those that do make the rounds, several are in the company of a man. Some are openly being led by leashes, or simply walk around wearing their master’s collar.

Every street corner, every newspaper, every conversation – the event dominates it all. The world I knew is coming apart at the seams before my very eyes, as women fall and men cast their shadows upon them.

I’ve diligently avoided social media and the internet for the past day, but I could hear Reinhard pacing the house last night, and I know he’s been up again, immersed in his reading.  I wonder if he’s still lurking in catcher spaces.

I wonder if that’s what the glimmer in his eyes is about, when we meet in the morning. 

I grimace, thinking back to the way this day began. I made coffee for Reinhard, this time – even though he was up before the sun had even risen. I woke up, went straight to the kitchen, and fixed him coffee.

I didn’t even know why. It just seemed like the most natural way to begin the day. He accepted it too, with a muttered thanks, and no acknowledgement beyond that. 

I rub my temples, trying to chase away the sense that I’m slipping down the spiral of the payload. Friends make coffee for one another all the time. There’s no need to overthink this. 

I’m not like them, like all the women around me who are wearing their collars, walking with eyes downcast and dainty steps.

Well, I suppose I’m one of them in a way – I, too, have my collar on. Of course the difference is that, in my case, it’s only for show. 

I can feel the hungry eyes of every man around me as I walk down the streets, alone and unescorted. I can see them look away when they notice I’m already collared.

Maybe I should be grateful for that, but I just find it deeply humiliating. I don’t even get to establish boundaries for myself? The only thing that will make men decide I’m off limits, is when they believe I’m the property of another man.

It’s his boundaries they’re respecting, not mine. It makes me feel like… well, like a thing. 

There’s still a rally in the street leading directly to the university, but it’s hard to escape the sad reality that its numbers are dwindling. Not just way fewer women, but fewer men too, which sends a cold shiver down my spine.

How many of the guys who marched here on the first day have already given up? How many have collared a girl they had a crush on, or simply happened to pass by in the hallway? 

The women, at least, are having to fight the programming inside their heads, every second of every day. No wonder even those that showed up look fatigued, despondent, and demoralised. But the guys – what’s their excuse?

I suppose it doesn’t matter. Until the payload is undone, men have no need to justify themselves to us. Not anymore.

This is only visibly reinforced when I once again spot the redhead with the megaphone. I see she is, once again, confronting the single guy who keeps showing up every day to mock the protesters.

He’s wearing a different shirt this time, one that reads “ask me for a collar!”.

I swear to god, has he gotten a whole collection of these already? Jesus. 

Unfortunately, my programming is providing very strong motivation to keep my eyes downcast and keep walking. I wonder what the payload would have me do if I didn’t have Reinhard’s collar on. 

Would I gravitate towards him? Wait for his approval, which might well never come? Seek his validation? Ask how I may be of service?

As it is, another girl is going through that very experience. Megaphone girl is trying her best to stand up to him, but she’s visibly trembling. I wonder how long she’s been trying to muster the courage to tell him off.

Trying, and failing.

My stomach drops at the movement I can barely spot in my peripheral vision. I know, in my heart of hearts, that the girl has fallen to her knees. I know the man has fished out a collar. And I think the sound I’m hearing is that of a zipper, being pulled down.

I start running.

By the time I’m across the street, I already have to stop to catch my breath. Between the pandemic and the event, I’ve spent so long being a couch potato, and it hasn’t done my lung capacity any good.

But as my heavy breathing subsides, and I walk the rest of the way to campus, I can hear the sound of the guy’s mocking laughter, echoing behind me… 

Tear-eyed and sobbing, aroused and flustered, I compose myself before entering class. I don’t want the girls to see me like this. To see my fear… and my weakness. 

When at last I feel calm enough, I make my way to my traditional seat, right next to Cindy in class. It seems the lecture hasn’t started yet, which is weird, considering how late I am, but I have no chance to ask Cindy what’s up with that. 

She gasps upon seeing me, her eyes wide with horror.

“Not you too!”

“Huh?”

It takes me a moment to realise what she’s talking about. I look down, suddenly self-conscious, my fingers brushing against the leather collar. “Oh, this. No Cin, don’t worry. It’s only for show. You know… nominal collaring.” 

“Oh! Oh God,” Cindy says, slumping back in the chair. “For a second I thought, I…”

It’s not just concern or fear that’s making her react like this. I can see the subtle rubbing of her thighs, the way her lips are subconsciously pouting. She wants the collar. 

When at last she finds the strength to converse with me again, I note her pointed refusal to look anywhere near my neck. She seems to be focusing on my shoes right now. “Does that even work? The nominal thing.”

Does it? That’s a good question. Ever since the ceremony, the payload seems to have calmed down a little. I’m getting restful sleep now, but the dreams haven’t exactly stopped. Maybe most importantly, I know the programming isn’t gone.

I can feel it humming in my head, like a parasite, or an ever-churning spiral, twisting and warping every thought, turning my mind inside-out and against itself. 

If it stays at this reduced level of activity, though, I may stand a chance to fight it. So perhaps, while not entirely successful, my plan hasn’t failed after all.

“I guess we’ll know for sure soon,” I tell Cindy with a shrug. 

She nods. “Just… let me know, ok? Because if it does work, then maybe…”

I squeeze her hand. She doesn’t need to say anymore. I know she’s losing the fight, I can see it in her eyes. How they go slightly glassy and unfocused whenever a man speaks to her… 

Unbidden, I imagine how great she’d look like on her knees. With an internal scream of rage, I push the thought down, forcing myself to focus on the here and now.

It would be easier if class were to at least start. I look around, noticing the conspicuous lack of our lecturer. “Do you know what’s going on?” 

“Oh, right,” Cindy says, with a dejected look on her face. “Professor Watkins got collared.”

“What?”

“Yeah,” she says in a whisper. “Professor Rowland did it. He always did resent having to share the subject with her. He’s taking over all of her classes, and, well… her.” 

I stare at Cindy in shock. I hate that every new day is a litany of horrors, another heartbreak, another strong woman falling. 

“They’re looking for a female replacement to come teach us today,” Cindy says. “Since we won’t take a male lecturer. It’s just, there’s fewer and fewer of those, and… I guess they  haven’t found one yet. Or maybe they have, and she was collared on the way to work. What do I know?”

Chaos. This is chaos.  How can this be allowed to continue? I massage my temples, trying to keep  the terror at bay. God, Reinhard was right. The insidiousness of the payload is making it impossible to counter it.

How do you stop the backslide, if women themselves are being made to ask for the yoke?

“Don’t worry, Cindy,” I say. I don’t know what’s prompting this, but I’m talking to her as I would to Leah. “We’re going to be okay. I know we are.”

“Oh, Audrey,” Cindy says, shaking her head. “No, we’re not. I’m sorry. I don’t believe that anymore.” 

“Why not?”

She looks at me for a moment, confused. Then, she sits a little straighter in her chair. 

“I guess you haven’t heard.”

The flat, empty tone in her voice is making me slip closer and closer to the edge of panic. I’ve never seen Cindy like this, so… resigned, so defeated. The roaring of my own heart thunders against my ears.

“Heard what?”

Cindy gulps. “Maybe you should just check the news…” 

***

I return home fuelled by hatred and rage. 

I know my anger is incongruous. I find Leah and Reinhard sitting at the table, having just finished lunch – Leah had morning classes today, and Reinhard of course stayed in to work.  They look surprised to see me back so early. 

“Hey love,” Leah says. “Is everything all right?”

“No,” I say, fuming. “It’s not. They’re taking our rights away!” 

“Calm down,” Reinhard says, and I can tell from his and my girlfriend’s expression that they already know. If they do, why are they so composed? Why are they sitting around like it’s just another regular day?

I feel like I’m losing my mind.

“Don’t tell me to calm down!” I shout, my emotions finally overcoming my every effort to bottle them up. “This is the biggest single reversal in human rights in modern history! How can you tell me to calm down? I’ve just lost most of my civil rights, and you’re tone-policing me?” 

“Audrey,” Reinhard says, his eyes narrowing, “I said, calm down.” 

And in that singular moment, I realise the tragic extent of my mistake, because I immediately shut up.

I don’t really calm down, of course – Reinhard doesn’t magically control my emotion. But the moment his words leave his lips, the programming whirs to life in my own mind, and my rebuttal dies in my throat. 

I look around, confused, my mouth opening and closing uselessly. I want to scream and argue, to make my point and curse and weep, but I can do none of that – all I can do is obey.

Submit.

Obedience, I remember. Now, that’s real.

Femininity is supposed to be docile and proper, the programming tells me. Shouting is unbecoming. Being assertive is a masculine trait. My lot in life is to be seen, and not heard.

I shake my head in confusion, trying to fight the morass enveloping my thoughts. I see the effect his words have had on Leah, too. She sits back, demurely, looking up at him for approval with big, pleading eyes. 

My girlfriend. Looking to Reinhard for approval.

That’s when I know for sure my plan has failed. The real weakness is inside my own head, and I don’t know how to counter it. I have no options, no ideas, and no hope.

Reinhard’s not oblivious to any of this, I know. There’s something in his expression, a… hunger I’ve never seen before. His hands are trembling. I can never remember Reinhard looking so out of sorts, he’s always the picture of composure and self-restraint.

But he’s clearly struggling to hold himself back, just as I’m struggling not to fold under his gaze like a silly girl being scolded.

But… hold himself back from what? As I study his face, I find myself wondering just how long he’s spent reading blog posts in catcher spaces… 

“Look, what’s happened is perfectly logical,” Reinhard says, breathing in, trying to calm himself down. “Think about it. What else can be done?” 

Reduced into humiliating silence, I glare at him. I refuse to dignify the rhetorical question with an answer that would come out far too meek to actually reflect my feelings. 

“Consider the following,” Reinhard continues. “I walk up to a woman, collar her, then command her to kill somebody. Can she refuse me? No. It may take time, persistence, determination, but eventually the payload would disassemble her resistance. She would carry out my command, and kill in my name.” 

I let out a surprised yelp at the shiver that goes through me when he says disassemble her resistance. God, why does that sound so hot? Why does it turn my knees to jelly?

“There would be no way to ascertain she acted on my orders,” Reinhard says. “I could order her to lie, even confess she acted alone. If she wears my collar, she is compelled to do as I bid her. So, do you think she should go to jail because I commanded her to kill?” 

“Of course not,” I say, begrudgingly giving him ground. 

“Exactly,” Reinhard nods enthusiastically. “That’s why your legal personality’s been revoked. For all intents and purposes, women are basically minors now. It’s not meant to disenfranchise you, but to protect you.”

Leah whimpers, squirming in the chair, as Reinhard begins listing items with his fingers. 

“A man could coerce you to sign a terribly one-sided contract,” he says. “Or donate all your material possessions to him. Or act as his criminal proxy in any capacity. Of course such things can’t be considered legally binding.”

“And the right to vote?” I manage to ask, through gritted teeth, my nails digging into my palms. “How does taking that away, rolling me back to the 19th century protect me, Reinhard?” 

“Isn’t it obvious?” He says. “I could just order you to vote for this or that political party. It wouldn’t actually be your vote. Men with more women under their control would effectively acquire extra votes… no, it’s simply untenable.” 

I see the cold logic, of course. But I despair at the idea that Reinhard doesn’t see the flip side, the raw consequence of this “pragmatic” approach. It’s playing right into the hands of whoever developed the payload.

God, I hate how much sense all of this makes. How well-thought-out the trap is. The margin for our freedom keeps shrinking under my very eyes. Every avenue of escape closed, one by one, until all a woman can do is… fall.

The yoke is tightening around my neck, around all our necks. And even my best friend is dancing to that tune, as he mansplains my own enslavement to me.

He must notice my turmoil, because his expression softens. “Look, Audrey, these measures are temporary, I’m sure. It’s only until the payload’s undone. As soon as women regain the faculty to decide for themselves, I’m sure their rights will be waiting for them. Legal emancipation, the vote, everything.” 

“Right,” I say flatly, prevented from sharing how I really feel about his optimism. “What if it takes ten years to fix it? What if it’s never fixed? What, then?” 

“Then we’ll figure it out,” Reinhard says, using a paternalistic tone that seems to suggest he thinks this closes the matter. That just enrages me even more. “Look, you know what this means for me, right?” 

I blink for a second, in confusion. What is he talking about?

“You’re both wearing my collars,” Reinhard says, patiently, like he’s talking to a child, and I think my worst fear is coming true – he doesn’t see me as an equal anymore. I’ve never seen this condescending, domineering side of him, and it terrifies me, because I know he has power over me.

What’s even worse is that the warping effect of the payload makes me think it’s hot. Right and proper. That I was made to be taken under a man’s wing, and the fact that I’m a lesbian simply makes the humiliation even more delicious.

“That means I am legally responsible for anything you two do,” Reinhard continues. “Now, I have no doubt you’re not going to rob a bank or anything, but still, this is a huge responsibility, Audrey. If you fail to do your taxes properly, that’s on me. If you ever become indebted, that’s on me.”

He shakes his head. “I didn’t want to go ahead with the ritual, remember. It’s not like I’m looking forward to the liability.” 

I stare at him slack-jawed. I’ve just lost all my rights. Yes, it sucks that he’s now liable, but how can he not see the chasm between our two setbacks? Why can’t he show a little empathy?

In fact… why did he feel entitled to command me to calm down? 

I’m about to ask him this very question when Leah speaks up, with a mousy, unassuming voice she’s never used, not even when playing sub with me.

“I’m sorry, sir,” she says, and I sharply draw in breath at the word sir. “Is there any way we can make it up to you?” 

In my complete bewilderment, I can’t decide if she means that genuinely, or if she’s flirting with him, with me right here in the room with them. 

“Leah, what the fuck?” I manage to blurt out. “Where is your outrage? Your resistance? He’s bossing us around like we’re children, women’s rights have been erased with the stroke of a pen, and that’s how you react? You ask him how you can make it up to him?”

The look Leah gives me is devoid of any expression. Then, she turns back to Reinhard, awaiting instructions. He in turn studies us both closely, like a lab worker looking at a petri dish.

It crushes me to realise it, but Leah’s just… defeated. I’ve seen that look before. She reminds me of megaphone girl right now.

Knees hitting the floor, a hand on her head, a zipper being pulled down… 

“It’s fine,” Reinhard says, waving his hand. “Just go wash the dishes. Then, the laundry, and then, you may study.” 

“Yes sir,” she whispers, and all the words I could associate with her demeanour rush through my mind, a maelstrom of sexualised images that make me reel backwards into the wall. 

My girlfriend is subservient, open, available, submissive, obedient. My own best friend has tamed her, is prying her away from me. She’s being demoted, made to be docile, unassuming… domesticated.

And I’m next. How long before I end up like her? Before my resistance is deliciously, systematically, expertly disassembled? How long before I start to love it? Beg for it?

I watch, stunned, as Leah takes the dishes, heading towards the kitchen, like so many women before her, confined and reduced to a helping role in the household. Like so many women right now.

Then, at last, my dread wins over the payload, just this once. I bolt into the hallway, rushing towards my room, my heart thundering against my ribcage. I need to act, before it’s too late. I need to leave.

Before I, too, have a chance to fall. 

***

“What are you doing?” 

I curse under my breath, struggling to keep my body from snapping to attention at the sound of the voice. His voice. 

I keep mindlessly throwing clothing into my luggage, fighting to hold my composure. God, I must look like such a cliché. I’m not even paying attention, just dumping a whirlwind of scattered clothes in before I take the suitcase and head out of my apartment.

And then… what? Back to my parents? I stop for a second, considering the absurd question: has dad collared mum already? 

Maybe they’ll do it with good intentions, to prevent other men from potentially collaring her at work.

Then, she’ll find herself following, submitting and falling. Because there’s no such thing as a nominal collaring, and the payload will disassemble us all, until we’re all simpering housewives and sex slaves, our entire lives centered on being at the beck and call of men. 

“Where do you think you’re even gonna go?” Reinhard says, echoing my own thoughts. “This thing is everywhere.”

I slam the lid of my suitcase, trying to stop my hands from shaking. “Yes,” I say, my voice trembling. “Nowhere is safe.”

“It’s safe here.” 

I turn to face him, and even that takes all my residual willpower. The programming demands that I look up at him from my knees, but I won’t give in. Even if my resistance is slackening, and my arousal is climbing…

“No, it’s not. Reinhard, I want you to take this collar off.” 

He arches an eyebrow. “You can take it off yourself, it’s not like I’ve commanded you to wear it.” 

“You know exactly what I mean!” I say, my voice coarse as I try to shout, to sound assertive… and mostly fail.

At that, Reinhard just shrugs, but I know it’s feigned calm. I can see the twitching of his fingers. The way his lips are quivering. I know he wants to jump me, and he’s barely able to contain himself.

To the true part of me, that’s the most heartbreaking thing that could ever happen to me. But to the part warped by the programming, it would be something else entirely…

“Audrey, I can’t remove the payload. Even if I undo the ritual, and free you… You will end up taking orders from a man, until this is reversed. It’s just how you’re coded, now.”

I snarl in frustration. I can almost hear the unspoken might as well be me in the air. That really, really wounds me. Worse than even the payload itself, because its developers, at least, are strangers and fanatics. Reinhard has been my friend for so many years. And what is he now?

Master, the programming whispers, and I shake my head furiously, like I’m trying to physically throw it off. 

“I regret trusting you,” I say, my words laced with venom. “Maybe I should have found a gay man to collar me. He wouldn’t lust after me the way you are right now. It’s because of your crush, isn’t it? Don’t think I don’t know.” 

For the first time since the event, he actually looks stung, and I know I’ve hit a nerve. Even his cheeks gain a bit of colour, but he still tries to dissimulate.

“Sure, you could have done that,” he says, ignoring the latter part of my comment. “But it wouldn’t have changed much.”

When faced with my sceptical look, he continues. “Audrey, you still wouldn’t be free. It doesn’t matter if your master chooses not to give you orders, that’s still his decision to make, not yours. You’d still be a slave, pretending at freedom.”

“I know that!” I say, hating that my voice sounds shrill and petulant, rather than assertive and confident. “What other option do I have? All I can ask for is live a normal life, until this is undone! Do you have the spine to give it to me? To treat me like a thinking adult who can choose for herself?”

I blink, realising that, in my fervor, I’ve stepped closer to Reinhard, and right into his personal space. 

That was a mistake. 

I’m acutely aware of his physical presence, of his sheer maleness. I feel it pull me in, like a star’s gravity well, drawing a planet into its orbit.

I take a faltering step back, lowering my voice. “Did I choose wrong? Do you have the moral temper to do what’s right, Reinhard?”

He looks away from me, embarassed, ashamed. Maybe I’ve gotten through to him. I dare hope, for a moment, that he’ll return to the person he was before the event. Before the ritual.

“You know, Audrey,” he says at last, looking back at me. “I really thought I did. I was wrong.” 

And then, he takes a step towards me. 

I immediately step away, recoiling from his sheer aura, his presence, his magnetism. The payload’s reacting to his aggression, working overtime to make me feel smaller and smaller as he draws closer to me.

Eventually, my back hits the wall. I feel like a cornered animal, a wild horse about to be wrangled and broken in for the saddle. It terrifies me, but I’ve been holding out for so long, and the programming is so relentless…

I can’t deny the quivering in my thighs, the lancing sexual heat that courses through me at the idea of Reinhard placing his boot on my neck and pulling my leash upwards, imposing his manly authority over the defeated lesbian he’s craved most of his adult life… 

“Reinhard,” I say, realising I’m running out of options; that every breath of his pheromones, every second he provides fuel for the payload, I draw nearer to my destruction.  “Please…” 

“Turns out I’m not that kind of person,” he says. “Too curious. Spent too much time reading vivid descriptions… imagining this moment, how it would feel: the adrenaline, the power…” 

His hands shoot out to grip my wrists, pinning them against the wall. Strangely enough, my fear is subsiding, sinking down alongside my resistance. A tidal wave of arousal is climbing up, drowning my perception with its thunderous roar.

“I shouldn’t be doing this, I know,” he says, his lips nibbling at my ear. “However…”

I gasp, altering my stance, spreading my legs a little, thrusting my chest out, to give him easier access. Just like in my dreams. I realise now the dreams weren’t simply meant to convert me.

They were meant to prepare me. To make sure that, when a man finally decided to stake his claim on me, I would deliver to perfection, satisfy his every expectation.

I’ve never felt this way for a man. Hell, I’ve never felt this way for a girl, because this isn’t really arousal, and this isn’t really me.

It’s my brainwashing, disassembling every piece of me that ever thought I was an equal to a man. And making me love it. 

How can simple, normal, biological arousal compete with the payload? With a programme that was tailor-made to fire every neuron in a woman’s body, until her soft feminine brain got literally fried by overloaded levels of impossible pleasure? 

There’s no denying the slick wetness between my legs, the inviting pout of my lips, the dilation of my pupils, or the way my breath is coming in fast and ragged.

Reinhard’s body presses against mine, and for the first time in my life, an erection touches me – his straining cock pokes at my thigh through his pants and my jeans. 

It should revolt me, but even that’s enough to shock my body with a jolt of electricity.

“You never did understand the full power of the payload,” Reinhard whispers. “And yet I tried to tell you.”

“Yes,” I say, and it comes out in a throaty, moaning voice that drips with lust.

“The true power of the payload isn’t its ability to make you submit,” Reinhard says, kissing his way to my throat, gently nibbling at the skin with his teeth. 

“It’s that it makes you want to submit,” he says, smiling at the soft, feminine gasps leaving my throat every time he touches me. “If I were to step away now, you would beg me to claim you.”

“God…” I say, whimpering, realising I’m pressing myself against his erection.

And then, the unthinkable happens. Reinhard does step away. All physical contact ceases as he looks me up and down. 

The sudden emptiness I feel, the craving for his warmth, for his body slamming mine down with his weight… that’s what convinces me he’s right.

I want this. I want to serve him. That’s what’s going to break me. The payload isn’t going to turn me into a puppet, it’s going to make me an addict to my own humiliation.  Desperately hooked, and unable to let go.

I descend to my knees, throwing myself at his feet, kissing his leather shoes. It’s no chaste pecking this time. I smooch slavishly, trying to adhere as close to the ground as I can.  I realise I’m virtually humping the air right now, like I’m a stupid bitch in heat, completely debasing myself before this man.

And the humiliation lances through me like pure arousal, eliciting a desperate, needy moan out of my throat.

“I consider myself owned,” I say, in a worshipful tone, like I would a prayer. “I consider myself owned!”

I’m begging, hoping, pleading for his answer, his acknowledgement, his validation. But Reinhard says nothing.

Instead, it’s another fateful sound I hear above me, as I lie prostrate at his feet.

That of a zipper, being pulled down.

4 – A Certain Technique

I can’t believe this is happening. I’ve never seen, much less touched a cock in person, and now I’m kneeling before Reinhard, as he pulls it out and starts to stroke it. 

I stare at his bulging erection with a mix of apprehension and worshipfulness, a combination that would have seemed both corny and ridiculous to me not long ago. But that was before the event. Before the payload.

Before the fall. 

“You don’t know half of what the payload is actually capable of,” Reinhard says, his voice dripping hunger. “In fairness I couldn’t believe it either, when I started reading about it…”

“Reinhard, please,” I say, not even knowing whether I’m begging him to stop, or to show me. “I -”

I don’t get to finish the thought. Reinhard draws closer, looming over me, and slaps me. Then, while I’m still reeling, his hand swings again, backhanding me. 

It’s not hard enough to actually hurt, but the sting, the humiliation, his brazen confidence that he can do this to me, take my breath away. And, and, and…

Oh no.

My sex is radiating heat, pulsing in anticipation. I’ve never, ever been this wet before in my entire life.

I look up at him, my eyes widening in shock. 

“That was… so hot…”

There’s a cruel fire in Reinhard’s eyes as he smiles wolfishly. “This will happen every time you’re disrespected, debased, or humiliated. And the best part? You’ll build up tolerance to it.” 

“No…” I say, shaking my head in disbelief at the perfection of the trap.

“Yes,” Reinhard says, his voice steely. “You will keep seeking the high, the thrill. You will accept more and more humiliations, just to feel it again. What used to be unthinkably humiliating for you will become your new normal.” 

I stared up at him, wide-eyed, torn between dread and desperate arousal. Even something as simple as the slap has immediately changed me. I feel meeker for it, like he’s slapped bitchiness and entitlement and feminism out of me. 

I reach out, kissing the hand that’s slapped me, while his other hand tousles my hair. The sound of every kiss is a new seal on my downfall. My own self-sabotaging brain keeps supplying rationalisations for my own demotion.

He’s bigger and stronger than me. Of course he gets to push me around. I’ve had to kiss his shoes, what kind of independent person does that? He literally gets to slap me around when I’m being a silly girl. 

He’s talking down to me while I’m acting as a toy for his amusement. And because of the programming, I get wetter every time he says something demeaning about me. 

His cock slaps my cheeks, making me squeal – its texture feels odd, hard and soft at the same time, but I still find myself rubbing my cheek against it, like an affectionate pet.  Then, his hands twirl my hair, shortening my leash, angling my face towards his cock.

“Suck my cock, Audrey,” he says, breathless, and I know this is a dream come true for him. “Worship it with your lesbian lips. Acknowledge yourself owned.”

I whimper in desperation, pleasure, and defeat as he pulls my head into his lap, piercing my lips with his throbbing cock. As I close my mouth around it to form as tight a seal as I can, I breathe in his musky scent, letting it chain me down at his feet.

Disassembling my resistance.

“Yes, fuck,” he says, “fucking finally. Show me you know who calls the shot here, girl. I’m your boss.” 

I moan around his dick, his words going straight to my pussy, stimulating it more than any sex ever could. I try to think of how Leah looks when deepthroating my strapon, so I close my eyes, distending my facial features to look as attractive as possible, stretching my lips as they slide up and down on his shaft.

I make sure to alternate closing my eyes in worship, and looking up at him with big, submissive, terrified eyes. The kind of girly look that pleads for a man’s mercy, such as there is to be found. 

This is the very first blowjob Reinhard is getting from his longtime crush, and I want him to enjoy every minute of it. Absurdly, there’s barely any room in my mind for the consideration that it’s my first blowjob, period, and that I certainly never dreamed I would be giving one. Much less enjoying it.

But Reinhard ensures my enjoyment with a stream of humiliating words.

“A woman’s mouth was never meant to be heard,” he says, throwing his head back in delight. “Just to be felt around a dick. God, you’ve cockteased me for years, you and your girlfriends… but that ends today. You’re mine now.”

“Mmmmppphhh,” I mumble in meek apologetic agreement around his cock. I feel so utterly cowed, so ultimately female, so… domesticated. I’m imagining every girlfriend I’ve ever had, kneeling alongside me, waiting for the privilege of worshipping Master with their lips. 

I wonder how many of them have been collared already. I hope they’re being good, obedient dykes for their master like I am. I hope if any of them are still free, that they get collared soon.

I’m being conditioned to think these vile thoughts, purely because they go straight to my cunt, and it’s working, and the fact that it’s working tells me I really am a dumb slut, that I really do deserve this.

I ignore the soreness in my jaw, concentrating on my duty, on my future as his sex kitten, his domestic little pet. Is he going to move in with us? Is he going to break us up? Maybe  I can convince him to let me stay with Leah, if I’m good enough for him…

That’s when Reinhard suddenly snaps me out of my reverie, pulling out of my mouth. He’s panting hard, sweating, his muscular chest rising and falling.

“Get on the bed, slave,” he says. It’s so simple a word, slave, but it makes me cream myself. That’s what I am to him now. Our friendship is over, because I’m not good enough to be his equal. God, that’s so hot.

I get to my feet, struggling to keep my balance, but before I can approach the bed, he’s thrown me on it, landing atop me with his body weight. He pins me down, one knee against my back, as he fumbles with my jeans, sliding them off.

My underwear follows, and I know I’m presenting my defeated cunt to a domineering man, for the very first time. 

God, I can’t believe how good it feels, being held down by a man like this. I can barely contain my anticipation as he pulls my hips upward, until I’m on all fours, my face down on the mattress under the palm of his open hand. 

I let out a started mewl as Reinhard’s fingers toy with my sex, giving my clit a few hesitant strokes, gauging my reaction. He lets out a satisfied chuckle when I start trying to hump his fingers. 

“Whoever designed this is a fucking genius,” he says, and I have to agree. God, the speed and totality of my breakdown is insane. I was a lesbian and a feminist literal days ago.  Now…

Now, I’m a submissive puddle of girly weakness, waiting for my master to finally claim me. 

I never understood how deep the link is between subjugation and femininity. But now I do, and I’ll never look at men the same way again. 

Then, without warning, Reinhard’s hand closes in a fist around my hair, and pulls.

As my upper body climbs in the air, he aligns his hips with mine, thrusting into me with all his strength. I gasp as he enters me, my back arching to meet his pull on my hair, my cunt clenching around his cock as it defiles me.

There’s no going back from this. I can’t un-suck his cock, or undo the fact that a man has fucked me. At last, the programming has won. I’ve been claimed as a man’s slut. 

I’m sure something as simple as penetration isn’t supposed to feel this good. But to my programming-addled brain, this is literally too much pleasure to handle. Lubricated and aroused like never before, I find myself babbling incoherently as I begin to enthusiastically bounce on Reinhard’s dick. 

“Millions of years of evolution have sculpted your body to be a sex toy for men,” Reinhard says, his free hand exploring my thighs, my breasts, my neck while he pulls on my hair like a set of makeshift reins.

The misogyny makes me break out in a series of guttural moans.

“I have plans for you and Leah,” he continues, pistoning in and out of me, gaining ground inside me with every new thrust. “She’s so submissive it’s barely any fun bossing her around. You, on the other hand, so willful and strong… I’ll love breaking you.”

“Master!” I shout, the one coherent word I can manage as he literally fucks feminism and independence out of me.

“That’s right,” he says. “Leah, she can continue to study. I might even let her look for a job after she gets a degree. Nothing too prestigious of course, something more befitting her station… secretarial work, so she doesn’t get uppity.”

I widen my eyes at the implication of what he’s saying, and my mind thinks back to Frida, now reduced and vanquished, and professor Watkins, and Cindy’s disappointment when I let her know I’m not coming to class, ever again.

“You, now…” he continues, my cunt clenching harder around his cock. “You, I have different plans for. And trust me, for what I have in mind, you certainly don’t need a degree -”

I cut him off, his words drowned out by my desperate scream as I climax around him. The devastating shockwaves of my orgasm radiate outward from my sex, destroying all defense in their place until nothing is left of me except my submission and my pleasure.

A cock has just taken me to orgasm. No, a man stripping me of my education has just taken me to orgasm. And it’s nothing like any climax I’ve ever known. It’s like there’s a clit in my brain, like the programming has created whole new pleasure centers for Reinhard to tease, torture, and eventually conquer.

“Remember I’m your legal guardian now,” he says, huffing and puffing behind me as I grind myself against his hips. “I’ll take away your bank accounts…”

And again, my scream cuts him off. The mere idea of surrendering my material, financial autonomy to a man is enough to hit my fragile female brain like a hammer on a pane of glass. I shout my servile orgasm for all the world to hear, wondering if Leah is touching herself to my unconditional surrender.

I hope she is, the little slut. 

“You’re no longer a lesbian,” Reinhard says, tugging on my hair, making my back adhere to his chest as he bottoms out inside me. “And you’re no longer Leah’s girlfriend. She’s mine now – submissive and inferior, but a girlfriend nonetheless. You…”

He bites my neck, his free hand twisting my nipples, my shaking body held upwards only by his strong arms. “You’re a slavegirl. My slavegirl. I have so many fantasies I want to live out with you, and trust me: during so many years lusting after you, I’ve had the time to think of so many of them…”

I whimper and moan at his utter conquest of me, relishing his breath on my neck.

“I’m so sorry,” I say, snivelling, grovelling, begging. Following, and submitting, and falling.

“What for, slut?”

“I’m sorry that I ever dared compete in the same job market as you,” I say, my every muscle trembling with electricity. “I’m sorry I always acted like I was your equal. I’m sorry I’ve refused you! I should have given myself over to you the moment I noticed you wanted me, Master!”

“Oh, you will be,” Reinhard says, slapping my rear, which threatens to send me over the edge again all by itself. “Thankfully that can be rectified now. You’re so grateful to the developers for this, aren’t you?”

Oh god, he’s really going to make me say it. I’m really going to have to thank them. I…

I’m an addict looking for a fix. And so, I know no hesitation.

“I’m so grateful!” I shout at the top of my lungs. “I want to kiss their cocks in reverence! I’ll write it all over my social media, I’ll share my experience in catcher spaces! Thank you for letting me know that women aren’t people, that I belong to Master! Thank you thank you thank you!”

And then, for a third time, I orgasm. My brain short-circuits as I experience a system crash, and it feels like I’m literally cumming my brains out, growing dumber and simpler and more docile with every twitch and spasm of my broken body. 

That’s fine. I won’t be needing brains anymore. 

Reinhard lets me go, and I collapse face-first on the bed, winded and in shock. But I still mewl in pleasure when he lies right against my back, crushing me into the mattress with his weight.

I know he hasn’t cum yet, and I don’t know what supernatural endurance has allowed him to do that. But I know he’ll have his dues, and that my work is not yet done. 

Tousling my hair, however, he keeps speaking into my ear. 

“You remember I mentioned certain techniques to domesticate women?” He says, his voice so deep, so commanding, so dominant. 

I nod, meekly, whispering my answer like it’s a half-remembered prayer. “Wondrous and terrifying results…” 

“Yes,” Reinhard says, and I can hear the sadistic smile in his voice as he draws closer to my ear.

“Let me show you.”

Epilogue – A Fallen Woman

“Mmmpphh?” I mutter. It’s a soft call to get attention. My knees are starting to tingle, after all.

“Quiet,” Leah says from above me, her eyes narrowing. “And stay still. If I misapply the nail polish, we’re starting over. In the same position.” 

I mumble softly in apology, resigning myself to acting as her footstool for a little while longer.

Unlike me, she gets to sit on the sofa, the beautiful soles of her feet – pampered, soft, unblemished – adhering completely to my defeated face as she paints her toenails. 

A part of me really appreciates the many layers at play here, of course. By encouraging intra-female competition, catchers like Reinhard can further the domestication of our gender.  Too busy to fight over scraps of power that fall from their table, we keep one another down for their amusement.

In my peculiar case, there’s more to it than that, of course.

When I was Leah’s girlfriend, I used to utterly dominate her in bed. Making me her maid and waiting girl has utterly destroyed what sliver of independence and pride I could still hold, after Master first turned me straight.

She was by far less academically gifted than me. So she gets to keep studying, and can look forward to a secretarial position somewhere down the line, while I have to stay at home, cooking and cleaning. 

The reversal is obvious. I was the one more out of line with the new order, dreaming above my station. Leah submitted immediately, while I resisted. That’s why I need to be brought down harder.

My humiliation-addicted brain doesn’t mind that at all. 

There’s more, of course, there’s always more. Reinhard picks what Leah is allowed to wear, but at least she gets some selection of skirts and dresses, and even jeans on the occasions when he’s feeling generous.

My closet consists of nothing but skimpy, scandalous French maid uniforms. As I’ve come to learn, it was a big kink for Master, so of course I’m expected to submit to it in full. And I can’t certainly say it doesn’t match my role…

A cleaning girl and a sex slave. That’s what I have become, and what I am destined to be under Master’s generous guidance. 

There is one more major difference between Leah and I. She is allowed to speak.

I don’t just muffle beneath her soles because her naked heels press harshly down against my lips. I do it because Master has taken away my ability to speak without getting prompting and/or permission from a man. 

That is a humiliation so devastating that even thinking about it is enough to bring me close to the edge of climax. What is a woman without her voice? Without the ability to express her opinions and feelings, or even just to verbally acknowledge orders?

Just a set of holes, that’s what.

And to my domesticated mind, it seems only fitting. 

I look up at Leah with big, pleading eyes, but I know they won’t move her. She takes some pleasure out of our reversal, but even if she didn’t, she would carry it out to perfection.  This is Master’s will, after all.

“Done!” She says at last, removing her feet from my face and lowering them to the ground. She cocks her head, waiting for me to perform due reverence, which I immediately do. 

I prostrate myself before my ex-girlfriend, blowing her nails dry. Then, I start placing worshipful kisses all along her soles, arches, heels, and toes. She’s kind enough to lift each foot in turn to allow me to reach the soles with my conquered lips. 

I even gently fellate her big toes when I’m done, a gesture that makes her rub her thighs in pleasure, as always.

“That’s a good doggy,” she says, ruffling my hair. “And just in time, too. It’s five o’clock, and you know what that means. Run along to Master, come on.” 

“Gnnnhh,” I mumble in appreciation and arousal. Leah is used to my non-verbal communication by now, and dismisses me with a flick of her hand. I crawl on all fours out the room, and only once in the hallway am I allowed to stand up.

I compose myself as best I can, making sure I look perfect for Master, before marching down the hallway.

Yes, there are many differences between Leah and I, but in one thing, we are the same. We are both collared women, our Master’s property, to do with as he sees fit. We’ve both had to abandon our life plans, and accept whatever terms he saw fit to impose upon us.

Just like the rest of womankind, whose enslavement deepens with every passing day.

In the future, I tell myself, feminism and the fight for equality will be remembered as a barely detectable blip in history. A small flicker of light that burned for a very short time, then faded, and died.

I don’t know if getting to live that transition in person is a blessing, or a curse. 

By the time I make my way to Master’s study – which used to be mine, of course – I drop to the ground again, crawling in on all fours. 

He looks up from his laptop, smiling at me.

“You’re punctual, fuckpuppet,” he says. “Get to work, dyke.” 

“Mmmpphh,” I mumble wordlessly. He clocks off work at this time, and always likes to end the day with a nice blowjob, so I do as I am bid, and slide under his desk. 

We do this every afternoon, with me eagerly tasting his precum while he holds my head, treating my face like it’s little more than masturbatory aid for him. I swallow most of the time, but sometimes he’ll finish on my face, and order me to leave his cum to dry for the rest of the evening.

Marking me as his property, with his scent and with his seed. 

Even before the event, a man facefucking a woman would sometimes forget that she was a person, or so Master has told me once. But now, whenever he masturbates himself with my lips, it’s different.

Now I’m the one who remembers that I’m not a person. If I ever was, the payload put an end to that for good. Now I’m just a warm receptacle for cum, my mouth existing to perform suction around cock. To be felt, rather than heard. 

It’s part of who I am, of my feminine biology. Even if it wasn’t, the fact that I was so pliable to the programming speaks for itself. The simple truth is that women are easy to tame… and that men have a sixth sense for putting them in their place.

I used to think this was predatory behaviour, but now I understand this is just what men do, in the same way that cats will just toy with mice and lizard that trespass in an apartment. It’s in their nature to be predators, and it’s in our nature to be prey. 

I begin to gag and glurk as Master breaches the entrance to my throat. My gag reflex has been trained out of me, but even so, as his hand palms down on my head and his cock tames my throat, my eyes begin to water. 

He starts truly fucking my face, then, enjoying the gluk gluk gluk sounds. I’m sure they’re more interesting than anything I could possibly have to say. As always, the clit in my brain throbs at the utter feminine meekness I display for him, and I quietly climax around his cock.

It’s nowhere near as strong as the first time, of course, but that doesn’t worry me. When I really need to re-experience the thrill, there’s always more parts of my life I can surrender to him. More fellow women I can betray. More dehumanising humiliations I can cook up for myself…

At last, Master’s cock quivers inside my mouth, and that’s enough to make me squeal with pure womanly joy. He pulls back just enough to let me breathe, and then the first rope of his cum hits the back of my mouth.

I do my best to swallow, drooling around his cock, rope after rope painting my mouth white, marking his territory. As the last dribble of his cum is deposited atop my tongue, I withdraw my lips with a final suction, and loudly gulp it all down. 

I suckle and clean at Master’s softening cock, and follow him as he rolls the chair slightly away from his desk – just far back enough that he can look down at me, cleaning his cock. 

He studies my eyes, as if looking for something.

“There’s no dignity left in you,” he says at last. “Is there?”

“Mmmpphh,” I reply, shaking my head around his cock.

“Just as I thought,” he says, withdrawing from me. Before I can offer him tissue, however, his hand lands atop my head again, pushing me down. 

When I’ve descended out of his reach, his booted foot lifts in the air. The flat sole of his boot settles firmly against my neck, and then he pushes, pinning me to the floor.

“Stay there,” he says, but it’s a redundant order.

The mental image of it all – me splayed on the floor, broken and defeated, with his boot literally planted on my neck, is enough to make me quietly climax again. It’s a tiny, subdued orgasm this time, but I welcome it nonetheless. 

As his sole moves away from my neck, adhering to my cheek, I relax and let it crush my face against the ground. It feels like heaven.

A strange acceptance washes over me, and for the first time since the event, I realise I am fully at peace with what happened. Nothing of the old Audrey is left – nothing of her resistance, anyway.

I let out a little, submissive oh, sighing out in relaxation and defeat, the slackening of all resistance. My facial features distend, and my body goes limp and slumps while Reinhard poses with me as a hunter would with his slain prey. 

And I realise, with a tingle of pleasure, that this is a perfect metaphor for the state of the world right now. 

Me, a former lesbian and feminist, not even on her knees anymore, but acting as a footstool for her male conqueror, while he sits at the desk where he works and wins bread for the household… all of this, having just obediently swallowed his cum. 

It could become a painting, encapsulating every minor nuance of the modern world. It’s worth more than a thousand words, it’s… perfect. 

Some people might fool themselves that this is temporary, that the payload is going to get rolled back eventually, but I know that Cindy was right. I know that this single, magnificent image represents everything: the past, the present… and the future.

It’s strange to think that I actually used to read books and form opinions on them, before the event. But I’m kind of glad that I did, because now, a distant quote from Orwell comes back to my mind, unbidden. With a suitable alteration, it perfectly describes the speed and depth of the fall of women.

The future is man’s boot, pressing down on woman’s face.

Forever.

THE END 

More stories like The Fall Of Women are available on my Patreon! By subscribing, you will get plenty: every year, I write on average 250,000 words of erotica.

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[intoxicatingimmediacy]

A Long Talk With clipping. About CLPPNG

10 years later, Daveed Diggs, Jonathan Snipes, and William Hutson discuss their sophomore album and Sub Pop debut.

[...] In the 10 years since clipping.’s first studio album, CLPPNG, was released with legendary Seattle label Sub Pop, a lot has happened: Donald Trump, #BlackLivesMatter, the pandemic, Hamilton (which might seem out of place in this list, but it was certainly life-changing for Diggs, who suddenly found himself a household name—and not for his rap projects, but for his swaggering, indelible Broadway portrayal of America’s third president, Thomas Jefferson). But despite Diggs’s meteoric rise and clipping.’s growing cult following—despite undergoing the hellscape of the past decade like the rest of us—the beating (or, perhaps, beeping) heart of the trio remains the same: a sheer love for music, experimentation and each other.

[...] I love that you have this philosophy of constraints that’s really generative, but at the same time, you don’t constrain yourself to the constraints, and you’re willing to let them go in service of a song. Where does that philosophy originate for you all?

Snipes: The sweet spot, at least for me, is when the concept is incredibly audible, you know? It’s actually not when we gear the concept with layers and production stuff, it’s when we actually are very, very narrow in how we present it. And there are times where the concept becomes inaudible, when we’ve done all this work and we don’t get credit for it. In those cases, we’re pretty quick to abandon it and just make something that has, like, an aesthetic. But I think the real goal for me when doing this really conceptual stuff—and not all our songs are like this—are creating songs that you hear and you know exactly how they’re working, like “Run For Your Life” or “Get Up.” And it’s still a good song and the process is communicated. It’s like a weird little triumvirate of all these things lighting up. This was true to a degree in “Dream,” too—there are a lot of concepts sort of coexisting in that song. We have field recordings of birds cut into rhythmic loops so that they’re falling on beat; we have these drums re-amped from hundreds of feet away in nature, and I think that’s audible. I think you can tell that that’s happening. And then Daveed is rapping very closely into binaural mics and a dummy head—the idea is, if you listen to it in headphones, it’s like Daveed is literally behind your head, which…sort of works! [laughter]

[...] Misogyny has a long history in rap—and in most music, honestly—and while clipping. plays on those tropes, it often feels carefully constructed, such that it doesn’t ever quite feel like it’s perpetuating them. I’d imagine that’s always a bit of a minefield, though, so how much does that awareness play into your songwriting? Or is it more of a subconscious choice?

Diggs: I think we’re aware of it, or we were certainly aware of it early on—I don’t think about it as much anymore. I used to be really careful about pronouns; there were songs that switched gender pronouns in the middle for no reason. Like, I used to be really specific about this.

Like “Wriggle,” I think—the chorus says “girl” one time and “boy” the next, if I’m remembering correctly.

Diggs: Yeah, “Wriggle” for sure. But even things about a single character, I used to try and sneak those things in just to complicate the issue a little bit more—and also to feed into the initial “no first-person,” the “no central narrative spine” or “human at the center” of these things. I mean, of course it’s clearly my voice rapping it, but I thought maybe, “Oh, if we complicate the gender pronouns a little bit, that might make it more amorphous, might help with that.”

Hutson: We definitely do use misogyny as a trope—as a feature of rap music. It’s deployed in our music in a way that’s, like, referential more than anything else. It feels like there’s scare quotes around it, almost. We started out as a band that played at The Smell and all these places where we knew the people who ran the place, we knew everyone in the audience, we knew all the other bands and they knew exactly who we were. So when Daveed would say “it’s clipping., bitch” at the end of the show, they knew we were sort of jokingly referring to Britney Spears saying that, you know? But once we grew outside of an audience that knew us personally, that knew our politics and felt safe with us, I think we started to use those things less often. We were aware of and worried that people are going to hear us and actually take meaning from it about who we are or might be, and we don’t want to have to go around explaining the use of that word. That word does still appear, but again, it always feels, to me, like it’s in some sort of scare quotes in the songs. I think it’s clear, and we haven’t run into people, like, willfully misinterpreting our deployment of misogyny as anything more than a sonic choice—as something that feels recognizable as rap. Because there are words like that, you know?

[...] Daveed, I think you’ve talked before about how rap is all about partying with the horror—through the horror—of day-to-day miseries, which feels like such a central thematic beat for clipping. The third-person-omniscient perspective of many of the songs on CLPPNG, for instance, allows for both distance and intimacy in a really interesting way. Thinking of, for example, “Inside Out” or “Check the Lock,” although that’s from a later album—those are songs that let us see reality in all its clinical brutality while still highlighting the desperate attempts to party through it. How do you maintain that balancing act of party/horror, of dance music/grim reality?

Diggs: I think horror is maybe too strong of a word, unless we’re talking about our horror records, but I think what rap music is good at is not only refusing to soften the hardness of reality but sometimes exaggerating it too—and then making it into party music. It’s the revelation in the late ‘70s, early ‘80s, that just because you were sampling disco music didn’t mean it had to be “hip hop, hippie to the hippie, the hip, hip a hop, and you don’t stop,” you know what I’m saying? Like, you could tell real life stories on top of danceable beats. That’s the thing that rap music has always been really good at—so we’re just continuing that. Although these are not real life stories, they are doing the same thing. They’re not fun stories, on top of danceable beats.

Hutson: Yeah, they take place in a version of the world as it is. And joy still exists, even though everything looks terribly fucked up.

[...] Final question: Back in 2014, did you think that you would still be doing clipping. 10 years later?

Hutson: I think—well, we expected to still be friends, and we’d been friends for so long before this that I always figured this is a band that will never break up. We can always just make another album when we feel like it. So no, I didn’t think that we were going to be a success. But, I did think that the three of us would hang out and keep doing this, when we had the time, for, really, the rest of our lives.

[f0point5]

https://www.tumblr.com/f0point5/771693656797315072/sorry-but-womens-clothing-sizes-need-to-be

Oh it 💯 needs to be regulated. I feel like I get a complex every time I go shopping and the sizes vary SO much. It’s the worst when you get the exact same size of something but the new pair is some how smaller than the old pair even though they’re both the same size. It’s so annoying.

Yeah it’s crazy.

I spent 4 hours in a department store one day trying to figure out what clothes size I am and I still don’t even know? And I was at Nadine Merabi looking at a dress and I asked for a 12 because honestly I’d rather go bigger than have it not fit and the woman is like no sorry we only have a 6 do you want to try it and I’m like er no that won’t fit but now I’m like wtf do I know? Because sizing differs SO much.

And forget pretty little thing their vanity sizing in the mid-sizes is out of control. It’s really doing no one any favours.

Between vanity sizing (House of CB I’m looking at you be so real I’m not a small person if I’m fitting into an S what are the thin people wearing??) and not accounting for women having…bodies (aka making clothes that are only for flat chested people) it’s a minefield out there. And then top it off with the fact that some brands want a very small size range but they can’t be honest about it so a 12 is a 2XL. Can’t freaking shop online anymore.

Let me just say, when I was wayyy heavier, it was so much easier to buy clothes and just have them fit.

[fortheloveofaussiegrit]

Mark Webber has proven to be an invaluable and calming influence on Oscar Piastri. Picture: James Moy/XPB

Reflecting on Webber’s influence on his son, speaking to Speedcafe, Chris Piastri said: “Motor racing itself is always a confidence game

“When you get to the top level, just knowing that you can be fast is a big part of the battle.

“Throughout the season Oscar has just been slowly ticking the boxes, providing the little bits of feedback in the engineering debriefs, and it’s all boosting his confidence.

“And Mark has been fantastic in his support of Oscar, giving him that little nudge when he needs it, or calming him down when he needs it, not that Oscar needs calming down too much.

“It’s just really good to see. He’s doing what he did in F3 and F2, just going through the motions, doing what needs to be done, staying calm, and putting the lap in when it counts.”

Although it is now a decade since Webber last drove in F1, Chris Piastri believes the 46-year-old’s knowledge and retained links with the sport have been crucial for Oscar over these past few years of their relationship.

“Mark’s experience is invaluable for Oscar,” added Piastri Sr.

“He’s done it all before, and while not in this current era – he doesn’t really give Oscar much assistance in the car and honestly, I don’t think Oscar needs it – but it has helped with all the other stuff, the external stuff outside of racing.

“As you know, Formula 1 can be quite a political minefield, but Mark gives the guidance, and steadies the ship when needed.

“It’s that quiet achievement vibe. Mark did it his whole career and the personality of both Oscar and Mark are very similar. It’s just great to see, they’re a great team.”

[louisisalarrie]

https://www.tumblr.com/louisisalarrie/756385538769092608/hello-i-was-just-going-through-tumblr-to-try-and

I’d love to believe these but honestly they’re always the same kind of format. Anon implies they’re not a Larry so knew nothing previously of the Lou/Harry situation (mmmm); mention of them touching (or kissing) in the room (I highly doubt it!); Louis being loud (well I can believe that! But everyone knows that about Lou so it’s not necessarily proof); how Harry smells; mention of Louis being hot…it’s always the same. Like these receipts creators know what Larries want to read/hear and play into it.

It’s a bit cruel if you ask me. I’d love if it were true but I think they’re playing with the fandom.

Hello team!! Thank you for ur sweet messages xx I know I have been super busy and practically MIA for a hot second but regarding this, look…I did a post not too long ago about how everyone waves off receipts as fake. Listen, this day and age, the majority are. It was bad back in the day but now it’s even worse. So yes, a lot of the receipts we are getting are poorly faked/too good to be true/no proof and… that’s the way it is.

So, it’s easy to disregard receipts as fake. It’s very blindingly obvious when they are, and there were certain elements of that one that I’d use as evidence of it being fake, but the thing is… we just don’t fucking know. Right? We just don’t know without blatant proof which is so difficult in Larry’s case without someone losing their job/getting in MAJOR trouble.

Proof is essentially only if there is a photo/video that we can prove is NOT edited (or AI, which has made this increasingly more difficult from 10 years ago) and is clear and certain. Which just… exists, people do have this knowledge and these photos and stuff, but they don’t circulate for a multitude of reasons. So, anyway, we get nothing but words.

And like, I get it. Anyone can write an anon. Anyone can just type out something that seems vaguely realistic but reaches a bit into the fanfic world. It’s easy. However, it’s very hard to tell the real from the fake. And at the moment, the real is along the lines of receipts that aren’t super detailed, over the top, or just plain weird, and the ones we take as real are the more low key ones because it doesn’t make as much sense to fake a lowkey receipt, right?

Anyway, the euro one seemed kinda legit for me, but then after I reassessed, it didn’t seem as real. But, like, who knows? Some of the shit said in these receipts could be genuine but it’s disregarded because it’s seen as too over the top or whatever. But tumblr will always be a minefield for them, because of the anon feature.

So, take what you will, with a grain of salt. It’s getting increasingly harder these days to confirm receipts with less and less content of the two of them, and a bigger anti/solo fandom looking to stir the pot, and easier ways to edit things and it just… is what it is. I tend to reblog it so we can discuss, and if it’s not real and we verify that then it’s not real. But there are many that are that float around so I think, with caution and several grains of salt, do read them and make up your mind.

[the-one-where-casey-watches-tv]

The Bear episode 2.06 "Fishes"

This show is so special. It’s doing everything right- the soundtrack, the cast, the setting, the dialogue, the themes. But more than anything, its real charm lies in how deeply realistic these characters are. The Bear is both one of the most realistic and artistic shows I’ve ever seen, and that’s so exciting to me. In the 90s/2000s era of “quality TV” we had The Wire, hyper realistic, at times to the point of being monotonous, and 24, which readily sacrificed plausibility for relentless action. To me, The Bear represents all the best things that today’s tv is doing; first and foremost, it’s proving that gut-punching familiarity doesn’t have come at the cost of delivering a spectacle.

And nothing makes that point better than “Fishes”. Once again making no effort to be consistent in episode length, “Fishes” is an outlier of season 2 at over 40 minutes long, but it is worth every second. It’s a flashback from Christmas past as the entire Berzatto clan gathers for a very loud and eventful feast of the seven fishes.

Jeremy Allen White and Jon Bernthal in "Fishes". Image courtesy of IMDb.

First let’s talk about the elephant in the room- the amount of famous people in this episode. They just keep coming. I honestly consider the cast of this episode to be a spoiler- seeing and recognizing the stars as they arrived to Christmas dinner felt like a deliberate and important part of my experience as a viewer. Just like Carmy I got to smile and think “wow, it’s so good to see you, I didn’t know you were gonna be here!”- followed immediately by wondering what could possibly be in store with all these people together.

Jaime Lee Curtis takes it the fuck away as Donna in this episode. She called it the role of a lifetime and spent several minutes looking into Jeremy Allen White’s eyes before filming, and learning about the care that was taken in making this episode affirms for me that they knew exactly what they were doing. Before we see her, though, the episode opens on the three kids- Carmy, Sugar, Mikey- talking about her.

Sugar is begging Mikey to do something about their mom (“and here I am just fucking in the middle because you’re you and Carmy’s Carmy”), Mikey is begging her to resist the urge to ask Donna if she’s okay (“You ask somebody if they’re okay, they immediately start thinking they’re not acting okay… and that immediately makes them start not acting okay”), and Carmy is begging them both to come back inside so he’s not stranded with the rest of the family (“can you come inside and be you real quick? I don’t know how to deal with these people”).

Of course, it’s The Bear, so this exchange all happens quickly amidst some yelling from Fak, but nonetheless, there’s so much to this interaction if only there was time to unpack it. But things are moving right along and a beat later we’re in the kitchen with Carmy and Donna. Before this episode I often thought no environment looked less appealing than the back of house at The Beef. And then we cooked with Donna, and it made everything about these people make sense.

Jamie Lee Curtis in "Fishes". Image courtesy of IMDb.

It’s a nightmare kitchen, and not just because she’s cooking seven fishes in there. Carmy steps in like he’s entering a minefield, which he honestly is. Donna’s slamming things and throwing things and dropping things and setting an egg timer for God knows what. But through it all, we ride that fine line of chaos and rhythm, and there’s a musicality to the exchange that happens through all the noise:

“Carmen. I’m spilling shit everywhere. And I’m behind on the lobster. Carmen. I have a question. Cousin Michelle’s friend Steven, is he gay?”

“Is who gay? Ma, Ma, Ma, Ma. Why are you doing the seven fishes thing? Nobody ever eats this shit.”

“Steven. Is he gay? I mean, he seems kinda gay. You know, he’s arty and I mean I love him and everything but he’s gay. I think. And it’s tradition.”

“It’s tradition that he’s gay?’

“No. The seven fishes. What the fuck do you think I’ve been doing this since 4 o’clock this morning for?”

This seems like a good place to mention that cousin Michelle and her actually straight boyfriend Steven are none other than Sarah Paulson and John Mulaney. Even without us knowing Steven and Michelle, we’re able to recognize that they’re quirky yet endearing together and fit right in with the Berzatto clan.

For the first half of the episode Donna is wound pretty tight and everyone is treading very lightly around her (and making sure that Pete throws the tuna salad he brought the fuck away), but it has the endearing familiarity of any family gathering. She gently urges Richie’s pregnant wife to change clothes and lay down in her bed; she tells Carmy she loves him and she’s glad he’s home; she welcomes uncle Cicero into the kitchen with a kiss.

But soon, the relatively lighthearted family dysfunction transitions into a truly traumatic display that perfectly informs all the behavior we’ve seen from the Berzattos throughout the series. Something goes awry in Donna’s hell kitchen right as Sugar walks in, exploding with “It’s like I have to do everything for everyone. No one fucking lifts a finger to help me. Can you just go upstairs and get Dad’s gun out of my drawer, I think I’m just gonna blow my fuckin brains out, and then you guys can make dinner because I don’t think anyone would fuckin miss me.”

All the while, Carmy and Sugar reassure her that they are, in fact, actively helping her. When someone else walks in to offer a hand, Donna screams at them all to get out, out, “get the fuck out!!” In the hall, Sugar siphons a hug off cousin Steve, sharing an understanding of what they just walked into- and out of.

In the next room, Mikey and Richie are in the throes of recounting a tale from a wild time in their past. An unimpressed Uncle Lee, played by Bob Odenkirk, cuts them off, lamenting that he’s heard this story a thousand times. The conflict unearths what is clearly a deeper, longstanding beef (no pun intended) between Mikey and Lee. Lee doesn’t let up, spoiling the end of the story for the rest of the room and then declaring, for everyone to hear, that stories seem to be the only thing Mike is capable of finishing. Cicero enters the room and breaks the ice but doesn’t stop the tension from mounting between the two of them.

Bob Odenkirk in "Fishes". Image courtesy of IMDb.

As everyone sits at the table, Carmy makes good on his promise to handle Donna- he follows her upstairs after her explosion resulted in her storming out of the kitchen. Gently, with that faux nonchalance you use with volatile people, Carmy asks her what’s up. Donna releases that she can’t do this on her own anymore, but doesn’t think that anyone in this family cares about her at all. Like they’ve been doing this whole episode, Carmy lays reassurance on her that everyone is willing to help- to which she fires back that she had to beg him to come home. He insists that he is happy to be there and everyone downstairs appreciates her. She laments that she “makes beautiful things for them and no one makes beautiful things for me”.

Carmy doesn’t really know what to say to that- the self-imposed nature of the seven fishes hellscape is almost comically obvious to everyone but her. Instead, he offers to walk her downstairs and sit at the table together. She declines, and when he decides to wait until she’s ready she asks him why he’s treating her like a child. In the briefest moment that Carmy lets go unchecked, she also calls him Michael. But a moment later she full-name’s him with an icy “Carmen Anthony Berzatto do we have a problem?” He says no and the next moment she’s breaking down in tears, and on a note of relative peace and love Carmy leaves her to go sit.

He enters the dining room just in time to see tension resurface between Mikey and Uncle Lee. After some taunting from Uncle Lee, Mikey throws a fork at him. It gets a reaction from Lee, so he wants to throw another, but the consensus at the table is that Lee’s being a jagoff, but Michael is making everybody nervous. No one will give him their fork. Lee lays on honestly brutal onslaught of verbal abuse “this guy’s nothing and he’s nobody… you loser… you loser fuckin monster.”

We have to spend a minute on the horrendously mean things that have been said to both Mikey and Richie. It’s actually crazy how often they’re called losers, nothing etc. It would be enough to break anybody. If the rest of this gathering wasn’t such a fragile Jenga tower I would’ve been rooting for him to throw the second fork.

Alas, they’re interrupted by Donna finally gracing the table with her presence, eliciting a round of applause. For a second it looks like they might salvage this night. Steven says a grace that I’m pretty sure they let John Mulaney write himself and it’s very nice. So nice that it makes Donna start to cry again.

But if you forbid a question in act one, you can bet someone’s gonna ask it in act three. Sugar just can’t help herself. She asks her mom if she’s okay. It’s the straw that broke the camel’s back. “Oh, Natalie. Do you know how much I fucking hate that you ask me that. Do you ask the rest of these people if they’re okay? Do I not look okay, Natalie? Did I not just bust my ass all day for you motherfuckers? Am I okay- Are you motherfuckers okay?! Fuck you! Fuck you! Fuck you, Natalie.” The whole time Sugar is so meek I could cry. Interjecting when she can that she didn’t mean it like that and can they go upstairs, but Donna just explodes and then storms out of the room alone.

Abby Elliott and Gillian Jacobs in "Fishes". Image courtesy of IMDb.

There’s a brief moment of a kind of relief, of the thing you were dreading finally happening, and the table lets out some nervous breaths and chuckles. Then Mikey throws the fork. It’s instant. Lee lunges at him, Mikey flips the table, everyone is on their feet keeping the two apart. The thing that stops it is maybe the only thing that could stop it. Donna drives her car through the wall. The episode fades out over Mikey banging on the car, repeating “Ma! Open the door! What did you do?! Open the door! Ma!!”

This is really just another love letter from me to The Bear, but there was a full house in this episode, and I obviously didn’t get to everyone! Did “Fishes” resonate with you? What were your favorite parts that I didn’t cover? Why is this show nominated for outstanding comedy? Did the academy see this one?

[twopoppies]

I wonder how much of the young twitter fans have affected things around bgg and even Larry to an extent. You have journalists or people in the media who have commented on things Louis has done and their timelines get flooded with responses about bgg and Larry. I’m sure these kids don’t mean ill but they’re acting like they’re doing something great when in fact they’re not. I can’t image trying to navigate a career with that minefield.

Nor can I. The atmosphere has changed enormously in the past few years. I don’t like the energy of the fandom anymore. I honestly think it’s much more difficult to find the joy here and I really do understand why so many people have left.

[citrus-cactus]

I know you're a major Daisuke/Wallace shipper, but may I ask which other ships with Daisuke you like too, if any? (^・ω・^ )

(in my case i multiship him with a ton of characters... Lately more into TakeDai thanks to Shiha lol)

Ahhh, sorry it took so long for me to answer this!!

Oh, Ni. NI. Do you really want to open up the floodgates of shipping with me?? (bless you)

So, I developed the habit of just not talking about Digimon ships on the Internet many years ago, despite it being the primary thing that was fueling my creative output for a significant period of time (like… 2007-2014, probably??). But yeah, for most of my time on Tumblr, there was no way I was gonna talk directly about Digimon ships, because I’m always scared about the potential backlash such posts may receive (trying to get over that, though!). A few ships have breached brain-containment: Wallsuke and Taijyou, obviously, Taishiro and Nishihime maybe less-obviously (these days). But I feel more comfortable talking about those since they’re (mostly) rarepairs, the haters are minimal/nonexistent, fans of those pairs are chill and awesome, and I guess they just feel “safer” than some of the rest of the Adventure/02/tri/Kizuna shipping minefield XD

I would LOVE to make a chart like the one @reliablejoukido did showing my OTP thru NOTP feelings though! Back in 2012 I know I made a numerical matrix-type thingy for my preferences, but I never published it anywhere and I’m guessing they’ve changed a bit ^^; If I ever found time to make my own template in this day and age, I’d do it, but alas, time makes fools of us all! 🥲

All that is to say, I’m also a multishipper, and I absolutely have other Daisuke ships!! I have ended up on kind of a personal crusade to put more Wallsuke out in the world these past few years, which is why it kind of accidentally ended up being my primary Daisuke ship (oops). It doesn’t mean all those other ships are gone and forgotten, though!

I’m generally using REALLY OLD American English Fandom ship names in this post, only because that’s how I refer to them in my own head. Please don’t think too hard about the spelling/order/capitalization/punctuation of them, because I’m not! I assure you these designations don’t mean anything in this context other than “the relationship between these characters in some platonic or romantic way, explanation to follow.” TL;DR for everyone reading this: don’t be rude about shipping on this post, and don’t nitpick my terminology, please! I’m old, and so, so tired of fandom drama.

And now, without further ado, and in no particular order… DAISUKE SHIPS! ᕕ(ᐛ) ᕗ

Daiyako (Miyako/Daisuke)

I love them as friends hanging out or casually dating. They’re so!!! Well, they’re pretty similar in how strong their convictions are and how open they are about their feelings, which means they agree on a lot of things but also have the potential to clash a lot, which is a dynamic I REALLY enjoy for them. In a romantic scenario, I can definitely see them as going from arguing about something inconsequential to making out in about 3 seconds flat (maybe with a side of “how did we end up here??” ehehehe). IDK, they both give off disaster bisexual vibes to me, and I’m 100% here for that!

Daiken (Ken/Daisuke)

Really great, obviously, either romantic or platonic. They were Jogress partners (cue chorus of “oh my god, they were Jogress partners…”). I actually um. Don’t have a lot to say about this ship, but I do enjoy seeing it on my dash! Daisuke and Ken’s Christmas Carol and the entirety of Revenge of Diaboromon are all-time classics in my mind and I do secretly like one-sided Kaiser/Daisuke or mutual Kaiser/Daisuke Kaiser… shhhh

Daikari (Hikari/Daisuke)

Like, honestly yes. Daisuke, I am rooting for you! I mostly enjoy them as a friendship or in a “falling in love once they grow up and mellow out a bit” context. This is also how I feel about Junpei/Izumi from Frontier, by-the-by. Both pairs give off similar vibes (to me), but I’m more likely to gravitate to thinking about Junzumi because I just. Junpei does NOT get enough love, respect, or attention in general, and I would LOVE to see more portrayals of fat-positive romance for him, specifically.

Daikeru (Takeru/Daisuke)

So, I’ll admit I have a really hard time writing Takeru, which means I don’t do a very good job of imagining him in Situations(tm), but I have read/seen a fair bit of this pair romantically and I like it, I just also don’t have a lot to say about it (I’m sensing a theme!). Once again though, I will happily read what others put out there. Please, fic writers, help me understand how Takeru thinks! He’s such a mystery to me.

Daichi (Taichi/Daisuke)

The admiration Daisuke shows his senpai in canon is very endearing, even if it can seem a bit lopsided (though maybe, by the time Revenge of Dioboromon concludes, the admiration IS quite mutual??). I do like thinking about them as a mentor/mentee pair though, or equals/brothers-in-arms, learning from each other as they compare notes on leadership and decisionmaking.

Daimi (Mimi/Daisuke)

I loooooove their friendship!! IDK, between the NY segment of the World Tour Arc and the Door Into Summer audio drama, it’s there, right? Anyway, I still say these two are the Treat Yo’ Self squad for the Adventure kids, and I love picturing that dynamic for them.

I think me answering this ask is a bit of a stealth request for (short) fic recs that feature these relationships, lmao. I used to casually browse fanfiction a lot more than I do now, I guess I’m too picky or something (plus I have a HUGE backlog of mutuals’ fanfics to read, augh sorry!). And I didn’t mention it, but romantic thruples are good too! I would be interested in reading… oh, I don’t know, pretty much any combination of the older 02 characters in a polyamory situation (Dai/Ken/Miyako, Hikari/Takeru/Dai, Ken/Dai/Takeru, Dai/Miya/Wallace, etc).

So yeah. Shipping!! I love it. Does this mean the floodgates are finally open? IDK, but you could try sending me another Digimon character to see if I’d talk about the ship(s) I have for them!

[vintage-bentley]

If David were giving "wait and see" style answers I'd have a bit more hope but he was talking to the Radio Times which is a reputable publication in the UK so I don't feel like he'd outright lie to them about the nature of Crowley and Aziraphale's relationship.

To be honest, both he and Michael have been pretty clear on this being a ~secret background story~ or whatever, and have repeatedly said it's up for interpretation, and I'm worried everybody's doing another Johnlock where they ignore what the people involved are saying and have convinced themselves they're getting confirmation that will never come. The difference is this would be even WORSE because of the marketing campaign for season 2 and Neil's baity comments.

I honestly don't think Neil would be affected by this either because the second anybody expresses disappointment the asexuals in fandom are going to make it all about them and about how society ignores and invalidates their kind of love etc. I think he'll be successfully shielded. There will be pissed off people (especially olds like me who were book fans first and have lived through this shit a billion times) and I'm sure a huge part of the fandom will be quietly seething but we simply won't be allowed to call it bait because "Neil has always said it's a love story and therefore canon uwu" (even if it's plausibly deniable to homophobes and eludes the casual viewer 🙄).

I also think it's very telling that Neil only drew attention to the fake spoilers circulating when a post appeared saying the season was "500% gay" and that Az and Crowley had many romantic scenes. He has also said that while the marketing dept at Amazon clearly love the show he would've advised them to do things differently were he not on strike.

I know we've all been interpreting David and Michael's tight-lipped squirming when asked about a romantic subplot as an attempt not the give EVERYthing away, but it could also be that they know they're not going to deliver what the audience wants (including, apparently, every single interviewer on press day lol) so have been ordered not to say anything that sets themselves up.

IF all of this does turn out to be bait I am going to become a fic writer just to spite Neil lol. Trust I will be writing the smuttiest fic and finding the nastiest NSFW Ineffable Husbands art imaginable and it will be gay, gay, GAY 😂

I still HOPE we're getting what we want because I'm an optimistic fool. I'm just not sure it's guaranteed in the way the fandom thinks it is.

(btw if this doesn't go through anonymously please message me rather than publishing? Unfortunately I have co-workers and real life friends following me on my main 😬)

Sorry anon I couldn’t help but publish these together, it’s very funny to me 😂

Now, I know you’ve done a complete turnaround, but I do see where you were coming from with your first ask. It’s fun to imagine that the squirmy tight-lipped attitude is them doing their best not to spoil…but it’s sadly true that it could also be them feeling like they’re walking in a minefield, knowing that fans are anticipating something they didn’t deliver.

And I agree with you about fan reception to Neil. Like I’ve said before, spicy straights thinking they can call themselves “queer” has been absolutely disastrous to our ability to talk about queerbaiting. Because that term is really supposed to mean gaybaiting. It refers to the specific trend of shows teasing a gay relationship to get viewers hooked, but never taking it anywhere to ensure they don’t loose the viewership of homophobes. But now since everyone and their mother calls themselves “queer”, they seem to think the term queerbaiting applies to them, too. Which has led us to the point where people say “actually this show isn’t queerbaiting, because they don’t show physical affection which is aro/ace representation! Not everything has to be gay!” (In other words, “this show is gaybaiting but I’m happy about that so you can’t get upset about it”).

So, even if the show ends up being perfect textbook queerbait…we can’t say that, because of how the term has been appropriated. And we’ll have to deal with spicy straights whining about how they’re oppressed by gays wanting representation.

But as I’ve said before, I’m very optimistic about it not being bait! Let’s hope we’re right!

[noivoom]

 Okay, after several days of brainstorming and debating with myself, I have finally decided to emerge from The Lurking Pit and share this little (“little”) thing! This AU came about from my love of dysfunctional family tropes as well as my desire for everyone to live (honestly I mostly just wanted to daydream fanfic ideas without having to navigate canon’s minefield of problems, began wondering what an “ideal” situation would look like, and this spawned out of it)

The point of this was to, again, create an “ideal” situation for the gang, with potential for all kinds of Shenanigans™ and Drama™ alike while still keeping everyone as close to their canon selves as possible, as a bit of relief from all the angst :’) (I say “ideal situation,” but that doesn’t mean they haven’t still got issues galore. *cough*SUNNEEDSTHERAPY*cough*) (If, on the off chance anyone is inspired by this and/or wants to make something with this setting, please let me know! I’d LOVE to see it! :D)

I call it- One big UnHappy Family!

TL;DR Sun, Moon, Lunar, Earth, KC, Bloodmoon, and Solar Flare are all alive and well and somehow ended up as the world’s most Complicated™ family. Chaos ensues.

As for how they wound up that way? WELL. I’m gonna start rambling now, please bear with me

It starts with Sun shooting Bloodmoon. Sun didn’t fully know if he really wanted to kill Bloodmoon, was fighting internally to come to a decision one way or another and therefor wasn’t actually aiming when a moment of reflex kicked in, and the barrel went off. And he misses. Well... mostly. Bloodmoon takes a decent amount of the shot, and though it doesn’t kill them, they’re left severely damaged. It’s quite a confronting sight for Sun- while in canon there was nothing left of BM for Sun to really understand the weight of what he just did (at first, anyway), here he’s immediately confronted with another animatronic panicking and in pain as their nanomachines desperately try to rebuild them :’) Nothing like a bit of visual trauma to hit home that your actions have consequences, amirite? Moon investigates the barrel shot and sudden screaming (from both BM and Sun) to find... this. He’d probably have several things in mind to say to Sun about shooting BM, but he’d hold off for now. And thus begins one hell of a domino effect.

While fixing Bloodmoon, it becomes apparent the barrel shot corrupted some of their code. Nothing particularly bad, but oddly enough, it seems to have somehow also curbed their bloodlust. The lack of cravings leave the twins disoriented and kinda lost, but it’s also... almost a relief. Lunar takes advantage of this, introducing them to new things to occupy their time, and wow, who knew they could find entertainment in something other than homicide and appalling crimes against humanity? They’re still Bloodmoon, of course, they still have to be held back from killing people, but that’s not all they wanna do anymore. And food! Now that their bloodlust is out of the way food tastes so much better, there’s so many different flavours and textures and they gotta try everything and whoops, they’ve accidentally found themselves on the world’s weirdest redemption arc. (So, uh, thanks for shooting them after all, Sun...? I guess?)

Meanwhile KC, concerned over Bloodmoon’s wellbeing, convinces Moon to let him watch over them during their recovery. As the twins begin discovering new things that satisfy themselves, KC, trying to be Dad™, joins them. He’s never actually participated in anything that doesn’t involve murder, and much of these activities are uninteresting to him, but something about doing it with his sons... it actually... satisfies something in him, too. (None of them are particularly good at finding non-violent hobbies, mind you, but Lunar, Sun and Moon help out. Mostly to keep them occupied. They have no idea what’s going on, but they much prefer whatever the hell this is to evil plotting.) Eventually Moon relaxes a little when he realises KC intends to stay true to their deal, and occasionally switches off while KC’s out rather than watching him like a hawk. This leads to KC exploring on his own and running into Glamrock Freddy. He panics a little and pretends to be Moon. A parallel of their canon talk happens and oh would you look at that, KC’s accidentally Dad-ed his way into a redemption arc of his own! (No dead Bloodmoon means Sun doesn’t McFreaking Lose It, which means Lunar doesn’t move out and get killed, and also means the magic circle isn’t destroyed, which means Moon doesn’t get stuck in his head and get his memories wiped! :D Huzzah!) (Sun is still in desperate need of therapy though)

Eclipse is, of course, rather indignant at this turn of events. He never like the Blood Twins or KC, but seriously? Just like that?! It’s almost insulting. Not to mention it screws up his plan (not that he’d had a chance to flesh out said plan yet anyway). He continues regardless, taking over Solar Flare’s body to... do something. I’ll admit, I haven’t exactly figured out what his new course of action would be. Regardless, he ends up making his own body and ditches Solar Flare without a second thought. Solar Flare, alone and deeply disturbed over having their body hijacked so easily, is at a loss for what to do when they stumble upon Earth! Or more accurately, she stumbles upon them. She comforts them and they go with her to the Daycare. (I also don’t know if Earth would have already joined the DCA crew or if she just shows up fashionably late with Starbucks Solar Flare. Both are funny; either she shows up as a stranger with another stranger like “yes hello I’m your new sister, also I decided to bring this vaguely traumatised stranger along with me, hope you don’t mind :)” or she goes for a walk and comes back with this stranger like “can we keep them? *puppy eyes*”) Thus, Solar Flare joins the family!

Honestly... despite everyone else getting redeemed/joining the family, I think it’s funniest if Eclipse stays a bad guy. Everyone else is learning about themselves and growing as individuals/family, meanwhile Eclipse is over there being a stubborn, petty, lonely bastard and refusing to acknowledge that the reason he is miserable everywhere he goes is because every time he goes somewhere, he is there. Also he creates the conflict needed for further plot to happen. Also also I don’t think he’d take the option of redemption if it was handed to him on a silver platter accompanied by a ten-page essay on why it’s the best choice for everyone, especially him. (But who knows! I guess it is possible, it would just be a lot of work. He’d have to really want to be better and put the work in. Even then, I imagine he’d probably end up going his own way. It’d be for the best after all the trauma he’s inflicted.)

The FUNNIEST pat of all of this is when Glamrock Freddy visits the Daycare to talk to Sun and Moon about something only to see Sun yelling and chasing Bloodmoon, who’s knocking over and destroying EVERYTHING, Lunar running after them playing the Benny Hill theme, Solar Flare robotically restacking the barrels one pile at a time (seemingly oblivious to the fact that Bloodmoon knocks them over again as soon as they turn their back, creating an endless cycle they don’t seem to question), Earth calling out for everyone to please not hurt themselves, and Moon just... sitting there, rubbing his temples. “... Hey Freddy,” Moon says, not looking up. “... What the heck is going on?” “Family bonding.” “Family- where the heck did all these people even come from?!” “It’s a long story.”

If you’ve read all this, thank you so much for hearing me out <3 I’ll admit, most of my thought processes behind this boil down to “I just think it’s neat” and “because I think it’s funny”. This is supposed to be just for fun, after all. Please tell me what you think! There’s SO MUCH more to this, from evolving family dynamics to specific character development and even Monty, this post is all just the basic set-up of how the gang got to where they are. I have SO MANY more thoughts about this setting, it’s a disaster and a half and I’d love to discuss it please give me an excuse to ramble more