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#reading women challenge

amymarch-defender · 2 years

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theodore laurence did NOT visit amy march every day when she was at aunt march’s house to entertain her when she was sad and frightened for her sick sister and he did NOT instantly go see her again once beth was better even though he was exhausted and it was the middle of the night because he kept her promise of being there to tell her the instant beth recovered and he did NOT run after her in europe when she was driving a carriage because it was the first time he had seen her in years and he did NOT spend all that time in europe with her and he did NOT unknowingly picture her as his muse as he wrote his opera and he did NOT end up taking her “rousing” words seriously and using them to literally change his life after he hit rock bottom and he did NOT drop everything and travel across europe to be with her when her sister died even though he thought she despised him and he did NOT confess his love to her by T ENDERLY replying to her “How well we pull [the boat] together” with “So well that I wish we might always pull in the same boat. Will you, Amy?” and he did NOT refer to her as “my wife” every five seconds when they were finally married because he was, as he says “so proud of her” just for you crusty ugly bitches to say he only married her because he settled for her and he couldn’t have jo

#I WILL NOT TAKE AMY SLANDER AND AMYxLAURIE SLANDER ANYMORE #THE FACT THAT THERES SO MUCH MORE PROOF OF HIS LOVE FOR HER BUT I CANT RLLY NAME IT RN CAUSE ITS 3 AM #MOVIE LITTLE WOMEN FANS READ THE NOV CHALLENGE #little women #amy march #theodore laurence #amy x laurie

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spideysquake · 20 days

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my thoughts on tashi duncan

tashi is a story about true devastation, and losing everything. where patrick loses everything by pushing it all away, tashi has everything ripped from her very grasp while she stands there screaming. she has been told her whole life that she’s the best, that her entire family is counting on her to change their lives, to be their income, to rescue them. then, before it can even really start, her career is over. no rehab, no chance of recovery, just everything she’s ever been good at being ripped away because she lost focus. because of a boy. and now her entire life is a game of what if? what if she had trusted her talents and gone pro right away, rather than going to college when everyone thought she didn’t need to. what if art had won her number during that match, instead of patrick. what if she hadn’t gotten injured and she had become the greatest in the world at tennis. but none of that is the truth, and it’s not the life that is in front of her. instead, she has a husband who only plays tennis for her - not because he loves it or because he needs to win in the way that she does, but because he wants her more than he wants his own happiness so he’d rather play this sport that he doesn’t give a shit about anymore rather than lose his wife. but despite all of it, she does love him. which, i think, is why she sleeps with patrick before new rochelle. maybe it’s because being with patrick reminds her of being young - before her career was broken, before she lost who she was supposed to become, back when she still knew what the world wanted and expected of her. but i think it’s also because art is so checked out that he won’t even care about winning unless his wife threatens to leave him, but she doesn’t want to leave him. so she tells him what she thinks he needs to hear, but she’s not sure that even that threat will guarantee him the win anymore. so she’ll do whatever she needs to do to guarantee it herself. partially so that her husband will win at tennis again, but partially because she does in fact love him and she’d rather be a cheater than a liar or a loser.

#tashi duncan the woman you are #i would literally jump in front of a car for her #is she a bitch? yes. do i find her less incredible bc of it? no. i'm not afraid of powerful women.#i just want her to be happy i just want her to find peace #tashi duncan #tashi donaldson #challengers #challengers 2024 #zendaya #luca guadagnino #daisy reads #daisy watches movies

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disillusionedmonster · 5 months

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I read Sylvia Plath's "The Bell Jar" for @letters-from-x reading challenge and I loved it. I loved the way it felt like Plath was musing through her character but also like she was speaking to me. I loved listening to her reflect on childbirth and the nature of men. She had so many good things to say. And I felt so gripped by her exploration of her mental health and I felt rage at how she was treated. Plath completely sucked me in with her writing and how natural the progression of the book felt. I seriously enjoyed it. Some of my favourite lines in no particular order:

There was also this part where she had this metaphor about a fig tree and her life being wasted, which she commented on a couple pages later saying that musing was caused by her hunger which made me laugh.

#sylvia plath #radfem #radical feminism #book challenge #radfem book challenge #rec #i have already read Invisible Women so I think I will read the short text next

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queenlucythevaliant · 7 months

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Clad in Justice and Worth

Written for the Inklings Challenge 2023 (@inklings-challenge). Inspired by the lives of Jeanne d'Albret and Marguerite de Navarre, although numerous liberties have been taken with the history in the name of introducing fantastical elements and telling a good story. The anglicization of names (Jeanne to Joan and Marguerite to Margaret) is meant to reflect the fictionalization of these figures.

The heat was unbearable, and it would grow only hotter as they descended into the lowlands. It was fortunate, Joan decided, that Navarre was a mountain country. It was temperate, even cold there in September. It would be sweltering by the sea.

The greater issue ought to have been the presence of Monluc, who would cut Joan’s party off at the Garonne River most like. The soldiers with whom she traveled were fierce, but Monluc had an entire division at the Garrone. Joan would be a prisoner of war if Providence did not see her through. Henry, perhaps, might suffer worse. He might be married to a Catholic princess.

Yet Joan was accustomed to peril. She had cut her teeth on it. Her first act as queen, some twenty years ago, had been to orchestrate the defense of her kingdom, and she was accustomed to slipping through nets and past assassins. The same could not be said of the infernal heat, which assaulted her without respite. Joan wore sensible travel clothing, but the layers of her skirts were always heavy with sweat. A perpetual tightness sat in her chest, the remnant of an old bout with consumption, and however much she coughed it would not leave.

All the same, it would not do to seem less than strong, so she hid the coughing whenever she could. The hovering of her aides was an irritant and she often wished she could just dismiss them all.

“How fare you in the heat, Majesty?”

“I have war in my gut, Clemont,” Joan snapped. “Worry not for me. If you must pester someone, pester Henry.”

He nodded, chastened. “A messenger is here from Navarre. Sent, I suspect, to induce you to return hence.”

“I would not listen to his birdcalls.”

“Young Henry said much the same.”

Joan stuffed down her irritation that Clemont had gone to Henry before he’d come to her. She was still queen, even if her son was rapidly nearing his majority. “Tell him that if the Huguenot leaders are to be plucked, I think it better that we all go together. Tell him that I would rather my son and I stand with our brothers than await soldiers and assassins in our little kingdom.”

Her aide gave a stiff nod. “At once, your Majesty.”

She would breathe easier when they reached the host at La Rochelle. Yet then, there would be more and greater work to do. There would be war, and Joan would be at the head of it.

When she awoke in the night, Joan knew at once that something was awry. It was cool. Gone was the blistering heat that had plagued them all day. Perhaps one of the kidnapping plots had finally succeeded.

Certainly, it seemed that way. She was in a cell, cool and dank and no more than six paces square. And yet—how strange! —the door was open.

Rising unsteadily to her feet, Joan crept towards the shaft of moonlight that fell through it. She glanced about for guards, but saw only a single prisoner in dirty clothes standing just beyond the threshold. He was blinking rapidly, as though the very existence of light bewildered him. Then, as Joan watched, he crept forward towards the gate of the jailhouse and out into the free air beyond. Joan listened for a long moment, trying to hear if there was any commotion at the prisoner’s emergence. When she could perceive none, she followed him out into the cool night air.

A lantern blazed. “Come quickly,” a voice hissed. “Our friend the Princess is waiting.”

The prisoner answered in a voice too quiet for Joan to hear. Then, quite suddenly, she heard his companion say, “Who is it that there behind you?”

The prisoner turned round, and Joan’s fingers itched towards her hidden knife. But much to her astonishment, he exclaimed, “Why, it is the lady herself! Margaret!”

But Joan had no opportunity to reply. Voices sounded outside her pavilion and she awoke to the oppressive heat of the day before. Coughing hard, Joan rolled ungracefully from her bed and tried to put away the grasping tendrils of her dream.

“The river is dry, Majesty” her attendant informed her as soon as she emerged from her pavilion, arrayed once again in sensible riding clothes. “The heat has devoured it. We can bypass Monluc without trouble, I deem.”

“Well then,” Joan replied, stifling another cough. “Glory to God for the heat.”

They did indeed pass Monluc the next day, within three fingers of his nose. Joan celebrated with Henry and the rest, yet all the while her mind was half taken up with her dream from the night before. Never, in all her life, had her mind conjured so vivid a sensory illusion. It had really felt cool in that jail cell, and the moonlight beyond it had been silver and true. Stranger still, the prisoner and his accomplice had called Joan by her mother’s name.

Joan had known her mother only a little. At the age of five, she had been detained at the French court while her mother returned to Navarre. This was largely on account of her mother’s religious convictions. Margaret of Angoulême had meddled too closely with Protestantism, so her brother the king had seen fit to deprive her of her daughter and raise her a Catholic princess.

His successor had likewise stolen Henry from Joan, for despite the king’s best efforts she was as Protestant as her mother. Yet unlike Margaret, Joan had gone back for her child. Two years ago, she had secretly swept Henry away from Paris on horseback. She’d galloped the horses nearly to death, but she’d gotten him to the armed force waiting at the border, and then at last home to Navarre. Sometimes, Joan wondered why her own mother had not gone to such lengths to rescue her. But Margaret’s best weapons had been tears, it was said, and tears could not do the work of sharp swords.

The Navarre party arrived at La Rochelle just before dusk on the twenty-eighth of September. The heat had faltered a little, to everyone’s great relief, but the air by the sea was still heavy with moisture. The tightness in Joan’s chest persisted.

“There will be much celebration now that you have come, Your Majesty,” said the boy seeing to her accommodations. “There’s talk of giving you the key to the city, and more besides.”

Sure enough, Joan was greeted with applause when she entered the Huguenot council. “I and my son are here to promote the success of our great cause or to share in its disaster,” she said when the council quieted. “I have been reproached for leaving my lands open to invasion by Spain, but I put my confidence in God who will not suffer a hair of our heads to perish. How could I stay while my fellow believers were being massacred? To let a man drown is to commit murder.”

Sometimes it seemed that the men only played at war. The Duke of Conde, who led the Huguenot forces, treated it as a game of chivalry between gentlemen. Others, like Monluc, regarded it as a business; the mercenaries he hired robbed and raped and brutalized, and though be bemoaned the cruelty he did nothing to curtail it.

There were sixty-thousand refugees pouring into the city. Joan was not playing at war. When she rose in the mornings, she put poultices on her chest, then went to her office after breaking her fast. There was much to do. She administered the city, attended councils of war, and advised the synod. In addition, she was still queen of Navarre, and was required to govern her own kingdom from afar.

In the afternoons, she often met with Beza to discuss matters of the church, or else with Conde, to discuss military matters. Joan worked on the city’s fortifications, and in the evenings she would ride out to observe them. Henry often joined her on these rides; he was learning the art of war, and he seemed to have a knack for it.

“A knack is not sufficient,” Joan told him. “Anyone can learn to fortify a port. I have learned, and I am a woman.”

“I know it is not sufficient,” the boy replied. “I must commit myself entirely to the cause of our people, and of Our Lord. Is that not what you were going to tell me?”

“Ah, Henry, you know me too well. I am glad of it. I am glad to see you bear with strength the great and terrible charge which sits upon your shoulders.”

“How can I help being strong? I have you for a mother.”

At night, Joan fell into bed too exhausted for dreams.

Yet one night, she woke once again to find her chest loose and her breathing comfortable. She stood in a hallway which she recognized at once. She was at the Château de Fontainebleau, the place of her birth, just beyond the door to the king’s private chambers.

“Oh please, Francis, please. You cannot really mean to send him to the stake!” The voice on the other side of the door was female, and it did not belong to the queen.

A heavy sigh answered it. “I mean to do just that, ma mignonne. He is a damned heretic, and a rabble-rouser besides. Now, sister, don’t cry. If there’s one thing I cannot bear, it is your weeping.”

At those words, a surge of giddiness, like lightning, came over Joan’s whole body. It was her own mother speaking to the king. She was but a few steps away and they were separated only by a single wooden door.

“He is my friend, Francis. Do you say I should not weep for my friends?”

A loud harumph. “A strange thing, Margaret. Your own companions told me that you have never met the man.”

“Does such a triviality preclude friendship? He is my brother in Our Lord.”

“And I am your true brother, and your king besides.”

“And as you are my brother—” here, Margaret’s voice cracked with overburdening emotion. She was crying again, Joan was certain. “As you are my brother, you must grant me this boon. Do not harm those I love, Francis.”

The king did not respond, so Joan drew nearer to the door. A minute later, she leapt backwards when it opened. There stood her mother, not old and sick as Joan had last seen her twenty years before, but younger even than Joan herself.

“If you’ve time to stand about listening at doors, then you are not otherwise employed,” Margaret said, wiping her tears from her face with the back of her hand. “I am going to visit a friend. You shall accompany me.”

Looking down at herself, Joan realized that her mother must have mistaken her for one of Fountainbleu’s many ladies-in-waiting. She was in her night clothes, which was really a simple day dress such as a woman might wear to a provincial market. Joan did not sleep in anything which would hinder her from acting immediately, should the city be attacked in the middle of the night.

“As you wish, Majesty,” Joan replied with a curtsey. Margaret raised an eyebrow, and instantly Joan corrected herself: “Your Highness.”

Margaret stopped at her own rooms to wrap herself in a plain, hooded cloak. “What is your name?” she asked.

“Joan, your Highness.”

“Well, Joan. As penance for eavesdropping, you shall keep your own counsel with regards to our errand. Is that clear?”

“Yes, your Highness,” Joan replied stiffly. Any fool could see what friend Margaret intended to visit, and Joan wished she could think of a way to cut through the pretense.

When Margaret arrived at the jail with Joan in tow, the warden greeted her almost like a friend. “You are here to see the heretic, Princess? Shall I fetch you a chair?”

“Yes, Phillip. And a lantern, if you would.”

The cell was nearly identical to the one which Joan had dreamed on the road to La Rochelle. Inside sat a man with sparse gray hair covering his chin. Margaret’s chair was placed just outside the cell, but she brushed past it. She handed the lantern to Joan and knelt down in the cell beside the prisoner.

“I was told that I had a secret friend in the court,” he said. “I see now that she is an angel.”

“No angel, monsieur Faber. I am Margaret, and this is my lady, Joan. I have come to see to your welfare, as best I am able.”

Now, Margaret’s hood fell back, and all at once she looked every inch the Princess of France. Yet her voice was small and choked when she said, “Will you do me the honor of praying with me?”

Margaret was already on her knees, but she lowered herself further. She rested one hand lightly on Faber’s knee, and after a moment, he took it. Her eyes fluttered closed. In the dim light, Joan thought she saw tears starting down her mother’s cheek.

When she woke in the morning, Joan could still remember her mother’s face. There were tears in her hazelnut eyes, and a weeping quiver in her voice.

Winter came, and Joan’s coughing grew worse. There was blood in it now, and occasionally bits of feathery flesh that got caught in her throat and made her gag. She hid it in her handkerchief.

“Winter battles are ugly,” Conde remarked one morning as Christmas was drawing near. “If the enemy is anything like gentlemen, they will not attack until spring. And yet, I think, we must stand at readiness.”

“By all means,” Joan replied. “Anything less than readiness would be negligence.”

Conde chuckled, not unkindly. “For all your strength and skill, madame, it is obvious that you were not bred for command. No force can be always at readiness. It would kill the men as surely as the sword. ‘Tis not negligence to celebrate the birth of Our Lord, for instance.”

Joan nodded curtly, but did not reply.

As the new year began, the city was increasingly on edge. There was frequent unrest among the refugees, and the soldiers Joan met when she rode the fortifications nearly always remarked that an attack would come soon.

Then, as February melted into March, word came from Admiral Coligny that his position along the Guirlande Stream had been compromised. The Catholic vanguard was swift approaching, and more Huguenot forces were needed. By the time word reached Joan in the form of a breathless young page outside her office, Conde was already assembling the cavalry. Joan made for the Navarre quarter at once, as fast as her lungs and her skirts would let her.

The battle was an unmitigated disaster. The Huguenots arrived late, and in insufficient numbers. Their horses were scattered and their infantry routed, and the bulk of their force was forced back to Cognac to regroup. As wounded came pouring in, Joan went to the surgical tents to make herself useful.

The commander La Noue’s left arm had been shattered and required amputation. Steeling herself, Joan thought of Margaret’s tearstained cheeks as she knelt beside Faber. “Commander La Noue,” she murmured, “Would it comfort you if I held your other hand?”

“That it would, Your Majesty,” the commander replied. So, as the surgeon brandished his saw, Joan gripped the commander’s hand tight and began to pray. She let go only once, to cover her mouth as she hacked blood into her palm. It blended in easily with the carnage of the field hospital.

Yet it was not till after the battle was over that Joan learned the worst of it. “His Grace, General Conde is dead,” her captain told her in her tent that evening. “He was unseated in the battle. They took him captive, and then they shot him. Unarmed and under guard! Why, as I speak these words, they are parading his corpse through the streets of Jarnac.”

“So much for chivalry,” murmured Joan, trying to ignore the memories of Conde’s pleasant face chuckling, calling her skilled and strong.

“We will need to find another Prince of the Blood to champion our cause,” her captain continued. “Else the army will crumble. If there’s to be any hope for Protestantism in France, we had better produce one with haste. Admiral Coligny will not serve. He’s tried to rally the men, to no avail. In fact, he has bid me request that you make an attempt on the morn.”

“Henry will lead.”

“Henry? Why, he’s only a boy!”

Joan shook her head. “He is nearly a man, Captain, and he’s a keen knack for military matters. He trained with Conde himself, and he saw to the fortification of La Rochelle at my side. He is strong, which matters most of all. If it’s a Prince of the Blood the army requires, Henry will serve.”

“As you say, Majesty,” said her captain with a bow. “But it’s not me you will have to convince.”

Joan settled in for a sleepless night. Her captain was correct that she would need to persuade the Huguenot forces well, if they were to swear themselves to Henry. So, she would speak. Joan would rally their courage, and then she would present them with her son and see if they would follow him.

Page after page she wrote, none of it any good. Eloquence alone would not suffice; Joan’s words had to burn in men’s chests. She needed such words as she had never spoken before, and she needed them by morning.

By three o’clock, Joan’s pages were painted with blood. Her lungs were tearing themselves to shreds in her chest, and the proof was there on the paper beside all her insufficient words. She almost hated herself then. Now, when circumstance required of her greater strength than ever before, all Joan’s frame was weakness and frailty.

An hour later, she fell asleep.

When Joan’s eyes fluttered open, she knew at once where she was. Why, these were her own rooms at home in Navarre! Sunlight flooded through her own open windows and drew ladders of light across Joan’s very own floor. Her bed sat in the corner, curtains open. Her dressing room and closet were just there, and her own writing desk—

There was a figure at Joan’s writing desk. Margaret. She looked up.

“My Joan,” she said. It started as a sigh, but it turned into a sob by the end. “My very own Joan, all grown up. How tired you look.”

The words seemed larger than themselves somehow. They were Truth and Beauty in capital letters, illuminated red and gold. Something in Joan’s chest seized; something other than her lungs.

“How do you know me, mother?”

“How could I not? I have been parted from you of late, yet your face is more precious to me than all the kingdoms of the earth.”

“Oh.” And then, because she could not think of anything else to say, Joan asked, “What were you writing, before I came in?”’

“Poetry.” Joan made a noise in her throat. “You disapprove?” asked her mother.

“No, not at all. Would that I had time for such sweet pursuits. I have worn myself out this night writing a war speech. It cannot be poetry, mother. It must be wine. It must–” then, without preamble, Joan collapsed into a fit of coughing. At once, her mother was on her feet, handkerchief in hand. She pressed it to Joan’s mouth, all the while rubbing circles on her back as she coughed and gagged. When the handkerchief came away at last, it was stained red.

“What a courageous woman you are,” Margaret whispered into her hair. “Words like wine for the soldiers, and yourself spitting blood. Will you wear pearls or armor when you address them?”

“I will address them on horseback in the field,” answered Joan with a rasp. “I would have them see my strength.”

Her mother’s dark eyes flickered then. Margaret looked at her daughter, come miraculously home to her against the will of the king and the very flow of time itself. She was not a large woman, but she held herself well. She stood brave and tall, though no one had asked it of her.

Her own dear daughter did not have time for poetry. Margaret regretted that small fact so much that it came welling up in her eyes. “And what of your weakness, child? Will you let anyone see that?”

Joan reached out and caught her mother’s tears. Her fingertips were harder than Margaret’s were. They scratched across the sensitive skin below her eyes.

“Did I not meet you like this once before? You are the same Joan who came with me to the jail in Paris once. I did not know you then. I had not yet borne you.”

“Yes, the very same. We visited a Monsieur Faber, I believe. What became of that poor man?”

Margaret sighed. She crossed back over to the desk to fall back into her seat, and in a smaller voice she said, “My brother released him, for a time. And then, when I was next absent from Paris, he was arrested again and sent to the stake before I could return.”

“I saw you save another man, once. I do not know his name. How many prisoners did you save, mother?”

“Many. Not near enough. Not as many as those with whom I wept by lantern light.”

“Did the weeping do any good, I wonder.”

“Those who lived were saved by weeping. Those who died may have been comforted by it. It was the only thing I could give them, and so I must believe that Our Lord made good use of it.”

Joan shook her head. She almost wanted to cry too, then. The feeling surprised her. Joan detested crying.

“All those men freed from prison, yet you never came for me. Why?”

“Francis was determined. A choice between following Christ and keeping you near was no choice at all, though it broke my heart to make it.”

If Joan shut her eyes, she could still remember the terror of the night she had rescued Henry. “You could have come with soldiers. You could have stolen me away in the night.”

Margaret did not answer. The tears came faster now and her fair, queenly skin blossomed red. So many years would pass between the dear little girl she’d left in Paris and the stalwart woman now before her. She did not have time for poetry, but if Margaret had been allowed to keep her that would have been different. Joan should have had every poem under the sun.

“Will you read it?” she asked, taking the parchment from her desk and pressing it into her daughter’s hands. “Will you grant me that boon?”

Slowly, almost numbly, Joan nodded. To Margaret’s surprise, she read aloud.

“God has predestined His own

That they should be sons and heirs.

Drawn by gentle constraint

A zeal consuming is theirs.

They shall inherit the earth

Clad in justice and worth.”

“Clad in justice and worth,” she repeated, handing back the parchment. “It’s a good poem.”

“It isn’t finished,” replied her mother.

Joan laughed. “Neither is my speech. It must be almost morning now.”

As loving arms closed around her again, Joan wished to God that she could remain in Navarre with her mother. She knew that she and Margaret did not share a heart: her mother was tender like Joan could never be. Yet all the same, she wanted to believe that they had been forged by the same Christian hope and conviction. She wanted to believe that she, Joan, could free the prisoners too.

She shut her eyes against her mother’s shoulder. When she opened them, she was back in her tent, with morning sun streaming in.

She came before the army mounted on a horse with Henry beside her. Her words were like wine when she spoke.

“When I, the queen, hope still, is it for you to fear? Because Conde is dead, is all therefore lost? Does our cause cease to be just and holy? No; God, who has already rescued you from perils innumerable, has raised up brothers-in-arms to succeed Conde.

Soldiers, I offer you everything in my power to bestow–my dominions, my treasures, my life, and that which is dearer to me than all, my son. I make here a solemn oath before you all, and you know me too well to doubt my word: I swear to defend to my last sigh the holy cause which now unites us, which is that of honor and truth.”

When she finished speaking, Joan coughed red into her hands. There was quiet for a long moment, and then a loud hurrah! went up along the lines. Joan looked out at the soldiers, and from the front she saw her mother standing there, with tears in her eyes.

#inklingschallenge #inklings challenge #team tolkien #genre: time travel #theme: visiting the imprisoned #with a tiny little hint of #theme: visiting the sick #story: complete #so i like to read about the reformation in october when i can #when the teams were announced i was burning through a book on the women of the reformation and these two really reached out and grabbed me #Jeanne in particular. i was like 'it is so insane that this person is not more widely known.'#Protestantism has its very own badass Jeanne/Joan. as far as i'm concerned she should be as famous as Joan of Arc #so that was the basis for this story #somewhere along the line it evolved into a study on different kinds of feminine power #and also illness worked itself in there. go me #anyway. hopefully my catholic friends will give me a shot here in spite of the protestantism inherant in the premise #i didn't necessarily mean to go with something this strongly protestant as a result of the Catholic works of mercy themes #but i'm rather tickled that it worked out that way #on the other hand i know that i have people following me that know way more about the French Wars of Religion and the Huguenots than i do #hopefully there's enough verisimilitude here that it won't irritate you when i inevitably get things wrong #i think that covers all my bases #i am still not 100% content with how this turned out but i am at least happy enough to post it #and get in right under the wire. it's a couple hours before midnight still in my time zone #pontifications and creations #leah stories #i enjoy being a girl #the unquenchable fire

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akkivee · 10 months

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naughty busters drama track: youthful riot summary

i’m not good enough to give a line by line tl of the track but i tried to make it as comprehensive as i could without it. you can listen to it here but if you can buy dawn of divisions vol 3, please do!!!! cdjapan has it in stock still!!!!

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the drama track opens up with the end of otome’s coup speech and ichiro watching the televised event.

otome: instead of foolish, warmongering men, women will be the ones to give the world a fresh start!!

ichiro: whoever just became our leader better be powerful because nothing is going to change for us.

time passes, and ichiro’s just gotten done with his tasks of the day. he figures he might as well go home when he hears footsteps approaching.

kuukou: found ya, ichiro!!

ichiro: oh kuukou!! what’s up??

kuukou asks him if he’s seen the news and upon ichiro’s confirmation, he tells him he should know what these are and tosses him a mic. ichiro’s surprised, and kuukou explains as soon as he saw the power the mics had from the televised coup, he knew he had to give it a try and signed them both up for their mics. it’s then ichiro recalls that these are the hypnosis mics and kuukou demands they give them a whirl, to which ichiro agrees to do tho he sounds a startled by the sudden activity.

kuukou gives a self-introductory rap but when the blow lands on ichiro, ichiro comments it’s a little underwhelming and kuukou wonders how to get the output of power he’s seen. kuukou tells ichiro he’s up next and ichiro delivers his own introductory rap that similarly feels weak. ichiro speculates rapping skill may have an impact on their power so kuukou suggest they better get to practicing then!! agreeing, ichiro says that they need to get good with the mics as fast as they can because this will be the newest weapon everyone will get their hands on. kuukou sees his point and says and they need to stay ahead of the game, which is exactly what ichiro was thinking so they better get on it he exclaims!!!

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we flash forward and training is done. kuukou suddenly started chuckling to himself and ichiro asks him what’s he laughing at. kuukou’s feeling good about how hard their rap training was, ichiro’s lyrics were strong and just about knocked him unconscious!!! ichiro asks if getting knocked out was really something to laugh about and kuukou tells him something along the lines of, “one should buy a lot of hardships.” well, ichiro does see benefits of their training and kuukou tells him soon they’ll both be knocking fools out together, to which cracks ichiro up a little.

ichiro suddenly gets a phone call. he answers the phone and after a brief conversation, states that he’ll be there shortly. kuukou asks him where he’s going and ichiro replies he’s been called in by mozuku.

kuukou: ah the corrupt priest huh…. guess that’s where we’re headed to next.

ichiro: it’s not like you have to follow me.

kuukou: stuuuupid. ain’t this something about your job?? what kinda partner would i be if i left you to do all the work alone?? so let’s go man.

and as kuukou walks away, ichiro pauses and quietly laughs to himself before following after kuukou.

—————————

the next scene, ichiro walks in mozuku’s office, followed shortly by kuukou.

mozuku is pleasantly surprised to see kuukou, as it’s been awhile, and asks if he’s here because he’s missed him. kuukou lets him know he’s the last person he wants to see. laughingly, mozuku says he’s so cold to him.

ichiro steers the conversation back to why mozuku asked him to come in. mozuku tells him he’s requiring a bodyguard service. for himself?? no, for a man who goes by the name osaragi, an investor known for evading taxes. kuukou asks if that’s the kind of guy that they’re guarding and mozuku confirms.

mozuku: do you remember tomabechi zakuro?

tomabechi zakuro, leader of the group Extortion, was the man who terrorised unami and her sister from dhbat manga chapter 12

apparently his right hand man, teshigawara, is after him. ichiro’s familiar with him, he’s the one who stepped up to take over the group after they helped put tomabechi in jail. kuukou asks why he’s after him and apparently he took off with all their money made in their name and left behind a wake of territorial disputes as well.

kuukou scoffs, that’s boring as shit.

mozuku: boring as it may be, i will be paying handsomely.

mozuku again tells ichiro to bodyguard this man and he’ll be sure to provide extra reinforcements.

grimly, ichiro accepts the job.

—————————

we next cut to our boys arriving at their rendezvous point, a business by the name of ‘Lounge.’

kuukou: tf kinda shop is ‘Lounge?’

ichiro: i’m not too sure either, but apparently you buy drinks and get to talk to women.

kuukou: *gives the most exasperated sigh* people really spend their money on this?? that’s so stupid.

ichiro comments to never mind what people spend their money on and they enter the shop.

once inside, they find a man laughing uproariously. ichiro hesitantly asks if he’s osaragi and introduces themselves as his bodyguards mozuku assigned to him. osaragi grumbles at the fact they’re just a bunch of kids and wonders if they’re capable at all. ichiro audibly reels in some anger and affirms that they can. well, as long as they don’t fck up, the money is his and osaragi commands them to stand off to the side so they don’t kill his drinking vibe.

they step away and kuukou swears at osaragi under his breath, calling him a pig. ichiro feels that and let’s kuukou know it’s fine if he’s not up to it and can go home. kuukou again chides ichiro, saying a partner is supposed to always stand by his side. besides, he’s looking forward to beating up some small fries.

kuukou: so i’m not leaving

ichiro: *chuckles* well, i’m glad you have my back, aibou-san

kuukou: *softly laughs* that’s right, just leave it to me!!

the moment is ruined when osaragi beckons them over like they’re his pets. very disgruntled, the two approach osaragi, who asks them if they drink tequila. kuukou firmly tells him he does not. osaragi insists tho, they can drink and do whatever they want to the women here, since they all owe him money. osaragi passes kuukou a glass imploringly, but kuukou, in a fit of anger, takes the glass, repeats he’s not drinking and makes to make a mess—

but ichiro stops him.

osaragi sneers at them, and ichiro declines for them, saying they’re here to bodyguard him, not to play around. osasari groans that they’re so uptight and sends them back to their spot since they’re making his drinks taste bad.

kuukou is ready beat the stuffing out of a pig.

ichiro quickly tells kuukou to calm down, they just gotta put up with him for the night. not mollified but putting it aside, kuukou brings up how those girls are under his command due to their debt to him. ichiro’s concerned about them too, but they can’t make any moves that might put their situation at risk. the girls need to be the ones to ask for help. kuukou concedes with a sigh, saying that’s a rather adult way to look at it. ichiro denies this; he’s only able to come to that conclusion because of his experience in this line of work.

if something goes wrong and he’s blamed for it, ichiro would feel like crap. kuukou hums in thought.

the doors suddenly burst open and a man demands to know where osaragi is. osaragi is in a panic and yells at ichiro and kuukou to protect him. they step up, itching for a fight and to their surprise, it’s teshigawara. they asked what happened to the men stationed outside and teshigawara and his men laugh, saying they made for some good punching bags. ichiro doesn’t understand how they took out so many of them and teshigawara reveals his hand:

he has a hypnosis mic.

so that’s what it was, ichiro muses, and their men hadn’t picked up mics yet. teshigawara is confident they have the upper hand here and tells them no amount of grovelling will save them if they get in their way. is that a threat, ichiro asks but it’s the opposite really. teshigawara feels thankful to them for getting him to the top of extortion, so he’s offering them a way out.

kuukou chuckles and asks ichiro what he’d like to do and ichiro answers they’ll make their own way out.

they take out their mics, much to teshigawara’s surprise, and spit bars about climbing to the top as a diss to teshigawara hand me down position.

their rap sends them flying!!!!

both ichiro and kuukou taunt their fallen enemies and it’s then osaragi shows himself, surprised the brats completed the job but pleased. kuukou scoffs at him and ichiro, job complete, excuses them from them scene.

but osaragi stops them from leaving, and demands they stay on as his bodyguards. he thinks they’re very well suited for this kind of work and offers to pay three times as much as mozuku’s offer. ichiro refuses and makes to leave again, but osaragi instantly knocks the price up to ten times the amount!!!! and offers up the number one hostess of the joint!!!! and they can have their pick of any of women he has under his control, repeating they can do whatever they want with them.

kuukou walks up to the lady osaragi is presenting to them, and tells her,

kuukou: hey miss. if you always hold your tongue, then nobody will ever understand what you need.

hostess: …………..please help me.

kuukou huffs, satisfied.

kuukou: ya hear that, ichiro-san??

ichiro: loud and clear. osaragi-san?

osaragi: so we have a deal??

ichiro punches the living daylights out of him. no they do not.

kuukou teases him, like whatever happened to not interfering where they aren’t welcome?? ichiro quips back that times change which draws out kuukou’s gremlin laugh, oh is that so??

ichiro lets out a deep sigh and says it’s time to go home.

as they set out, it strikes kuukou that they should make a team name for themselves.

ichiro: is it really that important??

kuukou: stuuuupid of course it is!!!! it gives proof that it existed.

ichiro: *pouty* well in that case, go ahead.

kuukou: but what would be a good team name……?? well, since ichiro’s suuuch a rebel, why don’t we go with “naughty monks”?

ichiro: that has nothing to do with me at all???

kuukou: you don’t think so?? then how about—

—————————

the scene changes for the final time and a man is on the run. he very quickly runs into a dead end tho, and, exhausted, turns to reckon with his fate.

kuukou: *laughs* i gotta admit you’ve got some big balls to be acting up in our territory!!!!

man: who……. who the fck are you guys?????

ichiro: we’re ‘naughty busters’, asshole!!!!

#this is vee speaking #share it with your friends tell them a mediocre summary has dropped #get it out to as many people as possible so they can laugh at the inaccuracies and roast me for trying #and get so petty about it they make their own tl and we finally get this track tled #i literally dgaf at this point i am desperate LOL #i tried to line by line tl conversations i felt were important to ichiro and kuukou but never trust me and my basic ass japanese lmao #but it’s full of these little moments of their ideologies shifting and adjusting to each other AND I THINK ITS FASCINATING #LIKE THE WHOLE SCENE OF ICHIRO KINDA UNWILLING TO HELP THESE WOMEN OUT OF THEIR SITUATION IN FEAR HE MIGHT MAKE THINGS WORSE #AND KUUKOU LATER ON PRESENTING HIMSELF AS THAT FIRST STEP TO GETTING WHATEVER HELP IS NEEDED IS AMAZING POETRY #ICHIRO CYNICISM SUBTLY CHALLENGING THE WAY KUUKOU ACTS WHENEVER ICHIROS IN THE LEAD #BUT ICHIRO FINDS WAYS TO DO GOOD AND FEEL GOOD WHENEVER KUUKOU TAKES CHARGE ITS REALLY GOOD #and pls listen to the track lol if you just read thru it and thought it was kinda gay then you won’t be prepared for how gay it sounds lmao #naughty busters

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youkah · 1 month

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I get so mad at people using harmless kinks that they personally don't like against others to justify harassment campaigns but I especially hate it when trans women especially trans women of colour are targeted just for speaking out about transmisogyny they experience. Like why are we pedojacketing trans women just cause we disagree with them...? people are so gross to transfems on here

#text #reading up the thing about n*otrances #had no idea it got Even Worse.#obv this isn't an issue exclusive to him a lot of non transfem people do this shit #I'm also uncomfortable with like pregnancy kinks but I'm not gonna say ppl are pedis for it #only bringing that up cause it was one of the specific things brought up #sorry I'm just mad #you guys also did this with the creator of the Mandela catalogue #yes I read the call out I have all the context and I still think it's bs #internet stop seeing trans women as inherently predatory challenge FAILED #transmisogyny tw #transphobia tw

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luvsimskaos · 3 months

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After the parent's birthday, winter finally hits Brindleton Bay. Snow covers the ground and crops wilt, but the Waring family carries on with life.

The snow comes down as a blanket, making it hard to walk around, Elijah does his best to clear the areas. He's up early to shovel any snow near the property. And he's glad to do it so he can be any help towards his family.

The twins love the seasons, playing around in the snow. Their parents worry for Cato's health, but the snow doesn't seem to cause negative consequences, everyone is still healthy. The toddlers continue to have play as they do.

With winter comes a welcomed break for Ishmael and he's able to be there more for his children. One of the first things he does with this newfound freedom, is taking Daphne outside to see the snow that covers the land. It seems she loves it. But he also helps put the twins to bed when it's time for them to sleep. He'll never ceased to be amazed by the love he has for his children.

Sable , on the other hand, is still busy but she makes time to take a moment to play with her children. She has a soft spot for Cato, with him being healthy enough during the winter, it's a small miracle.

But even if Sable wants it to, the work doesn't stop. She is still expected to cook, clean, and care for the household. Though Ishmael is able to help with the children more, due to so little farm work, she still finds herself doing most of the housework herself. She carries on, it's familiar work so it's not difficult just tedious.

#Yea I lowkey feel bad for Sable but when I was reading up on History women didn't really get break in those day along #They were expected to do so much and with little help #sims 4 #simblr #simmer #ts4 simblr #black simblr #ts4 gameplay #black simmer #sims 4 decades challenge #ts4 legacy #the waring legacy #the waring legacy 1890 #the sims 4 #ts4 story #ts4 decades challenge #ts4 #ts4 screenshots

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grimm-haven · 10 months

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You're probably wondering what went wrong with Thorne's life right now. He has the Soulmate aspiration. He has a high school sweetheart turned live-in lover. He, in comparison to Rosa, had a more stable and secure love life. But then MCC happened He had a falling out with his girlfriend, Rosheil, who then had a child with another man. And now, Thorne has four children with three different women - the twins Chance and Armando with Kamryn Srivastava, Rodney with Iosefina Parata, and the latest newborn, Jett, with Valerie Knight. Clearly, this man is the better (or worse) Serial Romantic.

Beginning of Rose Gen // Previous // Next

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spellscribe · 1 year

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Looking for Bookfrens, Writingfrens, and Neurospicyfrens!

I’m slowly building a list of people to follow here, but still not enough that most of my following page isn’t full of the same reblogs. And I don’t know enough people to have actual conversations (I know, I can just jump in, but I’m ... not very good at that?)

In the last year or so I have discovered a love of reading, and of reading with a community. I’ve found and fallen for Gideon, Beck Chambers, Murderbot, Atlas, Achilles, Middle Earth, Lattes and Legends. So, if you post about bookish stuff - mostly FSF but also anything with cozy vibes and powerful friendships and healthy dunamics - I’d love to know. Or, if you share bookish merch or have a book merch shop or do tangentially-book-flavoured art. I am a writer, too. Indie pubbed (self and small press), but struggling a little with it right now. I’ve found so much solace and support from low-energy content creators, slow writers, joyful writers, and those who get their energy from supportive communities. If this is your jam, I would love to follow you.

Finally, I am finally growing into the skin of a late-diagnosed hot mess. ADHD, ASD, a touch of OCD, a metric ton of Anxiety, and the deep relief of knowing it’s not that I’m not “trying hard enough”, but also the deep fear that it’s really that I’m “just not capable, and never will be”. But also, learning to see the joy and strength in who I am and work to those, instead of dwelling on my many and varied deficits. So, if you relate, please, may I follow you?

Anyway, that’s my ad. I can’t buy friendships with money, but I can promise I will do my best to comment, like, reblog, and respond as much as I can.

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the---hermit · 2 years

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A Certain Hunger by Chelsea G. Summers

This book has been all over internet for the past few months, and since I don't read a lot of contemporary novels I felt this book could be the perfect way to comfortably read something different. In fact the themes and general vibe of the novel are much closer to what I would normally read. This novel is a first person narration of a food critic who turned out to be a cannibal. She murdered and ate several ex partners, and in the novel we get to see how she did it and why. This book is included in several unhinged women main characters lists,and it totallt fits in. I can see how it got so famous, because aside from the more horror-ish vibe of the story there's a lot of sections in which our main character shares her thoughts on femininity and how being a woman is generally perceved as well as how society tells you to act as a woman. There's some really interesting and nice passages on the topic, and overall I really liked the way this character is totally opposed to the classic female representation in litterature. I'm going to say something insane but bare with me for a second and you'll see where I am going. In classic Italian litterature I have always particularly enjoyed Boccaccio because other than proving that medieval litterature can be fun he did something extraordinary: he humanized female figures in litterature. Previousl the model of women in litterature was an angelic idea, then this guy came along and reminded everyone that women are humans have desires and believe it or not they can feel a varied range of emotions and enjoy sex. I feel like A Certain Hunger is a book that instead reminds the reader that women can be violent and feel anger, or even commit these kind of crimes withour an emotional explaination like revenge. There's a couple of specific passages in the book where the author addresses this topic directly and those were some of the best parts. The plot is overall good, you follow with interest because the narrating voice is really captivating.

There is one main thing I did not like and that I have complained about on goodreads as well because it really ruined the experience for me. The book has a lot of sections that take place in Italy (it was very fun and interesting to see Italy and Italians from the point of view of someone outside of our culture to be honest, and it really added something to te experience for me). To make things more elevated and since the main character supposedly speaks Italian and has a lot of interactions with Italian people there are many words and phrases written in Italian. Those were not at all checked by someone who activly speaks the language before publishing the book. If it were just a couple of sentences it wouldn't have been too much of an issue, but since it was so present it was very annoying to read cause it was avoidable quite easily. There's typos that change the meaning of sentences, wrong adjectives, and sentences that look translated by google translate. These phrases feel wrong because they were translated directly from English, meaning they either do not make sense or sound like stuff people would never say out loud. I understand that for an English speaker that cannot speak Italian this complaint is useless, but believe me it made the reading experience so frustrating. What leaves me shocked is that the cultural aspects were mostly accurate (shout out to the full page in which the main character complains about how Trenitalia is totally unreliable, it was as hilirious as it was accurate), so I really don't understand how this can live with all the language mistakes in the book. This is my only complaint for the novel to be honest, if it had been edited by an active speaker the reading experience would have been so much better. With this being said it's not a bad book, and it's worth reading for the themes I talked about. As an horror/thriller book it wasn't too disturbing, there were a couple more graphic scenes, but I feel like it could have been much worse. If you want to read if maybe check the trigger warnings but I think it's quite appoachable.

I read this book for the studyblr w/ knives horror reading challenge for the body horror prompt.

#bookblr #booklr #2022 book #book rec #book review #book recommendation #a certain hunger #popular books #unhinged women #studyblr w/knives reading challenge #horror reading challenge #book cover #pretty books #mine #the---hermit

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separatist-apologist · 1 year

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If you're thinking about writing a post about sexual assault as it relates to the characters in your favorite piece of media and you don't have that expertise, can I suggest:

✨ shutting the fuck up✨

Now with the added benefit of NOT harming ACTUAL people to prop up your favorite character!

#every six months #I have to say this every six months #if it's not: Rhys asked for it #its: Gwyn is too fragile #or my personal fave: men love when hot women come on to them so Lucien wasn't assaulted by ianthe #YOU HURT REAL PEOPLE WITH YOUR BRAIN DEAD TAKES SHUT THR FUCK UP #Acotar read another book challenge

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