#manipulation cw

Headcanon: Girls. It's incredibly common across both canon and fanmade material to see the Red Room's Widows being called girls... Especially long past their adulthood. I kept thinking about it: the use of a term so out of place, especially when you think about the characterization of their work. Everything they do is exceptionally violent or of mature nature, yet the infantilization of these adult spies in linguistics is constant.

Women ask questions. They decide who they are and where they’re going. They form opinions and rebel and fight back. That’s exactly why the Red Room avoids calling them women.

Handlers, and even Widows in many cases, default to the word "girls", long after they’ve grown into adults capable of taking down opponents twice their size and surviving missions most trained operatives wouldn’t. It's a strategic type of conditioning.

Girls don’t have agency. Infantilization creates dependency. When you reduce someone to a child long enough, you teach them they need permission and direction. You teach them they are unfinished, that they belong to someone else.

Natasha hates being called a girl for that reason. It strips away her autonomy. It’s not something people in her inner circle say often (they know better) but even when it’s meant as a joke, it leaves a bitter taste in her silence.

Being labeled a girl for so many years carved into her a sense of incompleteness. It made her feel like she was always an extension of the institution that raised her, never her own person. It was conditioning: invisible chains designed to keep her small and obedient.

And the Red Room thrived on that paradox.

Bonus points because he was trying to manipulate me (and my boyfriend and everyone we knew) into thinking I was an abusive partner bc he wanted my boyfriend and was taking advantage of my mental state to do it.

- Hamlet from @the-sides-dimension

@auserwahlt

JEALOUS, FIERCLY PROTECTIVE & TERRITORIAL PROMPTS Please check the cw in the tags before reading below the cut.

Whale-Eyed Philip tells Crocodile all he needs to know–like he was paid to do–and then takes his leave, dragging a palm over his mouth so that the skin of his hand rasps over his whiskers as he mutters to him, “Don’t have good feelings about what went on there, boss.”

As for Woolf, she appears on deck long enough for the expected victory appearance, waving, bellowing, and stomping her feet as the bounty hunters on the shore hoot and holler back. (“CROSS GUILD! CROSS GUILD! CROSS GUILD!”) Then, she disappears into the captain’s quarters, and that’s the last Crocodile hears from her until he receives an invitation to dinner. In his own dining room.

Because Woolf is still Woolf, even in times of–is it grief? (Yes.) Does it matter?  (No.) 

That night, strategically placed gas lamps lend a warm glow to the dining room. ‘Gaudy’ skirts the edge of opulent without the bright overhead lights glinting off every edge and corner. It hides the amateurish plating of his carpaccio–and the sloppy swirl of olive oil over the top. (It smells meaty and cold, and familiar. The little bowl of hard cheese beside his plate is freshly grated, and the capers are from his own stores. His whiskey glass is filled and waiting.) Not bad for a last-minute job. 

“I brought you something.” The voice filtering down from the other end of the table is–removed. Even beneath the soft lighting, her face is gaunt, as if loss is grinding her down into something hard and sleek and gleaming. She indicates the oblong chest between them with a jerk of her chin. “Open it up and tell me what you think.” A flash of white teeth, the grin deepening the hollows in her cheeks so that she looks more like a corpse wearing her own funerary mask than herself. “I thought it was cute at the time, but now I’m worried it clashes with the décor.”

Was there a part of Crocodile that might have felt a twinge of guilt for finding advantage in the suffering of another? Not that the crime boss ever thought of that in any deep way, and, oh, did it feel good to have a plan come together. When the news had come of the destruction of Woolf's last of kin, he had sat there as her body seemingly trembled with both grief and rage simultaneously, while plans upon plans circulated in his mind.

He could use this. This was an opportunity.

All it needed was a chance to take that loaded gun that was Tess' anger and aim it in the right direction. Subtly, of course. Mention of news of Marine wearabouts. Convenient drop of names. Casual conversation around the dinner table.

Mihawk knew what he was doing and refused to contribute. Buggy was preoccupied with other things and frankly didn't care so long as things didn't fall into chaos. Business was business, and business was good. Another triumph for Cross Guild. Another blow to the Marines. Another uptick of berri to their bounties. A rise in infamy.

Crocodile opened up the tent flap that led into his private dining space. He rarely ate around the others, preferring to dine away from the revelry and noise that happened in Cross Guild's halls. This was more of a private meeting space for him and his partners, but it provided an intimate setting for him and Woolf to talk over what had happened. As he walked across the room, the back of his hook dragged against the wooden tabletop. Eyes flickered to the display she had made, but he did not sit down until he made contact with her gaze. A brief moment to read her features, to see anything. Nothing, it would seem. She was about as readable right now as a stone wall.

He didn't say anything as he took his seat, casually settling back into the chair. The smell of the carpaccio was strong, especially to his more sensitive senses, but it brought a smirk to his lips. --My, my, Woolf. Marine?--

Presented like an offering, of sorts. Crocodile wasn't so self-indulgent as to think this was something more. A business opportunity, perhaps? A true forging of alliances? Whatever it was, it sent a shiver up Crocodile's spine as he looked up towards her. However, it was the gift that sealed the deal. His hand hesitated for a moment as it hovered over the chest, but when he opened it, he was met with the recognizable swirl and color of a Devil Fruit. Brows shot up in a pleasant show of surprise, though he did not reach to pull it out of the box. Crocodile simply glanced around the corner of his eye at her, the smile on his lips calm and smug as always.

"And what do I owe for such a handsome gift and grand display?"

- Sapphire ⛲️