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libraford · 10 months

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Have you shared the story of you joining the track team with us? I feel like you have but I can't remember any details.

I SHALL TELL YOU A TALE OF PURE FOLLY!

The year us 1999, I am in seventh grade. Like most seventh-graders, I hate everything that I am forced to do but I especially hate Pep Rallies. They are hell for my tiny little social outcast ADHD brain: loud noises, forced enjoyment of an activity, sports, pointless interaction with people I can't stand, and the potential for relentless bullying afterwards.

So we had a pep rally.

And I, for the first time in my rules-following life, decided to skip.

My class filed into the gym, I ducked into the bathroom, and waited for the sound of the doors closing.

Problem was that I didn't think I'd get this far and I've never been in the habit of delinquency, so I had no idea what to do next. I started wandering the halls just a little bit, testing out the freedom of having broken the rules, going down hallways that weren't part of my routine...

...when I heard dogs barking.

You see...

...the pep rallies weren't exactly about basketball. The pep rallies were an excuse to make lots of noise so no one heard the police dogs when they came looking for drugs in people's lockers.

And I am not where I'm supposed to be. I am where NO ONE is supposed to be. And I panic, because if I show up to the pep rally late they are going to notice.

I did not think this through.

So I start looking for somewhere to be while the police are searching for worse criminals than myself and I see a bunch of students in the cafeteria. One of them is a friend of mine, so I wouldn't be completely out of place in this location, so I came in and sat down next to her. A roster is being passed around and I sign it so that I can say that I was accounted for during the pep rally in some way.

The teacher who is heading whatever this is stands up in front of this group and says:

"Thank you for coming to the track and field tryouts. You've all made it in."

Uh...

...woops.

I think I'll just sit through this one meet and then quit. People do it all the time, I don't think anyone would notice.

Except that this is a small town and everyone knows everyone- so the teacher/coach helpfully informed my father that I'd joined the track team voluntarily and in no way was it a mistake of any kind.

My whole family is sports nuts. My dad was in charge of the sports page at the news paper, my mom will talk excitedly about college football, and my brother has excelled in every sport he's ever been in.

I'm a textbook case of Not That. Art student, lead violist, and the most exercise I get is dodging projectile rocks on my way home from school.

But my dad is SO proud of me when he hears about it. Lee is doing a Sport? A Sport that's physical? A Sport with a team? A SPORT!

Like... he bought me new shoes and stuff to clean the shoes with and all kinds of first aid stuff for my muscle pains and oh my god for the first time in his life I was in a SPORT!

(Just to emphasize- he has always been PROUD of me. He thought I was a genius because I showed him how to make chocolate dipped strawberries at home without a fondue pot like... he's pretty sure I'm going to save the world somehow. But this was the first time that I had ever shown even the smallest bit of interest in doing a Sport, which is HIS special interest and now we can BOND!)

So I try.

You know... I hate running.

I actually have a condition caused by a childhood illness that impacts cartilage development as well as asthma from a bronchial infection when I was in 5th grade.

But my dad came to all of the track meets that he could and I was so deep into the lie that quitting now would break him.

So I try my hand at non-running events: shot put and discus. I'd still have to run during practice, but I was allowed to go off and do Not Running for a little bit.

I can't remember the actual numbers or anything, but I remember that when I first did shot put with proper form, the coach kind of turned her head sideways and said 'damn.'

So turned out that being at the roly-poly stage of my larval development meant that I was still learning how my personal body chemistry affects the build of muscle. The answer is 'very quickly.'

It starts getting hard to find shirts that will fit my biceps and now I'm in trouble for wearing non-standard issue tank tops to school from practicing shot and discus.

If this were a movie, it would mean that suddenly being a jock meant that I had been accepted by my peers and something something Mean Girls something something. But no, because having incredible muscle as a thirteen year old did not do anything to disspell the rumors that I was a lesbian and unfortunately I was still bullied relentlessly. Nor did I ever throw a punch because I don't like hurting people and no one ever taught me how to fight. But it did mean that I had a handful of girls ready to use teeth and nails to defend the shot put champion.

Which is important because I was the ONLY shot put and discus thrower in the school.

And as I found out- the district.

I went almost an entire season without competing against a single person, winning the event by default.

Until the semi-finals.

And I did have to compete against an assortment of other thirteen year olds that were just now learning that they had upper body strength. But because they ALSO were the only ones competing in those events they had never competed against another person either.

So we all sucked.

I got gold in shot put. Bronze in discus. But to their credit there were only three competitors.

Huge fucking deal for my dad.

Not a huge deal for the rest of the track team, who all did really poorly in most events BUT throwing events, which meant that this was our last game of the season.

And so ended my short, accidental career as the middle school shot put champion.

"Did you try out again in 8th grade?"

Fuck no. I hate running.

#accidental track star

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otaku553 · 2 months

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More king sabo au :) I was planning out chapters and realized I had follied slightly— I have so much to say about before Sabo becomes king that if I write it out he’ll probably only become king after 10+ chapters lmao

More notes and an extra in the readmore

I kind of wanted to draw Sabo younger and in different outfits but got thinking about what happens between him deciding to stay with his parents to help the revolutionaries and him marrying princess Sarie. I think given how intent his parents were on having him marry into the royal family they’d have done a decent amount of preparation on their own end to get Sabo into socializing events for high status nobles. As an exercise thing they might have him learn fencing, but the sword is too light and too thin in his hands and everything is off balance, and the more he tries to learn the balance, the more he feels like he’s losing something (because he’s already strong with a staff, a pipe, and the sword is not his weapon)

Thinking also about why sarie would notice sabo. I could write an essay about the way I think sarie thinks. But also I can just boil it down to “I can fix him” lmao (she in fact cannot)

And finally, the way sabo regains his memories in this au:

I just think it would be really funny if he got out all the medical texts to study his amnesia and the power of medicine loses but a good old repeat brain trauma works

#one piece au #sabo #king sabo au

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a-dinosaur-a-day · 8 months

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So how did "birds descended from dinosaurs" turn into "birds *ARE* dinosaurs?" You acknowledge the idea of there being a transition from dinosaur to bird in your header, even.

Because we group things by evolutionary relationships, so being descended from dinosaurs *makes* them dinosaurs

a dinosaur is any descendant of the most recent common ancestor of the two major groups of dinosaurs - Saurischia and Ornithischia. Usually defined as the MRCA of Megalosaurus and Iguanodon (the first two animals to be called dinosaurs)

since that includes "any descendant", that includes all birds

Scientists use evolutionary relationships to group animals because it is significantly less arbitrary than using traits. It also allows us to talk about real evolutionary units.

Plus, you never really escape the foundation of where you come from. Humans are fish and that affects our biology - so much of tetrapod biology is compensating for being fish on land.

Similarly, much of bird biology is compensating for being a dinosaur that learned to fly.

Not to mention, any attempt at defining dinosaurs in a way that includes "classical" ones and not birds is an exercise in folly. There is no clear dividing line, at all. Tyrannosaurus is closer in time, closer in traits, and closer in evolutionary relationship to all living birds than it is to Stegosaurus. Velociraptor just looked like a bird.

So, yeah. Birds are dinosaurs. Birds are kind of the ultimate dinosaurs. Birds are such dinosaurs that we don't even know how to distinguish between bird and not bird dinosaurs.

Tada.

#birds are dinosaurs #dinosaurs #birds #evolution #phylogenetics #science

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terrence-silver · 5 months

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Hello 🖤 I love seeing your blog pop up in my feed, simply exquisite 🖤

I have a request. What would older Terry Silver do with an adult student who is rather boisterous in class, she listens but only when she wants, she's a smarty pants. Terry so wishes to teach her a lesson after many months of class passing, learning her mannerisms, learning HER. Ever the voyeur, finding her home, seeing what lies within when she's not home, Terry plans a little 'private lesson,' specifically for her at his home dojo. Ending with his gi sloppy on him, his hair a mess like the slut he is with his student underneath him with no mercy being shown. His student definitely listens to HIS wants and desires, eager to please.

Breaking Stone.

(Terry Silver x Reader)

---

-"How safe is this, Sensei? I mean, it’s solid rock."-

Your voice speaks up from the gathered crowd and Terry Silver, he knew you’d have something to say without having to turn his back towards the mass of students keenly eyeing his demonstration in silence, standing jam packed in a circle around the erected board with a concrete block fastened to the center of the scaffolding propped up on iron legs, following his every word like a mantra only for him predict that your mouth will eventually move to utter something and dare interrupt him. Class fifty eight. A lesson on Brick Breaking. Tools necessary; pretty straightforward. A slab of rock and a fist. Additional spices; your usual commentary in the midst of it all. Happened almost daily. Happened to the degree it was a constant he could count on. -"We’ll break our hands on that."- You add with a sense of urgency and worry once the entirety of the exercise’s participants turn their eyes towards you, scrutinizing, weighing and accessing what you just blurted out and you tended to blurt out stuff frequently. Terry joins them in their quiet staring, finding a twitch of satisfaction stir through him once he realized you were jittery and stuttering, made self aware through the fact you were the sudden center of attention. Needing to justify yourself for placing the spotlight unto yourself, you blurt out some more bullshit. Nerves, was it? You deserved that. Deserved much worse for stepping out of line. -"What do we do in case we tear our ligaments punching the board?"- You ask, scratching the back of your head. Ligaments? Were you frightened of getting a boo-boo? At that point, Terry allows himself to turn his entire body towards you, taking his time, slowly --- painfully slowly --- looking straight ahead, towards you. You shift, from one bare foot on the mat to the other, like the stillness of everything around you gave you a sense of discomfort.

Stew in it. He hoped you'd stew in it.

-"Seems a bit extreme. Sorry."-

You chuckle, apologizing, looking down. Then back up.

Terry has to chuckle with you, neatly folding his hands in front of him.

A bit extreme? It was meant to be extreme.

-"Our student here thinks our methods are strange, but these classes aren’t mandatory."-

He simply shrugs matter-of-factly, addressing the people around him, all eyes leave you and pinning themselves in his direction instead, encircling him like a tightly closed ring, listening attentively, leaving you even more isolated in your folly. The great mother hen and the ducklings. The one, solitary ugly black duck that talked too much. -"Nobody’s here by force."- He explains, and contrary to popular belief, everyone here gave their signature of consent on a written contract. Terms. Conditions. Price rates. Health insurances. They showed up to daily classes because they wanted to, giving their hard earned money out of their own volition. He didn't go kidnapping people off of the streets of LA and harassing them into black Gi, in spite of what the likes of Larusso tried to accuse him of, same way not even Larusso himself was harassed into this, decades ago. -"Or are you all here by force?"- Terry purses his lips, looking around, enjoying this far too much to stop. In unison, they all speak up, one voice, stemming from one collective lung. -"No, Sensei!"- The dojo resonates with their shout. He tries again, spreading his arms, envisioning himself like Pontius Pilate about to wash his hands clean of you and let the crowds make their decisions. -"Why are you here for then?"- He inquires, raising his voice, encouraging them. Spurring them on. -"To learn, Sensei!"- Obeying, they repeat the motion, letting out a united cry and content, Terry squeezes his fingers into a fist once they all fall silent, all but an echo remaining, his other free hand caressing the concrete block in front of him, never taking his eyes off of you. At this point, with a mouth standing agape, forgetting you should've joined everyone in their jubilant war cry, you were as pale as a ghost. Not quite so chatty or smart anymore.

Perfect.

-"The lesson is —"- He begins. -"A true artist of the craft spends years, even decades just hitting things. Sand. Wood. Stone. Metal. Flesh."-

Terry coos, confessing, that he did, on occasion, imagine hitting you.

The sweetest thing he'd ever strike. Purely to shut you up, get you the way you were right now; As quiet as the dead; all gulps and anxious little eyes darting left and right. Preferably having you bent over his knee like an unruly child and taking the bamboo stick to you bare buttocks until they were rendered crimson red with punishment. After it was all done, he'd have you thanking him for the honor too. He smiles, just at the notion; an expression he doesn't bother hiding.

-"Having been broken so many times, it makes their bones so dense that when it comes in contact with solid rock, the rock breaks first."-

Terry digs his teeth into his lower lip, taking his stance and lunging forward suddenly, knuckles breaking through the barrier of the rock and crumbling, his fingers pushing through the crack he made on the other side. It was as simple as that. -"Asaa!"- He bellows and if the dojo was collectively holding it's breath, once he's done, the remains of sharp jagged tiny pebbles spilling on the mat under around his feet like so many rolling marbles, he senses an equally collective exhale. He can swear you weren't blinking at that point. What were you shocked by? The fact that he just smashed through a brick that weighed ten pounds like it was nothing or the implication he's broken his hand by choice so many times that he could pull shit like this in the first place? Maybe it wasn't smart to backtalk or question the methods of a person who could crush your windpipes in with merely just his thumbs. -"So, you see — breaking our fists, it’s part of the curriculum."- He shakes his head, staring you down, taking a couple of steps forward, until it was undeniable he was addressing you in particular; his infuriatingly Doubting Thomas, ignoring the students that wordlessly volunteered to clean up, scooting down to pick up the unfortunate remains of the rock slab, chirping away at the remains like a handful of chicks. -"This is part of what you signed up for when you came to this dojo. When you came to Cobra Kai."- He assesses firmly. -"You came to break with the old so the new and the improved could take its place."- He adds. Eventually, you'd have to bruise and break in those pretty little hands much like everyone else would and if you didn't have the guts to do that, you'd advance nowhere and your here would become fairly obsolete. Someone might as well tell you that upfront.

Even though, he confessed. The idea of a piece of rock breaking your hands?

Something shoots through him, like a radioactive phantasm of jealousy.

He wanted to do the breaking instead.

Not leave it up to an inanimate piece of training gear.

-"And if you can't imagine yourself doing that, you can always take up a knitting class."-

He adds, finally, earning himself a couple of amused chuckles.

Blood rushes into your cheeks.

Were you angry? Ashamed? Humiliated? Good.

—

Looking through your files was child's game after that.

He pretty much had everything he needed to know about you, printed in black and white in his own two hands, on the very exact form you filled the day you signed up for adulted classes six months ago; your home address, bank statement, contact number, email, age, place of employment, blood type in case an accident took place mid-training and a transfusion was needed on short notice. And yes, he's broken into your home before. Terry did it the first time you ever ran your mouth to backtalk him, asking if doing fifty consecutive push ups as warm was a smart decision because it was bound to leave everyone too exhausted to hold proper form and too distracted with tiredness to properly follow the class. He checked every drawer, every shelf, every nook, every cranny, supposing he wanted to find something he could spit on in indignation and discovering nothing more fitting but what he could only deduce was your framed graduation photograph, pursuing his lips and letting the saliva build up right before he hurled the spittle out of his mouth and right unto the glass inside of the frame, watching it trickle down your face, smearing it with his finger in retaliation, deciding the gesture was fitting punishment. If only he had a chance to do it with your actual face next. Spit in your mouth too, for refusing to shut up as it did. Spit in your mouth for missing three of your classes this week, like that was a thing you were allowed to do when you weren't. Did he tear into you verbally too hard last time? Was that it? Undoubtedly, but that still didn't give you permission to leave. He wanted you to come back so he could harass you some more, like you deserved to be harassed.

He knocks on your door, freshly having concluded this week's teaching.

Still in his Gi, jacket slung over his shoulders.

He did that on purpose, to make it seem like him coming here wasn't premeditated or something he tactically prepared for in advance, but rather, like a last minute decision he made in the utmost rush to the degree he didn't even have time to change out of his training attire, forgetful, overworked old man that he is. -"Who’s there!?"- Your concerned, slightly confused voice calls from the other end and he hears the keyhole clicking, only for your uncertain face to show up in the precipice of the doorframe illuminated by the warm light of your apartment's foyer looming like a halo behind you, brows practically jumping once you recognized him, appearing relieved. -"Sensei Silver!?"- You state in surprise, opening the door entirely, letting him step over the threshold, moving out of the way to usher him inside from the corridor. He tries not to seem too familiar with the territory, pretending not to know exactly where to stand; next to the shoe rack or the coat hanger. -"God. I’m so sorry. Got scared halfway to death!"- You place your hand over your chest, exhaling and smiling. Way too fidgety for someone who took Tang Soo Do classes. What were you afraid of? Of someone barging in and subduing you? -"What do I owe the honor of the visit! I didn’t expect anyone."- You shake your head, all charm. Of course he prepared an excuse for him being here and it comes in a form of a sleek pamphlet he produces from inside of his jacket, handing it to you. He had it printed, in bulk and giving out to everyone at the dojo solely so he could have a reason to give you one to you as well. -"The curriculum. For our future classes. I thought you might wanna look through it. Freshly printed."- Terry explains. He hoped you would've continued showing up, smart mouth you always were, but there you went, disappearing. If Muhammad wouldn't come to the mountain, the mountain would have to come to Muhammad.

-"You missed the last session so I brought it over personally. Where'd you go?"-

Terry feigns concern. He knew where you went. You were pegged down a notch.

Proceeded retreating with your tail behind your legs.

That's what you get for questioning him.

But, he didn't expect you to retreat quite so definitely.

Who'd you ask if you can do that? Did you ask anyone? Him?

You eyelashes flutter, like you were about to come up with an excuse.

-"I think you're right, Sensei. I mean, the whole Cobra Kai dojo scene, ---"-

You begin, looking away from him, vehemently staring at the pattern on the corridor carpet, holding the flyer with a sense of unease, like you weren't certain what to do with it. If you crumpled it up, he'd make you eat it. -"It ain't for me. I'm not cut out for it."- You confess, finally meeting his gaze, appearing a bit shy at the notion. He knew a tangent was incoming. Decides to let you have it. And knowing you, you wouldn't shut up any time soon in the next five minutes. -"I can't do any of those things you demonstrated last week. Break my bones on purpose? Smash through rocks? Ignore pain? I know when I'm out of my depth and there's no shame in admitting something ain't for me and gracefully moving on. What you said the last time --- you helped me see that. You really did."- You utter, in one solitary breath, and it takes everything within Terry not to laugh at you. So, humiliating in front of the whole class for interrupting him for the umpteenth time with some inane observation, you thought it was for your own good and that it made you see things more clearly? What? Was that why you left his dojo like it was a bus station? Did you really take up knitting as a hobby in the meantime as well? -"I had a great time studying these past few months under you, but I just can't continue."- You visibly gulp once he says nothing and you feel incentivized to further explain. You never had a problem with that before. Go ahead. He was giving you center stage to speak. So speak. -"I talk back. I interrupt. I question. I worry. I'm so sorry. I can't just let go and do it. Do what I'm supposed to do on the mat."- You add, your eyes widening, perhaps in anxiety, pupils dilating, looking back and forth between the surrounding furniture and the wall --- anywhere but at him. Why should he let you go? When it was so fun pushing your buttons? In fact, he decides you could use some more of that.

-"Do you like me?'-

He asks, bluntly. You take a step back, stammering.

-"Excuse me, sir?"-

-"I said, do you like me?"- He repeats himself, firmer.

Your mouth wordlessly forms a shape, but no sound comes forth.

You weren't certain what to say.

Finally.

You were speechless for once. That was a welcoming novelty.

-"Because, if you like me, you won't leave me here stranded, with one student less and waltz out impulsively, on such a short notice. That's not how things work. There's a price for that."-

He winds you up, deciding to stoke a fire and then immediately extinguish it, intending to fluster you for thinking what he led you to think, watching the abject shame settle into your expression like a newly formed wrinkle just because for a mere second, you thought this was a confession of something more than it was instead of a cleverly phrased and deliberately misguiding segway intended to put you on the spot and make you feel like an idiot with no listening comprehension. -"I'll pay everything I still own and ---"- You practically stumble over your words, clutching the pamphlet to your chest vigorously, like a shield, referencing unpaid lesson, trying to regain what little balance you had, visibly sweating bullets. Stoke the fire. Extinguish the fire. Stoke the fire. Extinguish the fire. Terry steps forward, shutting you up. Commanding you to stay silent. -"Don't talk."- He orders, flatly, putting up his hand alongside his finger as a warning and then coming closer still, until the tip of it is practically pushing against your mouth. You appeared flaggerbasted. Like you weren't sure what was going on, too shocked to actually move. This was why confusing people into a state of paralytic awkwardness was paramount in verbal warfare. He pushed his index finger between your lips and you still didn't move, letting him get away with it, too stunned for words. -"For once, listen. Don't speak."- He murmurs, staring at your mouth, pushing his nail inside, feeling your wetness and finding your tongue, frozen stiff, clasping it with his thumb and index finger and holding it, pulling on it, until you groaned, trying to mutely gibber and failing. -"This is the thing that always talked back. Can't talk back anymore, can it?"- He taunts and you shake your head with an expression that would place deer in headlights to shame, shivering vigorously.

You've seen what his hands could do. What his fists could do.

He could rip your tongue out of your skull and it would pose little issue.

He felt you knew that right about now.

Practically dangled by the tip of your mouth's organ. Your head slumping back.

Unable to release yourself, you slowly lower yourself, to your knees.

-"That's good."- Terry coos, pleased, watching you drool all over his hand.

-"Open that pretty little mouth of yours and use it for something really valuable for a change."-

He purrs, even as his fingers go fidgeting, lower his Gi's trousers, loosening the obi around his waist, pulling his cock out of his briefs, showcasing it to you so the state of the situation would settle in. He'd hatefuck your mouth. He was already hard. Already dripping precum. Almost like the very act of coming here and pestering you served to do it for him as he, without much deliberation, pushed himself inside of your lips, taking in the sloppy, receptive moisture, enjoying the symbolism of the flyer he's given you falling next to you on the floorboard until you were practically kneeling atop of it. -"Perfect."- He hums, praising. -"You've been badgering and badgering and I can't tell you how many times I thought about interrupting class and just giving it to you, in front of everyone, right there, in the middle of the dojo. Let them all see what happens when someone questions Terry Silver and his methods."- Now it was his turn to make some confessions, fingers tangling into your hair, coiling into a fist, making you look at him with your watering, teary eyes. He amps up his pace, bobbing your head back and forth for you, using your tresses as reins. Look how you've infected him. Now he was the one rambling and loving it. -"But, I wanted the occasion to be something special. Someplace I could really savor it --- and what better place than right under your very own roof."- He closes his eyes, smiling, enjoying the sensation of tense pleasure building up in his gut, right before looking down at you with your brows furrowed. You were just now realizing this was premeditated. Poor you. -"Oh, don't look at me like that. Don't think I haven't been in here before. Been here a thousand times."- He chuckles into his own chin, moaning. Of course he's desecrated something miniscule every time you talked back as an elaborate form of revenge and violation, like wiping his cock on the curtain after masturbating on your bed. Nothing was for free. Disrespect certainly wasn't.

-"And you'll be seeing a lot more of me just yet. Don't think this is over. Don't think you can disassociating with Cobra Kai and me on a whim. You can't."-

He flat out threatens, his hips rutting vigorously against your head.

You thought this was a game?

You sign up to his dojo for like six months and call it quits when things get hard?

Cobra Kai was a brotherhood. A society. Not an extracurricular pastime or a hobby.

That's what people weren't getting. He didn't want them to just yet.

But you? He'd was breaking the news to you hard and fast in the flesh.

-"You belonged to me from the moment you met me and put on the Gi and you'll belong to me until your dying breath."-

He grits his teeth, shaking, seething, feeling his tresses slide out of his ponytail and unto his forehead in an unruly mess, satisfaction coiling in his groin imaging you returning to the dojo on Monday, dressed in your uniform, all neat and proper, your attitude curbed and kept only for special occasions, releasing suddenly, just at the thought that he owned you, hearing you gurgle from the floor, droplets of his cum trickling down your chin and leaking unto the Cobra Kai pamphlet on the parquet in front of you. No, no. That wouldn't do. Not a single ounce wasted. -"Swallow."- Terry orders, catching his breath, scrutinizing you as you did so, still holding your hair, yanking forward suddenly, his cock falling out of your mouth, giving you leeway to breathe again and you do, gasping with sharp inhales of breath, a bubble of saliva popping between your lips as you rolled back to sob and cough. Pathetic. Eager to serve. So you were capable of shutting the fuck up, letting go and getting lost in an action after all? You were teachable. He knew you would be. Much like the rock slab on the training dummy, though, you needed to be broken in first. Terry slides his hand across the top of his head, slicking loose hair strands back, lifting up his finger to threaten and warn once again. Remind, in case you've forgotten. Had your brains scrambled in all sorts of awkward and unlikely directions. -"So, you better not miss out on any of my classes ever again or I'll have a reason to hold a very, very big grudge. Especially if you don't show up and break that stone like I've taught everyone to do. Understood?"-

-"Yes, Sensei."- You manage desperately, drooling, nodding your head.

#terry silver #old man terry #kk3 #cobra kai #terry silver x reader #terry silver x beloved #tw; dubious consent #tw; teacher and student #tw; facefucking #tw; hatefucking #tw; stalking #tw; manipulating #tw; mind games #tw; all the warnings

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wonder-worker · 25 days

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The most obvious means by which a queen might exercise influence at court was through her close contact with the king in much the same way as other nobles did, although the nature of such influence is impossible to judge because it does not leave records behind. That women would advise their husbands, even kings, was accepted and expected: Christine de Pizan maintained that the wise princess would urge her husband to discuss matters with his councillors, and encourage others to advise him. Jacobus de Cessolis, recognizing that queens would thereby be privy to important matters of state, advised that a queen's 'wysedom ought tappere in spekynge that is to wete that she be secrete and telle not such thynges as ought to be holden secrete'. Queens were of course not exempt from the traditional misogynistic fear of the power of women's words to lure men, as Eve had done, into sin and folly. The fourteenth-century author of The III Consideracions Right Necesserye to the Good Governaunce of a Prince warned

And how be it that a kinge or Prince shulde love his lady and wyf in maner as him self, yit it is nat expedient that he uttyr unto hir, and discloosc the sccrccs, grcctc conscillcs and greet thingcs that he hath doon for his estate and for his landc, nc that in such thing he be governed aftir hir at som tymc, but he shulde allc daycs reserve unto him self the lordship and souvereyntee, or ellys many perilles may betide.

But to be governed was not the same as to be advised and there was also a strong tradition and rich literature of women wisely advising their husbands at all levels of society. This included encouraging a husband to make peace with his subjects or to be more generous to the poor or the Church as well as the familiar motif of intercession in response to a particular plea.

-J.L. Laynesmith, "The Last Medieval Queens: English Queenship 1445-1503"

#queenship tag #my post #english history #sorta #queue #hence why Anne Boleyn bios and articles hailing her as a 'political advisor' to Henry and framing her as unique for it annoy me so much #this was the norm #this was accepted behavior for women across centuries #The problem wasn't that Anne acted this way; it's that Henry criticized and ultimately murdered her for it (among other things)#It says more about *Henry* and about her own anomalous status as queen than it does about Anne as an individual

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scotianostra · 4 months

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6th January 1540 saw the first performance of Sir David Lyndsay’s masterpiece, Ane Satyre o’ the Thrie Estaites at Linlithgow Palace.

David Lindsay’s play Ane Satyre of the Thrie Estaitis is a work of searing social satire, which is arguably the best example of a morality play of the era. It is also the only surviving dramatic text from pre-Reformation Scotland.

The play was written in Older Scots, the language spoken in lowland Scotland between the mid 15th and the end of the 17th centuries.

David Lyndsay is perhaps Scotland’s best, but least well known, poet and playwright. Yet his work both reflects the vibrant culture of early modern Scotland and the deeply political ramifications drama could have during this period. One could imagine that the performance of a play written by Lyndsay was an eagerly anticipated event. The Great Hall of Linlithgow Palace was in January 1540 packed with the lairds and ladies of the Scottish court. With a fire crackling, the sights and smells of the Christmas season all around, a hush would surely have descended on the hall for the centre piece entertainment by Lyndsay.

The final great celebration of the Christmas and New Year period in early modern Scotland was Epiphany on 6th January. The feast commemorates the visit of the Three Kings to the baby Jesus and in 1540 the Scottish court was filled with Christmas merriment and spectacles. The royal poet of the court Sir David Lyndsay wrote and set a play for the entertainment of King James V and his wife, the French noblewoman Marie de Guise. James V was at the peak of his power. Marie de Guise’s arrival in Scotland secured the continuance of the Franco-Scottish alliance, and by Epiphany 1540 Marie was pregnant. James V was a monarch secure in his kingdom and with an heir on its way.

The play that was performed to entertain the Scottish King and Queen was a comedy; known at the time as the Interlude, its later full surviving version is titled Ane Satyre of the Thrie Estatis. David Lindsay’s play is a compelling satire that addresses the corruption of both courtiers and the Church. The first half of the play focuses on King Humanitie, a young ruler who is seduced from the path of virtue by three courtiers: Wantoness, Placebo and Solace. The courtiers introduce the King to Dame Sensualitie, who distracts the monarch, as three more dangerous vices infiltrate the court: Flatterie (flattery), Falset (falsehoods) and Dissait (deceit). These vices now rule the government and prevent virtues from advising the King. Their spell is broken by Divine Correction who wakens the King and orders him to summon a parliament of the Three Estates: the nobility, the clergy and the burgesses. The second half of the play centres around this parliament. The Estates are challenged by John the Commonweal, the personification of the common and good people of the kingdom. John advocates for reform to reverse the oppression of the poor and he exposes the corruption of the Spiritual Estate of the clergy. The vices are hanged, parliament passes reforming laws and the play ends with a joyous sermon by Folly.

The only written evidence we have of this 1540 play is from a report by Thomas Benneden passed to the English commander of Berwick, Sir Thomas Eure.Benneden’s report of this play was at the time seen by the English court as evidence of the Scots’ King’s willingness to abandon the Catholic faith and Pope in Rome. However, Henry VIII was clutching at straws. Poking fun at the court and the Kirk, the Scots name for the Church, in the presence of said court, bishops, and archbishops, can hardly been seen as evidence of an imminent Reformation. The tradition of satire and mockery of the institutions of the court and the Kirk was in fact a much older medieval tradition, which acted as an amusing cathartic exercise.

The surviving text is of the play in its later form, revised and extended, in the 1550s. The play was performed again in 1552 in Cupar in Fife and 1554 in Edinburgh. The first printed version of the text appeared in 1602. However, the Treasurer’s Accounts for the Scottish court have evidence of payments for ‘playcoats’ specifically for Epiphany 1540.[8] The costumes, or ‘playcoats’, were multi-coloured matching taffeta and with a specially made ‘cape’. These 1540 accounts give us a sense of the multi-sensory aspects of the 1540 Interlude performance.

In 2013 these multi-sensory elements came to life with the first ever modern full-length production. The play was performed at Linlithgow Castle. The project was spearheaded by Professor Greg Walker and Dr Eleanor Rycroft of the University of Edinburgh, and Professor Thomas Betteridge of Brunel University with Historic Scotland and the Arts and Humanities Research Council.It aimed to both entertain and educate its viewers and celebrate the richness of Scottish cultural history. David Lyndsay’s Ane Satyre of the Thrie Estatis is a testament to this sophisticated Scottish culture and the implications of drama on political life in early modern Scotland.

#scotland #scottish #history #theatre #play #satire

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if-you-fan-a-fire · 19 days

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Progressive-Era Prisons and the Emergence of Prison Sexual Culture

"Fag Follies" and football games would seem to be worlds away from the dens of solitude and enforced silence held as carceral ideals just a few decades before. Changes in prison administration and prison architecture and penology aimed at enhancing inmate sociability in the 1910s and 1920s combined to create new sexual possibilities among prisoners. Material changes in prison architecture and administration that made possible new forms of contact between inmates made sexual contact more likely well, creating new sexual geographies behind bars. Prison writers probably devoted more attention to prison sex in the early twentieth century, at least in part, because there was more sex in prison to attend to.

Beginning in the 1910s, Progressive reformers undertook an ambitious agenda to transform the prison. While few prisons if any had achieved the utopian nineteenth-century goal of perfect carceral solitude, a new generation of prison reformers and administrators judged those earlier visions once inhumane and impractical. Armed with progressive ideas about trinality that emphasized environmental and psychological causes over congenital and moral ones, reformers repudiated nineteenth-century strategies of solitary penitential reflection as well as the disciplinary practices of lockstep marching, the rule of silence, the humiliation of striped uniforms, and corporal punishments such as flogging and the water torture, and the shackling of inmates to cell walls still practiced in many prisons. Embracing a new commitment to correction and rehabilitation, they encouraged inmate sociability, collective labor, exercise, and recreation that, they hoped, might approximate the normal society to which the reformed criminal would return.

The federal penitentiary in Lewisburg, Pennsylvania, opened in 1932, was built with six dormitories rather than cells, with the notion that "the openness promotes rehabilitation by teaching men how to get along with each other. " Some prisons built baseball diamonds and exercise yards and organized football leagues and prison bands, and prisoners in many institutions began to enjoy weekly movie nights. Some reform-minded prison administrators went so far as to give prisoners a role in the government of their own community. A pioneer in the concept of inmate self-government, reformer and warden Thomas Mott Osborne established the Mutual Welfare League in the New York state prisons at Auburn and Sing Sing. Designed to train prisoners in the exercise of democracy, the league was composed of a committee of prisoners elected by their peers and responsible for overseeing prison disciplinary procedures.

Changes in prison architecture and its uses, reflected most centrally in the yard, accompanied and reinforced new ideas about prison life. An iconic feature of the "Big Houses" of the day - Sing Sing, San Quentin, Stateville, and Jackson foremost among them - "the yard" referred typically to an open expanse in the middle of the prison. Often surrounded by imposing and fortified walls and towers, its barbed-wire (and later electrified) borders were closely patrolled by armed guards. The activities within, however, were often considerably less strictly monitored than its perimeters. As "freedom of the yard" was gradually extended, prisoners spent less time by themselves in their cells and more time mingling with each other.

The resulting prison sociability ran directly counter to the Benthamite vision of strict surveillance and perfect discipline, and was captured in the writing of many prisoners. On admission to Utah's state penitentiary, Jack Black explained that he was "turned loose in the yard where there were about one hundred prisoners." There, the prisoners played poker all day in the yard on blankets, and occasionally a game bull, when they could get up enough ambition." Inmate George Wright described the federal penitentiary at Leavenworth in 1915 as "a Jory": "All the prisoners are allowed to roam anywhere inside the walls, you can say run foot races, or anything you like." Edward Bunker told of living "two lives" as an inmate at San Quentin a few decades later in the early 1950s, "one in the cell from 4:30 p.m. to 8:00 am.. the other in the Big Yard." "In those days," Bunker explained, "convicts had the run of the inside of the prison. Each morning when the cell gate opened, I sallied forth to find adventure."

The yard was a place of exercise, organized athletics, and casual congregation. Reformers and administrators hoped that these changes would promote a healthier, more "natural" environment that would help prepare prisoners for life after release. But inmates in early-twentieth-century prisons took advantage of the new blind spots in prison surveillance to engage in a range of illicit as well as licit activities, including drug dealing and consuming, fighting, and sex. "Every day at nine o'clock the cells were opened by the turnkeys, and the men circulated freely in the entire prison block for the rest of the day," African American Communist organizer Angelo Herndon recalled in his 1937 autobiography. "This made it possible for the prisoners with homosexual inclinations to go prowling around for their private pleasures." Prisoner Malcolm Braly recalled a time, before the segregation of homosexuals at San Quentin initiated at the beginning of warden Clinton Duffy's regime in 1941, when "the queens had been free to swish around the yard and carry on open love affairs." The "corner of the yard" was the site of a wedding ceremony between male inmates observed by Piri Thomas, as well as for the wedding ceremonies of inmates of the women's penitentiary at Bedford Hills years later.

The new uses of the yard opened up a place of sexual display and opportunity in many prisons. But a loosely supervised yard could also be a place of sexual vulnerability and danger. "Vast and forbidding when empty," the yard, in prison chaplain Julius Leibert's description, was "a monster when packed. Five thousand heads, ... and a million pent-up hungers aching to burst forth-that's the yard. Perverts on the prowl, jockers' ganging up on a fish, 'queens' reveling in fights between rivals for their favors, homos pairing off for an affair or quarreling like obscene lovers."

The early twentieth century also witnessed the expansion of profit-making prison industries, bringing together prisoners to work in laundries, woodshops, metal shops, forges, mines, quarries, and farms. Collective workshops were much less closely monitored than cellblocks, and the movement of prisoners there, as on the yard, was less carefully regulated. These changes also produced new opportunities, settings, and spaces for encounters between prisoners, some of them sexual. Inmate John Reynolds had earlier warned of the "horrible and revolting practices of the mines" where prisoners labored together side by side in the federal prison at Leavenworth, Kansas. There, "far removed from light and even from the influences of their officers," prisoners were free to "mistreat themselves and sometimes the younger ones that are associated with them in the work." Years later, Ted Ditsworth described his first day working to coal mine as a prisoner in Missouri in the 1920s:

"I had many propositions where these miners would dig my task for me if I would be their kid - was they meant was that they wanted to use me in a homosexual way."

Some of this new inmate sociability and relative freedom from scrutiny was the result of progressive planning, and some was an inevitable consequence of the overcrowding of prisons that had vexed nineteenth-century prison administrators and intensified in the twentieth century. The prison population in the United States more than doubled between 1890 and 1925 and grew even more rapidly from 1920 until World War II, swelling with the rise in unemployment during the Depression. Despite a new commitment to identifying and classifying homosexual, mentally ill, and "hardened" prisoners in order to segregate them from the general population, not all prisons could afford to employ trained psychiatrists or had the physical space to put those plans fully in place.

Overcrowded prisons carried associations of sexual impropriety for early-twentieth-century observers, as they had for their predecessors a century earlier. Louis Berg cited overcrowding as a serious factor contributing to prison homosexuality, writing that "when two or more men are confined in one cell and sex starvation has existed for some time, "doubling up' becomes more than a mere expression to denote cell occupancy. One prisoner described life in the military disciplinary barracks in 1919 as a place where "a man of refined sensibilities is often quartered in the same double-decked bunk with a degenerate or a moral pervert." Investigator Dean Harno wrote to sociologist Ernest W. Burgess in 1927 about the reformatory at Pontiac, Michigan: "All cells have two inmates and quite a number have three. This brings a very acute matter in connection with the morals of the institution." A prisoner of that institution called Pontiac "a 'deformatory'" in 1927, noting of sexual perverts: "They take them fellows and separate them in a separate building so they don't have to mix with the other fellows." Unevenly instituted in prison for men, the practice of segregating homosexuals was virtually unheard of most institutions for women. Kahn noted that, at the Women's Workhouse on Welfare Island, "the homosexuals have been unclassified and are not segregated so that they all mingle freely with the other and are not segregated. "

Prisons varied dramatically by geographical region, and certainly not all prisons put progressive reforms into practice. Many Western state penitentiaries in the early decades of the twentieth century, some resembling hastily built stockades, allowed for little if any classification and segregation of prisoners by offense, sexual disposition, or any other taxonomy. Prisons were peripheral to the criminal justice system that emerged in the South after the Civil War, and some Southern states lacked them altogether. Instead, convict-lease systems flourished in the post-bellum South, drawing heavily on a newly criminalized population of black men and essentially replacing the labor system of slavery. Prisoners in that system were contracted out by the state to work on sugar and cotton plantations, in coal and phosphate mines, turpentine farms, brickyards, quarries, and sawmills, and on levee and railroad construction, where they were exposed to harsh conditions and often brutal treatment. Later in the 1930s, prisoners in the South worked on chain gangs, moving about in labor camps rather than housed in permanent prisons. Mississippi's notorious Parchman penal farm, with its sprawling cotton acreage, predominantly African American field hands, and armed white overseers, resembled an antebellum plantation more closely than it did a modern prison. Constructed in 1904, Parchman served the postbellum imperatives of racial subordination and control and provided as well a cheap and steady labor supply for the rapidly industrializing New South.

Even those prisons furthest removed from Progressive ideals, however, allowed for considerable interaction among prisoners. Convicts leased by railroad companies "slept side by side, shackled together" in mobile iron cells. Collective work and living conditions on prison plantations, in which men worked together by day and slept together in stacked bunks in barracks known as "cages" by night, also allowed for considerable unsupervised contact among inmates, albeit under horrific conditions.

With this increase in inmate interaction and sociability emerged a distinctive and broad-based prison culture that expanded and flourished in the early twentieth century. Prison accounts in this period recognized the development of a prisoners' code of behavior and ethics, the establishment of a tradition of prison tattooing, prison songs and work chants, and the emergence of a comprehensive prison argot. Prison sexual culture was part of this efflorescence of inmate cultural life and increasingly expansive communal life among prisoners.

- Regina Kunzel, Criminal Intimacy: Prison and the Uneven History of Modern American Sexuality. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2008. p. 73-75

#penal reform #penal reformers #wolves and punks #history of homosexuality #history of heteronormativity #sex in prison #life inside #academic quote #reading 2021 #progressive penology #prison administration #classification and segregation #history of crime and punishment #american prison system #penology #queer history

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mariamariquinha · 1 year

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Distraction - An Alfie Solomons Drabble

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You saw him every day, especially in March. It was more sunny, the weather was noticeably milder, and he sat on the same bench with a beautiful dog that you later found out was called Cyril. Not because you asked, of course, but the owner himself had a deep voice and after the first time you heard him call to the animal, after letting him go for a while to sniff near the grass or the concrete, you never forgot it.

You, on the other hand, lived in constant idleness in a very large house with a mother almost always exploring the business as a personal friend of so many other important women in the city, so you were left to look for distractions - your legs couldn't stand the lack of exercise, so she didn't complain about you going out constantly.

Mr. Solomons captured your attention by reputation, of course, but also by the way he just was. How he walked, how he used a cane on cold days and even how he nibbled on the cakes or bread he brought with him on his morning walks. After the first unexpected meeting, where you sat on benches opposite each other, you ended up making a point of aligning the schedules.

As a woman without many expectations, that lasted like a good occupation. Gradually, when you were unable to go to the park or just swept away by a terrible rain, you would sit by the window with a forgotten book and think about him.

You even asked the family doctor during one of his occasional consultations with your father, who was a man suffering from a blood disease, about the appearance of a limp leg on cold days. You didn't get many answers, but you had an inaccurate diagnosis of back problems.

Medical books became your distractions, the kind that held your attention. Men of war with wounds and, consequently, given over to the follies of their own minds.

The crippling brain diseases that turned them into beasts, into creatures instead of people, and from there you wondered if he, a man of war, also dealt with the fear of becoming a beast.

You started to look at him with different eyes, with more curiosity and incitement to want to ask questions, but gave up for fear of being too invasive or crossing a line, coming from someone like him.

Until one day something changed.

He wasn't in the same place as usual. You thought it was odd, sat hesitantly on your bench and stared at your own feet, frowning.

Suddenly you saw a pair of feet, then a large dog sniffing at your feet, slowly climbing up your leg. Alfie Solomons was there, staring down at you, scarier than you could ever imagine.

“We can have a coffee.”

It wasn't a question, nor an assumption - he was just saying, like someone would say the sky was blue.

“Pardon?”

“I know you won't object,” He pointed out, just to say the name of your father, then your mother, then yours. You stared at him with your mouth agape, a touch confused. “I'm sure your parents don't either.”

And you considered him for a while, not with fear but with intrigue. He had no men with him, nor anything that would induce you to think it was a trap.

So you smiled.

“As long as it's not bad for your sciatica, Mr. Solomons.”

------------------------------------------------

Taglist

@buttercup32sstuff

#alfie solomons x reader #alfie solomons #alfie solomons drabble #alfie solomons fic #peaky blinders #peaky blinders fanfic #tom hardy #just a lil something

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dankdungeonsrpg · 4 days

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Dungeon Meshi Devblog 1

The Challenge!

Recently…

Mirke the Meek, amateur podcaster and really nice guy decided to make a podcast about Delicious in Dungeon, the netflix series from Studio Trigger (Gurren Lagann, Kill la Kill). This anime, like many, is based on a wildly successful manga, which Mirke is also into.

He called his project Euphonious in Dungeon and it exists primarily as a call-in show where listeners can share their thoughts on the anime, one episode at a time.

It’s wonderfully short form, like Mirke’s primary self-titled podcast, and features some delightful cooking folly from Mirke’s own kitchen.

Now, while I’m happy to jaw about any show I enjoy, Euphonious requests we focus on the gameable aspects of the series.

Ah, I forgot to mention. Mirke comes out of an excellent community of podcasters producing TTRPG related content. I’ll probably mention them more later but such members include: FreeThrall of Keep Off The Borderlands, Jason of Nerds RPG Variety Cast, Joe of Hindsightless, and Daniel of Bandit’s Keep. (plus many more!)

Central to this community is that they are all in conversation with each other. Allowing the listener to piece together a greater narrative the more shows they consume.

While Mirke is perhaps the most junior member of the group, he should not be overlooked.

Now, to the Gameable Aspects

Some may know that my first best selling title was Joy of Monster Cooking over on the Dungeon Master’s Guild. So eating monsters is hardly a new concept to me. However, in the past I have always considered: “how can I add a monster eating mechanic?” whereas now I consider “how can I build a game about monster eating?”

The differences, I believe, are quite extreme.

Have you (the reader) read Into the Odd? Or Knave? Or Maze Rats? Or Cairn?

One thing these games have in common is that inventory defines character abilities.

You wanna be a fighter? Better get a big sword. You wanna be a wizard? Better stock up on spellbooks.

With this in mind I thought…”what if we had a game in which diet defined character abilities?”

You wanna be a fighter? Better eat a lot of protein. You wanna be a wizard? Better eat foods high in vitamin B12 (yes I had to look up the memory vitamin).

Could I go on? Yes.

Will I? No.

I want to string these into a series of blog posts so next time we’re going to talk about character stats and charts! (wowee)

P.S. I have no doubt others have tried to do this exact design exercise. I would like (for now) to pretend that is not the case. Once I have a system *then* I intend to look over other’s work to compare and contrast. I think this is a useful method when entering your first round of major edits.

#indie ttrpg #rpg #delicious in dungeon #dungeon meshi #osr #devblog

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echosong971 · 1 year

Note

GOOD EVENING. YOUR "VOID FRENZY" HEADCANONS. HAND THEM OVER 🔫

GEEZUMS OK-

so um.

for me to talk about my headcanons for Void Frenzies, I gotta first talk about the Void and how it relates to Nightstalkers especially, cause, y'see-

The Void is a quirky lil thing.

There are numerous accounts and lore bits that talk about how the Void is, even though it's technically Light, almost like an entity unto itself.

"...I've discovered another little trick to getting in good with that yawning mouth of nothing we call the Void: exhaustion. When I start slipping into that twilight, where I'm not sure if I'm awake or dreaming, I can feel the absence. It's close enough to touch. I guess it doesn't matter if it's literal or metaphorical. The Void just likes it when I'm running on empty." - Nightstalker

"The Void ain't special. It sure is creepier than Solar or Arc, that's for sure. But it isn't special. Just show it respect, thank it for a lovely evening, and make sure you always pay your bill. So to speak. Then you've got nothing to worry about. See?" - Shard of the Traveler (Nightstalker)

"There are those who see the Void as dark. It is the folly of the simple mind, unable to perceive the brilliant richness of nothingness. The Void is not only the absence of Light, but Dark..." - Apotheosis Veil

Even further, countless lore tabs talk about the risks of using the Void and the reasons why it can be detrimental to use, especially for Nightstalkers, who balance on the knife's edge of powers and abilities that could prove to be exceptionally dangerous if not exercised with paramount discipline:

"I've had a dozen Hunters ask me why it's so hard to summon a Dusk Bow. I asked 'em what they thought of the Void, and their eyes told me everything. You can't be afraid. That's the secret. No fear." - Tevis, Log Entry 19338

"Picking it up is the easy part, Hunter. Putting it down again, well, you’ll find that it’s addictive, that power. This weapon is something special. Your Light gets twisted. Changed. You find the power to punch through and borrow something from the other side. The Void opens up a hole, and draws from the deep. Go ahead. Carry it a while, Hunter. You’ll feel how heavy it can get.” - Cayde-6, The Nightstalker's Trail

"Doesn't matter how good you are—you stay out there too long, you're not coming back. Not the same way you left, anyway." - Tevis Larsen, Graviton Forfeit

So I asked myself, what happens when a Guardian does go too far into the Void? What happens when the Void they take from finally decides to take something back?

And that's when the idea of Void Frenzies came to me.

So, how do they work?

I imagine they happen to Nightstalkers more often than Sentinels or Voidwalkers just due to the nature of their class and how it works, as well as my own personal knowledge being more expansive when it comes to the Void subclass for Hunters compared to Void Titan and Warlock. So for brevity's sake, I'm going to solely be referring to Nightstalkers for this. Although y'all can feel free to add on your own thoughts on how this might happen for Sentinels and Voidwalkers!

There are a few ways that Void Frenzies can be triggered, but more often than not they tend to be caused when a Nightstalker overtaxes themselves and overuses their Void without giving themselves room to breathe or time to calm down. Huge bouts of emotional turmoil and/or copious amounts of stress can also make a Nightstalker more susceptible to snapping thus triggering a Void Frenzy.

The telltale signs of a Void Hunter experiencing stress that, if it becomes uncontrollable, could lead to a Void Frenzy are as follows:

Living things such as trees, flowers and grass begin to die and wilt around them and any living creature feels like its energy is being siphoned from their body, mirroring the effects of the power we know as Devour.

The temperature of the air around them suddenly drops and turns stagnant. It's not just cold, it's also thick and musty. Unnaturally still. Entropic. Dead.

Void energy begins to course along their arms and face. It creeps under their skin like dark tendrils that they seem to be unable to control, as if it's infecting their very body. The Light underneath the skin of Awoken Guardians turns a dark purple. Their eyes, and the lights in Exos' mouths and optics, turn a brilliant violet, and their sclera—the whites of their eyes—turn black. Energy seeps from their eyes like thick, smoky tears. Purple smoke also can escape from their nose and mouths, even billowing up from the hollow cheeks of Exos.

They seem distant. Hungry. Tired. They become far more prone to spacing out. More often than usual. The Void likes when they run on empty, and the emptier they are, the stronger their connection to the Void becomes until, without proper discipline and control, it consumes them.

When a Void Frenzy occurs, it begins with the Hunter expelling a MASSIVE amount of Void energy around them as if they were casting a Super. Void Light bathes their form and often times will manifest in bladed weapons that look much like Spectral Blades, or in some cases, claws. This varies from Hunter to Hunter.

After this point, they have slipped into the grasp of the abyss and it will refuse to let go. They're only goal will to be to kill and consume as much energy as they can to feed the insatiable appetite of the emptinesses gaping maw. They cannot differentiate between friends and enemies and will attack anything that they see. The Void does not discriminate between energy sources and now neither do they. They do not control the Void anymore. The Void is in control of them. They are ferocious, insatiable, and extremely dangerous and will not stop consuming everything in their path until they either pass out or get shot.

The only ways to combat a Void Frenzy is to wait until their own energy has become exhausted and they burn out (which is not recommended as trying to contain Hunters in a Frenzy has proven to be nigh impossible), by suppressing them with the very energy that is controlling them and thus severing their own connection to the Void, or by killing them and allowing their Ghost to rez them so that the Light bathes and grounds them. The Vanguard tends to opt for killing Guardians in Void Frenzies on sight as it acts as a sort of hard reset that has proven to be the most effective and reliable method for quickly snapping a Guardian out of a Frenzy without causing too much extraneous stress, trauma or damage.

Guardians that have suffered from Void Frenzies are often given a one to two week mandatory leave of absence from their duties—the length being determined by the severity of the incident—and are encouraged and given the resources to take care of themselves until they have recovered enough and feel fit for duty.

In the fight against the Darkness, the last thing they need are Guardians losing themselves.

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liammasterxxx · 6 months

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The Serum

Alec was a fitness enthusiast who had always been interested in supplements and their effects on the human body. He spent countless hours researching and experimenting with different formulas, trying to find the perfect combination of ingredients that would help him achieve his fitness goals.

One day, after months of trial and error, Alec finally stumbled upon a new supplement formula that he believed would revolutionize the fitness industry. He was so excited about his discovery that he immediately took a dose of the supplement, eager to see the results.

To his delight, Alec noticed an immediate improvement in his endurance and stamina during his workouts. He felt like he could lift more weight and run longer distances without getting tired. He was thrilled with the results and continued to take the supplement every day.

However, as the days passed, Alec began to notice some strange side effects. His muscles began to swell and bulge, and he felt like he was getting stronger by the day. At first, he thought it was just a natural result of his hard work paying off, but soon he realized that something was seriously wrong.

His muscles continued to grow at an alarming rate, and he became too large to fit on any of the workout equipment at the gym. People began to stare at him wherever he went.

Alec's muscles grew so much he was forced to wear baggy clothes to hide his bulging muscles and avoid drawing attention to himself. His once athletic body had become a grotesque caricature of itself, and he felt like a freak. He was unable to perform even the simplest of exercises without causing damage to the equipment or himself. Alec's obsession with supplements had led him down a dangerous path, and he had paid the ultimate price for his folly.

As his muscles continued to grow, his hands also grew in size and strength. He was forced to use the heaviest weights in his workouts, as anything lighter would simply crumble under the force of his grip. His once nimble fingers had become thick and clumsy, making it difficult for him to perform even the simplest of exercises.

Alec's shame grew with each passing day. He was unable to hide his bulging muscles and oversized hands, which only added to his embarrassment. People began to stare at him wherever he went, and he felt like a freak. He was unable to perform even the simplest of exercises without causing damage to the equipment or himself. His once-promising career as a fitness enthusiast had come to an end, and he was left with nothing but regret and despair.

Panicked, Alec tried to stop taking the supplement, but it was too late. His body had become addicted to it, and he couldn't function without it. He was trapped in a body that was growing more monstrous by the day.

Despite his condition, Alec refused to give up on his dream of becoming a fitness icon. He continued to work out every day, pushing himself harder than ever before. He knew that he was no longer human, but he refused to let that stop him from achieving his goals.

As time passed, Alec's body continued to mutate. His muscles grew so large that he was unable to fit through doorways or move around without causing damage to his surroundings. He became a prisoner in his own body, unable to escape the monster that he had become.

Despite all of this, Alec refused to give up. He continued to work out every day, pushing himself harder than ever before. He knew that he was no longer human, but he refused to let that stop him from achieving his goals.

One day, while working out in his apartment, Alec's body finally gave out. His muscles spasmed uncontrollably, and he collapsed onto the floor.

When Alec woke up, he realized that he was no longer in control of his own body. The supplement had taken over, and it was using him as a vessel to achieve its own twisted goals. Alec watched in horror as his body began to mutate into something monstrous and inhuman.

He tried to fight back, but it was no use. The supplement had given him incredible strength and power, but it had also taken away his humanity. Alec was trapped in a body that was no longer his own, forced to do the bidding of an alien force.

From that day forward, Alec vowed never to experiment with supplements again. He realized that there were no shortcuts to success and that hard work and dedication were the only paths to true greatness.

#gay #macrophilia #bodybuilder #giant growth #giant men #gayhot #muscles #masculine

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lya-dustin · 11 months

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All is bliss

Chapter 4

Cw: mentions of infertility, consensual infidelity, manipulation, surrogacy, spying

Gif by: @merlinaddams

Taglist: @mercedesdecorazon @aemondx @darylandbethfanforever9

“And this is a good thing how?” He asks her, because if there is no child they can’t usurp her mother that easily.

As much as Aegon is against it, it is going to happen.

Aemma was a valuable hostage and gave them legitimacy and a reason Rhaenyra wouldn’t rise against them.

House Velaryon would have no choice but to fall in line given she is Laenor’s only trueborn child after all.

Besides women needed children lest they be seen as failures even when the fault lies with the man.

“I never want to have his children, most women do not get that gods-given luxury.” She answered, moving away and sitting at a respectful distance.

Aemma had come so close she’d been half sitting on his lap. Really, she had been so happy to tell her the secret he already had guessed at, she hadn’t noticed her knee on his thigh as she clasped her hands on his shoulders in her joy.

Her perfume alone had reminded him of her wedding night, of that moment he saw her so beautiful and vulnerable in the candlelight he had to seek out a lady of dubious reputation to scratch that itch.

Gods, he might have to seek Lady Wylde out again.

His hand is no longer good enough for him.

“The entire purpose of your marriage is to prevent a war. What happens when he dies without issue?” he really hates bursting her bubble on this, had Aegon not been needed he would have been happy for her.

“You get to inherit his claim.

Although mine is much higher, so really, your brother dying without legitimate issue is more of a problem for the Greens than it is for the Blacks. I get to appoint an heir from those available or marry someone of my choosing and have my own.

I might even marry you if you’re still available and prevent your mother and grandfather from putting my family to the sword.” She answers, having thought all of this through already.

It is a tempting prospect, he could go ahead and skip the wait and just marry her.

Even if Aegon set her aside for being barren, one lucky man gets a crown and a chance to plough that fine fertile field of hers.

If he had been the one put forth to marry her, she’d be fat with his child already.

“How long have you been planning for this?” he is not shocked at her logic, and yet he couldn’t fathom when she’d have the time for this.

“For a while now, my scheme is fool-proof.” She grinned with pride.

Four moons pass and the court is afire with the gossip.

Someone ---possibly Aemma--- has let it be known what his true illness was.

She has her blood without fail no matter what they try and if Viserys’ health hadn’t had a turn for the worst nor Rhaenyra announced she is four moons pregnant, Alicent wouldn’t have told Aegon about it.

“You need an heir.” She said after pretending she is saddened by his plight.

He brought it upon himself and now he must live with the consequences of his follies.

Alicent had never been stern with him and now look where it got them.

“You heard the Maester, I cannot sire children anymore. His mercury ointment shriveled up my seed.” Her son said not seeing the forest and focused on his barren tree.

“Your wife needs a lover. I hate this as much as you do, but the only way to keep her claim with us is by making her owe us her life and that of her heirs.” They could claim the child as Laenor claimed Rhaenyra’s sons, and use that as leverage to keep her loyal to their cause.

A mother would do anything for their child, even become a kinslayer if need be.

“Do I get to choose who my little wife cuckolds me with or have you decided for me?” He asked morosely.

“You may choose. Just remember they must be discreet and that it won’t be a man who goes against you.” She said hoping he exercises that unused organ of his.

He'd be an idiot not to see it.

Aemond has never looked at a lady that way unless you really knew him.

His one eye allows him a good cover for when people rightly guess where he was looking.

Aemma was fond of swimming, wearing breeches and a shirt and sometimes only the knee length shift she wears under her clothes .

Like today.

Aemma thinks no one can see her from here, but Aegon ---and Aemond and sometimes even mother--- have come and seen the show she puts on.

She is a long legged beauty, even if her figure isn’t close to full like Rhaenyra’s or Helaena’s.

But the way the wet fabric clings to her like a second skin is enough to make any man’s prick stand at attention.

Aemond is no exception.

“You can admit it, little brother, you desire her.” Aegon had the perfect man in mind. “Everyone does, even Cole

He was loyal, looked close enough to them to cast no obvious doubts like Harwin had and was on good enough terms with Aemma not to be rejected.

Aemond freezes and yet Aegon knows his younger brother has always envied him for everything.

“If she wasn’t such a shrew and a terrible lay, I’d say she was perfect.” He adds knowing how much Aemond dislikes him speaking ill of her.

They were evenly matched, Aemond was as dull and bookish as her.

Once Aemond had been invited to dinner and Aegon had tried his best to find common ground but he felt stupid and resorted to drinking the night away.

It wasn’t that he an idiot, he just didn’t care for things beyond the simple pleasures of life like eating good food, drinking great wine, flying Sunfyre and fucking any woman that said yes.

Aemma liked reading, having opinions on everything most men agree women are too weak and emotional to grasp, music and worse, taking an active role in governing.

He will be happy to leave the Seven Kingdoms in her hands one day.

And for that to happen, Aemond needs to fuck his wife.

Mother will be so proud of him.

“You shouldn’t speak so ill of your wife.” Aemond begins.

Aegon waits for him to be drinking from his wine skin to say this, “Which is why you would make a perfect lover for her.”

“Crone’s sagging teats, Aegon, don’t joke like that.” Aemond coughs and Aegon hits his back a bit more forcefully than required.

“It’s not a jape, little brother. I need you to fuck her.”

Aegon then explains his predicament and wisely keeps their mother’s involvement a secret.

#aemma velaryon #aemond targaryen x velaryon!oc #all is bliss fic #aegon ii x oc x aemond #aegon ii x oc #ewan mitchell #tom glynn carney

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