#by those claiming it's good through and through

[novaursa]

The Dragon's Right (16)

- Summary: It was by grace of the gods that firstborn child of Viserys I and Aemma was born a boy and he lived. And all of the rest, scholars will later say, is by power of something more malevolent in kind.

- Paring: male!reader/Rhaenyra Targaryen

- Rating: Explicit 18+ (just to be safe)

- Previous part: 15

- Next part: 17

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @alyssa-dayne @oxymakestheworldgoround @mrsjohnnysuh

The air is heavy with a somber weight as Jacaerys gently leads Rhaenyra through the corridors of Dragonstone. Her steps are slow and careful, her body still fragile from the birth and the grief that followed, but her eyes are clear, her expression set with determination. It’s been a week since they laid Visenya to rest, but the pain is still raw, a wound that refuses to heal. Yet, Rhaenyra has insisted on attending this council herself, determined to show strength despite her suffering.

“Are you sure you’re ready for this, Mother?” Jace asks quietly, his arm steadying her as they near the council chamber. His concern is palpable, his young face lined with worry.

“I have to be,” Rhaenyra replies, her voice firm though there’s a tremor beneath it. “This is our fight, Jace. I cannot hide away, not now.”

He nods, though his brow remains furrowed, and he pushes open the heavy wooden door, guiding her inside. The room falls silent as they enter, all eyes turning to the Princess. Rhaenyra pauses, taking in the faces around the table—men and women sworn to your cause, their expressions a mixture of respect and unease.

Daemon’s twin daughters, Baela and Rhaena, are seated near Luke, their young faces tense with the weight of the situation. Rhaenyra’s younger sons are being looked after elsewhere, kept away from the turmoil that threatens to consume them all. She draws strength from seeing Luke, his gaze filled with determination, and from the presence of others who have pledged their loyalty.

Rhaenys is there, standing with her son, Laenor. She looks older, the lines of worry etched deeper on her face, but there is a fire in her eyes that has not dimmed. She inclines her head to Rhaenyra as she approaches, a silent acknowledgment of shared grief and strength.

“How is Corlys?” Rhaenyra asks, her voice quiet but steady as she takes her seat.

Rhaenys steps forward, her voice calm and reassuring. “He is recovering. The worst has passed, and the fever has finally broken. He will be ready to join us soon.”

A murmur of relief sweeps through the room. Corlys Velaryon’s presence and support are invaluable, a cornerstone of their cause. Rhaenyra nods, a faint smile of gratitude touching her lips. “That is good to hear.”

Lord Darklyn clears his throat, drawing the attention of those gathered. “A raven arrived from Dorne this morning,” he begins, his tone carrying a hint of satisfaction. “It seems they intend to stay out of this conflict. They will not join the Greens and are leaning toward supporting Prince—your husband’s—claim.”

A ripple of approval spreads through the room. Jace, his shoulders squared with pride, speaks up, his voice filled with confidence. “It’s no surprise. Dorne remembers what happened the last time they challenged my father.”

There’s a murmur of agreement, and Rhaenyra’s gaze softens as she looks at her son. His courage, his strength—they remind her so much of you. She’s proud, but there’s a hollow ache in her chest, a yearning for your presence.

She glances around, her eyes searching the room, noticing your absence for the first time. “Where is he?” she asks, her voice quiet but edged with concern. “Where is your father?”

The room falls silent, the easy camaraderie dissolving into something more guarded. Jace exchanges a quick look with Luke, hesitation flickering across his face before he turns back to Rhaenyra.

“Mother, he… he hasn’t been well since Visenya’s funeral,” Jace admits, his voice low. “He’s been restless, angry. He and Daemon… they left this morning. They took off with their dragons.”

Rhaenyra’s heart clenches, a sudden fear gripping her. “Where did they go?”

Jace hesitates, glancing at Luke again before he speaks. “In the direction of Oldtown.”

The words hit her like a blow, and for a moment, the room seems to spin around her. She grips the arm of her chair, her knuckles white. “Oldtown…” she breathes, her mind racing, remembering your promise, the fire in your eyes when you swore vengeance for Visenya.

“Gods…” Rhaenyra murmurs, her voice barely a whisper as the realization sinks in. You had been consumed with rage, blinded by grief. You’d spoken of fire and blood, of making them pay for what they had done.

Her heart pounds in her chest, a mixture of fear and despair twisting inside her. You’re not just going to Oldtown—you’re going to burn it. To unleash your fury upon those you hold responsible, no matter the cost.

She takes a deep breath, steadying herself as she turns her gaze back to Jace. “We must prepare,” she says, her voice trembling but determined. “We need to be ready for what comes next.”

Jace nods, though the worry does not leave his eyes. “Yes, Mother.”

Rhaenyra looks around the room, her gaze sharp and commanding despite her weakened state. “This is just the beginning. They’ve made their move, and now we must make ours. We cannot let them tear us apart.”

There are murmurs of agreement, the council members straightening, their resolve hardening. Rhaenys steps forward, her eyes on Rhaenyra. “We stand with you, Rhaenyra. We will do what needs to be done.”

Rhaenyra nods, a flicker of gratitude passing over her face. “Thank you, all of you. We will not falter.”

She looks at Jace again, her hand resting briefly on his arm. “We will be ready for whatever comes next.”

The room is filled with the murmur of plans and strategies, a flurry of activity as the council prepares for the storm that is surely coming. And though the fear and worry gnaw at her, Rhaenyra knows she must be strong.

You are driven by grief and rage, but Rhaenyra will stand firm. She will hold Dragonstone, prepare their forces, and wait for your return. 

The sun blazes high in the midday sky, its light blinding as it glares down on the unsuspecting city of Oldtown. Below, the streets bustle with life, unaware of the doom that soars toward them from the direction of the sun, the gleaming silhouettes of two dragons hidden in its harsh glare.

Silverwing’s wings cut through the air with powerful strokes, your heart pounding in sync with each beat. Ahead, Daemon and Caraxes fly with a fierce, relentless speed, their massive forms casting shadows over the sprawling city below. The Hightower, once a proud symbol of power and wealth, looms before you, a tempting target.

You share a look with Daemon, a single nod passing between you as you split off, his gaze fixed on the towering structure of the Hightower, while your own eyes lock onto the Starry Sept. The Faith of the Seven, who had crowned your half-brother, who had dared to deny your birthright. You can feel the rage boiling in your veins, the need for vengeance scorching through every thought.

Caraxes dives first, his roar shattering the midday stillness as flames pour from his maw, a torrent of fire that engulfs the great tower. The stones crack and explode under the intense heat, chunks of rock and debris hurtling through the air. Screams rise up from within the tower, and you see tiny figures—nobles, lords, and ladies—hurling themselves from the windows, desperate to escape the inferno, only to meet their end on the unforgiving ground below.

Silverwing’s roar answers Caraxes, and you direct her down toward the Starry Sept. The beautiful building, with its delicate spires and intricate carvings, stands as a symbol of the power that has been wielded against you, against your family. It will fall, just like everything else they have built.

“Dracarys!” you command, your voice echoing with fury. Silverwing responds with a roar that seems to shake the very sky, flames spilling from her jaws to wash over the Sept. The roof catches fire instantly, the ornate wood and stonework crumbling under the onslaught. The holy place of the Faith is reduced to a screaming, writhing mass of flames and smoke.

Septa and Septons flee from the burning structure, their robes ablaze, their cries filling the air. The smell of charred flesh and burning incense fills your nostrils as Silverwing lands atop the collapsing Sept, her claws crushing what remains of the once-proud building. The impact sends chunks of stone flying, the ground trembling beneath the force of her weight.

Silverwing lets out a triumphant roar, her voice carrying over the dying screams below. Debris scatters in every direction, the sky filled with a choking cloud of ash and smoke. The sight of it fuels the fire in your chest, your hatred, your grief, your rage. You lean forward, your eyes fixed on the chaos below.

“This is for Visenya,” you murmur, your voice lost in the cacophony. “For everything they took from us.”

Your gaze sweeps across the city, taking in the panic and confusion spreading through the streets. You see the Citadel in the distance, its towers rising arrogantly against the sky. A den of maesters, those who have spread their lies and manipulations, who have whispered poison into the ears of kings. They, too, will burn.

You signal Daemon, and Caraxes veers toward the Citadel, his wings beating furiously as he gains speed. Silverwing follows, her powerful form gliding effortlessly through the thickening smoke. Below, the people of Oldtown scatter like ants, fleeing in every direction, their shouts and cries blending into a single, desperate chorus.

Caraxes unleashes a torrent of fire upon the Citadel, the flames licking up the towers, devouring stone and wood alike. Scrolls and tomes, records of centuries, are consumed in an instant, knowledge and history reduced to ash and cinders. The maesters inside scream as they are caught in the blaze, their voices mingling with the roar of the flames and the shattering of glass.

Silverwing circles around, her flames joining those of Caraxes, the combined heat turning the once-proud Citadel into a blazing pyre. The fires leap higher, consuming everything in their path, the air thick with the stench of burning flesh and stone.

You watch, your heart a storm of emotions—anger, sorrow, satisfaction, all mingling into something fierce and unrelenting. This city, this place that has stood against you, that has defied your claim, that has crowned your half-brother in your place—it will be brought to ruin, every stone, every life, ground to dust under the might of dragonfire.

Silverwing’s wings beat against the hot air, her body glowing with the reflected light of the flames as she turns her gaze back to the rest of the city. There is no mercy in her eyes, only the reflection of your own vengeance, your need to see this place reduced to nothing but smoke and ash.

Your voice is a growl as you command her once more. “Burn it all.”

Silverwing’s roar answers you, and she dives, her flames sweeping over the city below, over houses and markets, over temples and towers. People run, screaming, trying to escape the oncoming inferno, but there is no refuge, no safety. The streets become rivers of fire, the buildings collapsing under the relentless assault.

You can see Daemon, his face a mask of grim satisfaction, as Caraxes lays waste to another section of the city. Together, your dragons are a force of nature, unstoppable, unyielding. You turn your gaze to the Hightower once more, the great structure now a smoking ruin, its walls blackened, its stones shattered.

You will leave nothing behind. You will raze it all to the ground, and when the ashes settle, they will remember this day, the day the wrath of dragons was unleashed upon them.

For Visenya. For your daughter. For the throne that was stolen. You will see them all burn. And Oldtown will be the first to fall.

Silverwing and Caraxes turn together, their flames lighting up the sky, and the city of Oldtown is swallowed by the inferno, the screams of its people echoing in the hellish glow. And still, you and Daemon do not stop, your dragons raining fire and destruction, until the city is a smoldering wasteland beneath you.

The charred remains of Oldtown smolder under the midday sun, the acrid stench of smoke and ash hanging thick in the air. The city is unrecognizable, its proud structures reduced to rubble, flames still licking at the ruins. Amidst the devastation, the once proud blue and silver form of Tessarion lies torn and broken, her wings shredded, her body twisted and lifeless. Caraxes circles above, his roar echoing across the desolate landscape, a triumphant call that vibrates through the air. But of Daeron, there is no sign—he has vanished like a shadow, slipping through the chaos like a phantom.

You stand in the midst of the destruction, Silverwing looming behind you, her scales glowing in the harsh light, reflecting the inferno around you. The heat is intense, almost suffocating, but it’s nothing compared to the fire that burns within your chest. Before you, a small cluster of Septons and Septas stand trembling, their robes stained with ash and blood, their eyes wide with terror.

One of the Septons, his face twisted with fear but his voice defiant, steps forward. “You are a monster,” he spits, his words ringing out over the desolation. “An abomination, cursed by the gods. You and your dragon are the doom of us all.”

You feel a cold smile curve your lips as you draw Blackfyre, the legendary blade gleaming darkly in your hand. The weight of it is familiar, comforting. It’s as if the sword itself thirsts for blood, hungers for vengeance. You take a step forward, your gaze locking onto the Septon’s.

“You speak of gods and curses,” you say, your voice low and filled with barely restrained fury. “But where were your gods when my daughter was killed? Where were they when the Faith crowned a usurper in my place?”

The Septon falters, his courage wavering, but he does not step back. “You defy the Seven, Targaryen. The gods will strike you down for this blasphemy.”

You raise Blackfyre, the blade catching the light as you point it at him. “The Faith of the Seven is an enemy of the throne,” you declare, your voice ringing out over the ruins. “An enemy that has aided in the theft of my birthright, that has betrayed the true blood of the dragon. I will root you out from every corner of Westeros. You will find no sanctuary, no mercy.”

The Septon’s face pales, but he lifts his chin defiantly. “The gods will judge you,” he says, his voice shaking but resolute. “You will burn in the Seven Hells for this.”

You step closer, the tip of Blackfyre inches from his chest. “Then let them strike me down,” you hiss, and with a swift, brutal motion, you drive the blade through his robes, piercing flesh and bone. The Septon screams, a high, wailing sound that cuts through the smoke and ash like a blade.

“Scream louder,” you command, twisting Blackfyre as his blood pours over your hands, hot and slick. “Call out to your gods. Let them hear you.”

The Septon’s cries turn to desperate, choking sobs, his hands clawing at the blade, his eyes wide with agony. The others around him watch, horror-stricken, but none dare to move, frozen in the grip of terror. You twist the sword again, feeling the resistance of flesh and bone give way under your hands.

“Is this not what your gods wish?” you ask, your voice mocking, filled with contempt. “Where is their wrath now? Where is their power?”

The Septon collapses to his knees, the life draining from his eyes as his strength fails him. With a final, savage pull, you yank Blackfyre free, the blade glistening with his blood. He crumples at your feet, his breaths ragged and shallow, his face a mask of pain and despair.

You look up at the sky, the smoke swirling above, and raise Blackfyre high, the blood dripping from the blade onto the scorched ground. “Are you watching?” you shout, your voice filled with a bitter fury that echoes across the ruins. “Are you listening, gods of the Seven?”

The sky is silent, the only answer the distant roar of Caraxes, the crackle of flames, the weeping of the dying city around you. There is no thunder, no divine retribution, no sign of any power greater than the one you wield in your hand.

You lower the sword, your gaze sweeping over the Septons and Septas, their faces pale, their bodies trembling. “Your gods are silent,” you say, your voice cold, emotionless. “If they exist at all, they do not care.”

Turning your back on the crumpled, dying Septon, you nod to Silverwing. “Dracarys.”

With a mighty roar, Silverwing unleashes a torrent of fire, her flames sweeping over the huddled figures. Their screams rise up, a cacophony of terror and pain, as they are consumed by the inferno. You do not look back as you walk away, the heat of the flames at your back, your heart a cold, burning core of rage and loss.

Let the world see this and tremble. Let them know that the dragon has returned, and that you will not rest until all who have wronged you, who have betrayed your family, have been reduced to ash. This is the price of treason. This is the price of faith in false gods.

And you will be the one to collect it, blade by blade, fire by fire, until the debt is paid in full.

The atmosphere in the Red Keep’s council chamber is heavy scent of smoke and incense. Aegon, the newly crowned king, lounges in his chair, his fingers drumming restlessly against the polished wood of the table. Aemond sits beside him, his face twisted into cold determination, his single eye fixed on nothing, lost in thought. Alicent is nearby, her gaze flicking between her sons and the door, her expression tight with anxiety.

Around the table, the other members of the small council wait in uneasy silence—Grand Maester Orwyle, his face pale and strained; Lord Tyland Lannister, his lips pressed into a thin line; Ser Criston Cole, his hand resting lightly on the hilt of his sword, as if prepared for any sudden threat. Lord Jasper Wylde and Larys Strong complete the assembly, both watching the door with nervous anticipation.

The door bursts open, and Otto Hightower strides in, his face ashen, his movements almost unsteady. Alicent’s eyes widen, alarm flashing across her features as she quickly rises, moving to support him.

“Father, what’s happened?” she asks, her voice laced with worry as she takes his arm, guiding him to the nearest chair.

Otto collapses into the seat, his hand clutching at his chest as if trying to steady his breathing. “Oldtown…” he gasps, his voice barely above a whisper. “Oldtown is gone. Burned to the ground.”

A shocked silence falls over the room, every face turning toward Otto in disbelief. Aegon sits up straighter, his eyes widening. “What?” he breathes, his voice tinged with disbelief. “What do you mean, ‘gone’?”

Otto takes a deep breath, his face lined with exhaustion and grief. “Your half-brother and Daemon… they attacked Oldtown. Burned the city, the Hightower, the Citadel… everything.”

Alicent’s hand flies to her mouth, her eyes filling with horror. She sways, and Ser Criston steps forward, his face dark with concern. “My lady…”

She shakes her head, trying to gather herself. “And Daeron?” she asks, her voice trembling. “What of my son?”

Otto’s gaze drops, his face tightening. “There is no word of him. Tessarion is dead. I fear the worst.”

The room erupts into chaos. Orwyle’s face turns even paler, if that were possible. “The Citadel… gone?” he mutters, his voice filled with disbelief. “The records, the histories… centuries of knowledge…”

Tyland Lannister leans forward, his voice sharp and urgent. “And what do we do now? What if they come here next?”

Aegon’s face twists with fear, his eyes darting around the room as if seeking some escape. “He’s mad. Worse then Maegor,” he says, his voice rising with panic. “He’ll kill us all.”

Otto lifts his head, forcing his voice to be calm and steady. “No, he won’t. King’s Landing is armed, fortified. We have dragons, too. He won’t attack us here.”

“But we need to prepare,” Alicent insists, her voice shaking. “We need to protect what’s left of our family.”

Larys Strong, his eyes dark and calculating, is the first to find his voice. “We need allies,” he says softly, his gaze shifting around the table. “If we are to survive this, we must gather support, quickly.”

Aemond rises, his movements sharp and determined. “I will go to Storm’s End,” he declares, his voice cold and unyielding. “The Baratheons will stand with us.”

Tyland nods, his eyes gleaming with a fierce light. “I will send word to my brother in the West. House Lannister has not forgotten the insult dealt by the Targaryen prince. He will rally to our side.”

Aegon looks between them, his face pale and drawn, his hands gripping the arms of his chair. “And what if that’s not enough?” he demands, his voice a harsh whisper. “What if he brings his dragons here?”

Otto forces himself to stand, his hand resting on the back of Alicent’s chair for support. “Then we will fight,” he says firmly, though his eyes betray the fear that gnaws at him. “We will defend the throne, and we will not let him tear this realm apart.”

The room is tense, the fear and uncertainty thick in the air. Aegon looks around at his council, his eyes wide with desperation. “Do something,” he demands, his voice breaking. “Anything. We cannot let him win.”

Aemond places a hand on his brother’s shoulder, his gaze fierce and determined. “We won’t let him take this city,” he promises, his voice low and deadly. “Let him come. I will meet him with fire and blood.”

The words hang in the air, a grim vow that sends a shiver through everyone present. They have seen what your wrath can do, the destruction you are capable of. And they know that the fight that is coming will be like nothing they have faced before.

Otto sinks back into his chair, his face drawn with exhaustion. He glances at Alicent, his eyes filled with unspoken sorrow. “We must be united,” he murmurs, his voice barely audible. “For our family.”

Alicent nods, though her face is pale, her hands trembling. She turns to Aegon, her voice soft but filled with resolve. “You are the king,” she says, her eyes locked on his. “You must be strong. For all of us.”

Aegon swallows hard, his gaze shifting from his mother to his uncle, then to the rest of his council. “I will try,” he says, his voice a thin, fragile thread. “I will try.”

The room falls silent, the weight of the coming storm pressing down on them all. They are the rulers of a kingdom on the brink of war, a family divided by blood and betrayal. And somewhere beyond the walls of the Red Keep, you and Daemon are coming, your vengeance burning as bright and deadly as dragonfire.

The sun is sinking low over Dragonstone, casting the cliffs and towers in hues of gold and crimson. The air is charged with anticipation, a collective breath held as you and Daemon descend from the sky, your dragons’ massive forms casting shadows across the courtyard below. Silverwing and Caraxes land with a thunderous crash, their wings sending gusts of wind that stir the banners overhead, emblazoned with the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen.

Rhaenyra stands at the forefront, her face pale but resolute, surrounded by your children and family. Jace and Luke stand tall beside her, their young faces set with a determination beyond their years. Joffrey is next to his eldest brothers, his wide eyes fixed on you with a mixture of awe and fear. Beside them, Aegon and Viserys, still too young to fully understand the gravity of the moment, huddle together, their small hands gripping each other for reassurance.

Daemon’s twin daughters, Baela and Rhaena, stand slightly apart, their faces calm but watchful. Rhaenys is there too, her gaze proud and unyielding, Laenor at her side, his expression one of quiet strength.

Beyond them, your bannermen and retainers have gathered, a sea of loyal faces turned toward you. And beside them, Ser Erryk stands, his armor gleaming in the dying light. In his hands, he cradles the crown of King Viserys, the metal dark and heavy with the weight of your father’s legacy.

You dismount from Silverwing, your boots hitting the ground with a solid thud. The silence is profound, the only sound the rustle of banners and the distant cry of seabirds. Daemon joins you, his gaze sweeping over the gathered crowd, his expression inscrutable.

Rhaenyra steps forward, her eyes locked on yours, and you feel the unspoken question in her gaze, the worry and the fear she tries so hard to hide. You walk to her, your heart a maelstrom of emotions—rage, sorrow, resolve. She reaches out, her hand trembling slightly as she touches your arm.

“You’re back,” she whispers, her voice filled with relief and something more, something fragile.

You nod, your voice low. “I am.”

Her gaze flickers over you, searching for something—reassurance, perhaps, or maybe a confirmation of the man she knows, the man she loves. You see the moment she finds it, the tension in her shoulders easing just a fraction. She glances back at your children, then at Ser Erryk.

Erryk steps forward, his expression solemn as he raises the crown. “Your Grace,” he says, his voice carrying over the courtyard. “The crown of your father, King Viserys. It belongs to you.”

The air is electric, a palpable sense of history turning in this moment. You reach out, your hand steady as you take the crown from Erryk’s hands. It’s heavier than you remember, the metal cold against your skin, the weight of it pressing down on you with a finality that is almost suffocating.

You lift the crown, holding it for a moment, the eyes of everyone present fixed on you. Then, with a deep breath, you place it on your head, the cold metal settling against your brow like a seal, like a promise.

A murmur ripples through the crowd, a soft, reverent sound that grows into a cheer, the voices of your bannermen and retainers rising in unison.

“Long live the King!” they shout, their voices echoing off the stone walls, filling the air with a fierce, defiant energy. “Long live King Y/N Targaryen!”

You turn to face them, your gaze sweeping over the sea of faces, taking in their loyalty, their hope. This is your moment, the beginning of something new, something that will reshape the future of the realm.

But even as the cheers rise around you, your eyes find Rhaenyra’s again, and you see the shadows in her gaze, the unspoken fear that lingers there.

Daemon steps forward, his hand resting lightly on your shoulder. “Nephew,” he says, his voice low but carrying a note of fierce pride. “The realm will tremble.”

You nod, your gaze steady on his. “It will.”

Rhaenys moves to stand beside Rhaenyra, her eyes sharp and assessing as she looks at you. “The Hightowers will not take this lightly,” she warns, her voice calm but edged with steel. “They will come for you.”

“I welcome it,” you say, your voice carrying a cold, unyielding resolve. “Let them try. They will find a dragon waiting.”

The crowd quiets, the weight of your words sinking in, the reality of what lies ahead settling over them like a shadow. This is not just a crowning; it is a declaration, a promise of fire and blood to come.

You turn back to Rhaenyra, your hand reaching for hers, your fingers intertwining. “This is our fight,” you murmur, your voice for her alone. “For our children, for our family, for Visenya.”

She nods, her grip tightening around yours. “For Visenya,” she echoes, her voice steady, her gaze fierce.

And as you stand there, your family gathered around you, the crown of your father on your head, you know that this is only the beginning. The war has already begun, and you will see it through to the end. You will reclaim what is yours, no matter the cost, no matter the bloodshed.

The dragons have returned, and all of Westeros will feel their fury.

[cynthiav06]

I have been living with this headcanon/brainrot about Athena (both from Epic the Musical and pjo) for a long while and a warning for the faint of heart, you know what read it anyway cause it haunts me , so everyone else has to be haunted by it too, cause I am petty like that.

Most people might be aware of the myth that Athena sprung from Zeus's head fully formed and in battle armor, but a few might not know the preceding myth, so here's a quick recap:

Zeus married the titaness Metis, who was the titaness of wise counsel, wisdom, and planning. She was also Athena's mother. Metis was his advisor, both an indispensable aid and threat to him, given her power and cunning. But it's no Greek mythology without a son overthrowing the father archetype haunting the narrative. There was a similar prophecy about Metis's second child being so powerful that he would overthrow Zeus. Mind you Metis was pregnant with Athena when the following events transpire:

Zeus being Zeus, paranoid and power hungry, the King of the Gods and the God of "Justice" manipulates Metis into playing a shape-shifting game and when Metis turned into a fly , he swallowed her whole. [I know Greek patriarchs have a thing for eating their children or spouses pregnant with said children. Runs in the family, apparently]

Mind you in Greek myths, swallowed children, or in this case, swallowed wife pregnant with said child stay alive for a good amount of time even inside someone else's organs. So Metis gives birth to Athena inside Zeus's head and raises her there. She teaches her warfare and strategy until Metis herself eventually dies, i.e., her essence fades. Knowing what she must do to not meet the same fate, Athena hammers on Zeus's skull from the inside to escape. Everyone knows the rest of the myth.

But imagine Athena's first lesson being that the man she calls her father is the one who killed her mother and almost killed Athena herself by swallowing Metis so she must do everything in her power to survive and avoid that fate by staying on his good side. To try and fit in this twisted family of immortals, half of who hate her existence and half who are indifferent to him. So she does exactly that.

Think of Athena asking to be a Virgin Goddess from learning of what comes of marriage with gods.

Now, the continuation of Athena's myth is that she goes to Atlantis to train with the sea nymphs. There she makes her first ever friend and someone she comes to dearly love, Pallas. Greek myths being allergic to happy endings, one day when Pallas and Athena are sparring as they do a bit more seriously this time; Zeus being a nosy bastard decides to spy in just when Pallas is about to land a finishing blow on Athena. Thinking she might kill his daughter, he kills Pallas by blasting her with his lightning. Athena, being heartbroken , Zeus gave her Aegis as an apology. The continuation of this is that Athena adopts the namesake Pallas Athena and even carves a statue in likeness of her friend called Palladium and then more.

But think of Athena heartbroken and bitter as the Goddess of Wisdom learns her second lesson, then she must abandon all personal relations and sentiment before her father ends it for her in one way or another. For Pallas was the first true relation in her life after her mother.

Keep in mind that Pallas is Poseidon's granddaughter through his firstborn son and heir Triton. This is the point that sparks eternal enmity between Athena and Poseidon, and all those who come after will suffer in the wake of this tragedy.

So Athena chooses to remain alone and without a friend to avoid such a situation. Imagine Athena being hurt, especially brutally, when Odysseus says: "Since you claim you are so much wiser, why's your life spent all alone? You're alone!"

Because that's exactly it. Athena is wise. She knows the consequence of endearing herself to someone again so she stays alone to avoid such a thing and yet coming from someone who is so close to being her first friend in a long time, hurt and enraged she leaves.

Now, when finally Athena comes to terms with her friendship with Odysseus she finds yet again that her father Zeus struck him and his crew in a similar fashion to Pallas , yet again ripping her only friend away from her .

He is not dead yet, and Athena isn't about to let that happen. This time, she fights against Zeus, risks her life and position of being the favorite, and her survival method all because she can't bear to see Odysseus die.

Think of the agonizing fate of Athena, repeatedly being traumatized by her father yet having to do his bidding and stay on his good side to survive and live not for herself for she lives in misery but for the people who suffered for died for their association with her. In her eyes, she must suffer tenfold for letting this happen thrice, for all eternity under the man who so wretchedly ruined her life.

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Rock, Meet Hard Place 4

Warnings: this fic will include elements, some dark, such as noncon/dubcon, and other untagged triggers. Please take this into account before proceeding. It is up to curate your online consumption safely.

Summary: your boss makes a deal that proves less than beneficial for you.

Characters: Nick Fowler, Lloyd Hansen

Author’s Note: This is what you asked for so don’t even.

Please feel free to leave some feedback, reblog, and jump into my asks. I’m always happy to discuss with you and riff on idea. As always, you are cherished and adored! Stay safe, be kind, and treat yourself 💜

“His dick is out.”  

The words wake you out of your daze. You barely remember grabbing the phone, but you have it pressed to your ear as Nick snarls on the other end. You put your hand on your forehead and yawn. 

“Fowler, it’s two in the morning--” 

“I said his dick is out, harpy,” he snips. 

You sigh, “tell him to put it away.” 

“Oh, thanks, didn’t think of that,” he retorts sarcastically. 

You shake your head, “I’m sleeping. Figure it out--” 

“Harpy, I haven’t had a blink. He’s been ranting at me for hours. And his robe keeps—Goddamnit, Hansen, close it!” 

You hang up before you can hear the rest. You set your phone to do not disturb and roll back over. You sink into the white noise and another blissful reprieve from consciousness. You work hard when you’re paid to. Outside of those hours, you don’t put thought to it. 

You wake with your alarm. You have your routine; cleanse, moisturise, tone. Then a light glimmer of concealer and gloss of lip oil, a bit of mascara. Many women tend to put on too much in an effort to hide their wrinkles. You never minded the lines. 

You dress; a high-collared boucle jacket and cigarette pants. You put on your usual leather boots and tap out of your house. The heels are thick and pointed but not high.  

You have enough time to stop for coffee. You grab the seasonal flavour and head off to Fowler’s. As you do, you smirk to yourself. You almost forgot about the late-night SOS. You hope he ended up getting some sleep. Either way, he’ll be a treat. 

You claim your usual spot and enter through the gate. All seems as it should be as you head for the door. Still, you feel a sort of unease. 

As you enter the house, your toe meets an empty bottle that skitters over the floor. You close the door and look around. There’s a puddle of liquor near the stairs. It must have been some night. 

You hover your foot over the bottom step as you sense something through the doorway of the front room. Hansen’s naked ass hangs off the couch as he teeters on the edge. You blink and shake your head. You head upstairs.  

You enter your office and put your bag on the desk. Fowler’s door is open. You can hear him snoring. You near and peek inside. He’s slumped over the side of his chair, an empty glass on his desk. His shirt is unbuttoned and untucked. 

You return to your desk. You could wake him up but you’re not his mother. You sit and set to reviewing your roster. Contracts but no meetings. You made sure his schedule was mostly clear for Hansen’s visit. 

You focus on getting through your task list. Eventually, you’ll need him to wake up but you can have mercy. Let him make up for lost sleep. 

As you sip your coffee, you hear footsteps in the hall. There’s a grumble through the door as it opens from the other side. You glance over your monitor as Lloyd walks in with only a pillow to hide his pelvis. He at least has an ounce of shame. 

“Nicky--” he calls then stops himself as he sees you. “Ah, there she is, the shrew. Ready to be tamed?” 

You roll your eyes. “Good morning, Hansen. I’m afraid Fowler’s not taking walk-ins.” 

“Well, aren’t you a peach,” he tuts. “Have a sense of humour.” 

“You’re not a very funny joke.” 

“Oh, ouch,” he touches his chest as if he’s been shot. “That stingggs.” You stare at him. His brows tweak and he winces again, “now that cuts deeper.” 

“I’m afraid Fowler is not up to visitors right now. He had a late night,” you look at your monitor and click around. Those leather boots are to die for.  

You ignore the man as he lurks. “I can wake him up.” 

“I won’t stop you,” you mutter. 

“You know,” he diverts and approaches you, “I’d like you to try. I mean, you sucker punch a guy once and you think you got him figured out--” 

“You come any closer and I’ll snip it off,” you grab the scissors from the pen stand and flash the blade at him. 

He looks down as he keeps his hand around his groin. 

“Hey, if you want a peek, you just gotta say the word,” he snickers. You open and close the blades and he gulps. “No fun.” 

You keep the scissors and swivel your chair. You grab your cup with your other hand and sip. You stare at him dully. He tilts his head coyly. His eyes wander over to the screen. 

“Nice boots. You should get them. I’ll let you step on me, mistress,” he purrs. 

You angle the scissors under his hand and press the flat to his balls, “go put some pants on before you have nothing to put in them.” 

“You’re fucking spicy. I like it.” He snarls and wiggles his hips. 

You retract the scissors and stand. He puffs up his chest. Is he flexing? You put the scissors under his nose and snip the ends of his mustache. He yipes and recoils, swinging free as he feels his upper lip. 

“Woah, ho, what the fuck? You don’t mess with a man’s stache!” He roars as he reels and pats his lip frantically. “Goddamnit! You really are goddamn harpy.” He searches around and runs over to the decorative mirror by the coat rack. “Fuck. It’s uneven!” 

“Not much of a difference. Still looks awful,” you snicker and slide the scissors back in the holder. 

“What the fuck?” A grumble rolls like gravel as Fowler staggers through his office door. He buttons his shirt but one tail is longer than the other. “All this fucking noise—ah, Jesus, Hansen, I’m having nightmares about your fucking taint.” 

“Oh, but your dreaming of me, pretty boy,” Hansen winks and drags his hand from his mustache. 

Fowler growls and his chest deflates. He looks at you, “I need coffee and he needs some goddamn pants!” 

“Should I put on the assless chaps or the snakeskin?” Hansen taunts. He meets only stolid silence. “Holy balls, you two are just lively. Aren’t you? Look, we’re workin’ together. I’m tryna break the ice.” He rolls his eyes and turns to strut away, “fine, better get one last look before I put the cake away.” 

[liz-on-leash]

Hit us with that muffin top kink ;)

Could have done better with this one but oh well, consider this an exercise for a kink that I just discovered has a term for it, lol.

You spot Natty, strutting her stuff down the hallway, her thick frame barely filling out her skimpy outfit. 

Her flat stomach, barely covered by a cropped top, jiggles slightly as she walks, revealing a hint of what you crave—that soft, plump muffin top. 

You feel your dick twitch with anticipation. This Thai slut is gonna get the fucking of her life.

As she passes by, you grab her by the arm, your fingers digging into her delicate skin. 

Natty lets out a startled squeak, her big eyes widening. "Ugh, what the fuck are you doing?" she hisses, trying to sound tough, but you can see the fear in her trembling body.

"Shut the fuck up, you fat bitch," you growl, tightening your grip until she winces.

Dragging her towards an empty dressing room, you throw her inside and slam the door shut. The room is dimly lit, perfect for what you have planned. 

Natty tries to back away, her eyes darting around for an escape, but there's nowhere to go.

"Please, no, fuck..." she whimpers, her voice shaking. "I-I.. Don't hurt me."

You laugh, a deep, menacing sound. "Oh, I'm gonna hurt you, you fucking tease. Been showing off that hot body on stage, making fans drool over that goddamn waist and those plump thighs. But you know what I want, don't you?"

Natty's eyes flicker down to her midsection, and she swallows hard. "N-no, please..."

Without warning, you deliver a sharp punch to her exposed midriff, the sound of your fist connecting with her soft flesh echoing in the small room. 

"Oof!" she grunts, her body folding over as she clutches her stomach. You've barely warmed up, but already her eyes are watering from the pain.

"That's right, bitch," you snarl, grabbing a handful of her hair and forcing her to look at you. "You're gonna take this punishment like a good bitch.”

Kicking her legs apart, you tower over her, your boots inches from her face. "Check out that fucking muffin top.” You run your hand roughly over her distended belly. "So fucking soft and squishy. Bet it jiggles like a bowl of jelly when I pound your cunt."

Natty whimpers, her face contorting in humiliation and pain. You lean down, your hot breath against her ear. "Gonna mark this pretty delicious body, make it clear who owns this sweet meat."

Your fist connects with her stomach again, and again, each blow leaving a red imprint on her pale skin. She's crying now, snot and tears mixing as she begs for mercy. But you just laugh, spitting in her face.

"Begging isn't gonna save that pretty belly of yours, slut. Gonna punch and kick it until it's black and blue, till you piss yourself.”

You pull back your leg and deliver a brutal kick to her abdomen, the force lifting her off the ground. 

Natty screams, a high-pitched sound that fuels your sick desire. She's writhing on the floor, clutching her stomach, but you're not done yet.

"Scream for me, bitch," you pant, your dick throbbing with excitement. "Feel that pain, feel it deep in your gut. Going to make you hurt so good."

As you stand over her, ready to deliver another blow, you notice a warm wetness spreading between her legs. 

Natty's eyes are squeezed shut, her face contorted in agony. She's pissing herself, just like you wanted.

"You filthy whore," you whisper, your voice hoarse with barely contained lust. "Let it go, let it all out. Feel that shame.” 

You give one last vicious kick, and her body goes limp, her cries turning to whimpers. Her jean shorts are soaked, the smell of urine filling the room. You stand there, catching your breath, admiring your handiwork. 

"Fucking perfect," you mutter, stroking your aching cock through your pants. Natty's soft, abused body lies at your feet.

You're buzzing with excitement, ready to claim this bitch's body and mark it as your territory. You kick off your pants, freeing your rock-hard cock, already leaking pre-cum. 

Natty's eyes go wide as she realizes what's about to happen, her fear-filled gaze locking onto your throbbing member.

Then you rip her shorts, the fabric tearing easily under your strength, exposing her plump, shaved pussy. Her pussy lips are swollen, already wet with her piss. 

You can't resist the urge to touch, so you reach down, smacking a handful of her cunt, squeezing it roughly. Natty lets out a pitiful whine, her body trembling.

"Fucking love it when they're this wet," you grunt, your fingers digging into her soft flesh. "Been dreaming of this tight Thai pussy, just waiting to be fucked raw."

Your other hand goes to her top, tearing the flimsy fabric, baring her ample breasts. Her tits are perfect, big and round, with pink nipples that stand erect from the cool air. 

You slap one breast, then the other, the sound of flesh on flesh filling the room. Her back is arching, but you just laugh, enjoying the power you have over her.

"Such pretty tits, shame they gotta get ruined," you say, squeezing and twisting her nipples until they're red and bruised.

Natty's body is a mess of red marks and bruises, her cries filling the room as you continue to abuse her. 

But it's time to take this to the next level. Positioning yourself between her legs, you line up your cock with her pussy, the head pressing against her swollen lips.

"Stay away… Don't rape me..." she begs, her voice vibrate from screaming and pain.

Ignoring her pleas, you thrust forward, penetrating her in one motion. Natty screams, her body convulsing as you fill her tight cunt. Her pussy is hot and wet, gripping your cock, but you don't hold back, pounding into her hard.

"Oh fuck, take it deep, you bitch!" you grunt, gripping her soft waist, the flesh spilling over your fingers. "Feel my big cock in your guts."

With each thrust, you watch her tummy jiggle, the soft flesh rippling with every stroke. The sight drives you wild, and you pound into her harder, your balls slapping against her ass. 

Natty's screams turn to incoherent babbles, her body shaking as another wave of urine escapes, soaking the floor beneath her.

"Keep pissing yourself again," you groan, loving the degradation. "This sweet pussy is mine now, and I'll fuck it till it loosened."

You reach down, gripping her hips, pulling her onto your cock with each thrust, making her meet your vicious pace. 

Natty's eyes are rolled back, her mouth open in a silent scream as you violate her. Her body is yours to use.

As you feel your climax building, you quicken your pace, your balls drawing up tight. With a deep thrust, you explode inside her, your cock twitching as you empty your load deep in her abused cunt. 

Natty's body spasms beneath you, her cries turning to whimpers as she comes down from her pain-induced high.

Pulling out, you admire your handiwork, your cock still semi-hard and glistening with cum and pussy juice. You slap your wet dick against her swollen tummy, spreading your seed, making her skin slick and sticky.

[fernandopiastri28]

tags: f2 alpine oscar x mark webber's daughter, all pics from pinterest

warnings: daddy issues, poor father-daughter relationship, NSFW chapter (mainly just making out :))) )

Anyone but webber - Oscar Piastri

Rule 6: If you’re going to tease, be ready to follow through.

The air between them seems to go completely still and her heart races at a million kilometres an hour. His words echo in her mind, replaying like a song she can't get out of her head. She’s frozen for a split second, staring into those eyes that she’s come to adore until an uncontrollable smile spreads across her face.

Her lips part, and she lets out a breathless laugh. "Yes," she whispers. It feels so right to say it, so natural. Yet, part of it still feels completely unreal and unbelievable, because in what reality is she ever dating her father’s protege? “Yes, I’ll be your girlfriend." She wants to say those five words over and over until they feel numb on her tongue, until it’s cemented in her mind.

Oscar’s knuckles brush against her cheek, his fingers tucking a lock of hair behind her ear. “You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to ask you that.” He laughs softly, dipping down just enough to kiss her, his lips slipping perfectly against hers. His lips get sticky with her lip gloss when he pulls away, sugary pink and glossy. 

“You don’t know how long I’ve wanted you to ask.” She giggles, reaching her thumb to his bottom lip to smear the gloss more evenly across his lips. She kisses him again, transferring more onto his lips. She bites her lips, her cheeks burning painfully red. 

Oscar grins, wrinkling his nose up, “I’ve had a strong feeling,” He teases, his hands holding her face, his thumbs rubbing her red cheeks. “God, you’re pretty.” He exhales slowly, their foreheads resting against eachother’s. It’s so sickly sweet, it’s so cliche, it’s so annoyingly lovey-dovey–and it’s more than she could ever ask for. 

It’s the best thing in the world–being with Oscar is the best thing in the world. 

Eventually, they pull back just enough to look at each other, their faces still close, smiles matching. “So,” she says, her voice light and slightly teasing, “does this mean I can tell people you’re my boyfriend?”

Oscar grins as hard as possible, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “Definitely,” he nods, “You can tell anyone you want.”

She holds her index finger up, wagging it slightly, “Everyone except my father.” 

Oscar nods, this over dramatic seriousness over his features, “Everyone except your dad,” He echoes, pulling her face gently in for another kiss, his tongue slipping into her mouth. She sighs into his mouth, relaxing against him. She would do this forever if she could, truly. 

After a while, making out in the bright and window covered living room starts feeling really awkward, so they decide to move up to her room to continue. She tries to offer to carry Oscar’s backpack upstairs for him, but he refuses, insisting on carrying it and his suitcase up by himself, claiming it’s good for activating his arms by carrying heavy masses. 

Sure, Oscar, it’s definitely not just as a way to flex how strong you are.

She doesn’t complain though, there’s something very hot about watching his muscles bulge as he picks up his suitcase one-handed and how the veins of his forearm pop out. 

He goes up the stairs first and she follows close behind, trying not to stare too obviously at his muscles, straining against his sports shirt, the fabric too tight almost everywhere. She’s completely failing, obviously, how could her eyes not be glued to her genuinely perfect, greek god boyfriend. 

Oscar’s like a drug, so fucking addicting and intoxicating. His quiet confidence, the way he looks at her like she’s the only person in the world that matters, how funny and perfect and amazing and handsome he is. And now, the fact that he’s hers—her boyfriend—only makes it harder to keep it together.

Once they reach her room, she closes the door softly behind them. Oscar sets down his suitcase with a small thud and straightens up, turning to look at her. His eyes sweep over her like he’s memorizing every detail. He’s very observant, wide eyed and curious of just about everything.

“Your room’s nice,” he says, glancing around, taking everything in. Music posters on the walls, fashion magazines stacked haphazardly on her desk, makeup pallets piled up on her desk, jewellery overflowing off a homemade ceramic platter, empty cans of redbull tossed into a turned over plastic flower bucket that she uses as a bin.

It’s hectic and kind of messy, but it’s a perfect representation of everything that she loves. Now she just needs some Oscar-centred decorations. “You’ve been in here,” She states, leaning against her door, slightly awkwardly. Of course, being with Oscar is just about everything she could’ve dreamed of, but it’s the being alone in her room that creates a new layer of nervousness. She bites her lip, unsure whether to sit on the bed or invite him to.

“I know.” He nods, his gaze swooping over to her, “Just didn’t really get to admire it last time.” He shrugs slightly. After a few seconds of properly looking at her, Oscar seems to sense her anxiety, because he steps closer and takes her hand, giving it a reassuring squeeze. “Hey,” he says softly, pulling her into his arms, arms around her waist. “You don’t need to be nervous around me.”

She exhales a shaky breath, her forehead resting against his chest as he holds her. "I’m not nervous," she mumbles, trying to sound confident. It’s a lie, she knows he can tell she’s freaking out of her mind. 

“Liar,” he teases, kissing the top of her head. She rolls her eyes, pushing her hands against his stomach to guide him backwards to her bed. He lets go of her, sitting down on the bed as his heels hit the foot frame. She stands in between his knees, looking down at him. 

He looks up at her with a lopsided grin, his hands resting on her hips on instinct. It feels good, normal, as if they’ve always belonged there. She can’t help but feel a little light-headed from how easily he disarms her. Oscar leans back slightly, his hands trailing down her hips to her thighs, giving them a light squeeze. “You’re a terrible liar,” he says, smirking up at her.

She narrows her eyes at him, her heart still racing. “Am not.” Oscar’s hands feel like fire on her legs. God, she’d do unspeakable things to be his steering wheel for a day just to have his big hands gripping her.

Oh. Yeah, she’s whipped.

“Are too,” he shoots back, pulling her closer by her legs until she’s forced to either topple over or straddle his lap. She chooses the latter, settling herself down on his thighs, her knees pressing into the mattress on either side of him. It’s slightly awkward due to her poor choice of bottoms being a denim skirt, but when the fabric is pushed up far enough, it’s fine. 

He grins wide, all dorky and giddy that the move he pulled actually worked and didn’t end with her falling flat on the floor. She smiles too, relaxing slightly in his lap. “I knew you wanted to sit here,” Oscar teases, his eyes sparkling with mischief. “You didn’t have to pretend to be annoyed just for me to initiate this.

She raises an eyebrow, trying to play it cool, though her pulse is still pounding in her ears. “Oh, so you think you’re clever, huh?” she quips, her hands sliding up his chest, fingers brushing the neckline of his shirt. “You just got lucky.” His hands slip up her back, resting just below her shoulder blades, his hands rubbing lazy circles into her back.

“Whatever, whatever,” Oscar grins, looking up at her as she’s just ever so slightly taller sitting on his lap, his back hunched from his poor posture. “I guess I am lucky. I got the girl, that’s all that matters.” 

She rolls her eyes playfully, but the truth is, she's just as giddy as he is. Her heart pounds so hard and fast, it feels like it’s about to explode and the hair on her legs is standing straight up, her arms covered in goosebumps. “Well” she says softly, leaning in closer, her lips hovering just inches from his, "the girl thinks she’s pretty lucky too to have you." She closes the gap between them, her lips brushing against his in a featherlight kiss before pulling back ever so slightly, teasing him.

Oscar’s bottom lip juts out slightly in a pout as she stops the kiss, his eyebrows twisted upwards slightly. He tilts his head, angling for another, which she barely meets, going for a peck when he clearly wants more. His hands move over to her hips, pulling her flush against him.

He doesn’t say a word, but she caves anyways. "Fine," she whispers, her breath mingling with his as she leans in again, this time kissing him deeper. His lips move in sync with hers, slow and casual, like they have all the time in the world. One of his hands sliding to cup the back of her neck, keeping her impossibly close.

Her hands tangle in his hair, tugging on it slightly. It’s all very experimental, testing out what Oscar likes. Based on the low groan he makes, it’s a hit. She shifts around in his lap, the denim hem of her skirt forced higher up on her thighs. She may as well just be in her underwear at this point, it would be far more comfortable. “Osc?” She mumbles, breaking the kiss slightly.

Oscar’s pupils are huge as he looks up at her, his lips shiny with spit and gloss, red from kissing. “Yeah?” His voice is so broken, breathy and hot. “What’s up?”

She doesn’t even want to ask, just wants to dive back in and keep kissing him. “Can we stop for a moment? I wanna change my skirt.” Oscar’s eyes dart down to where her skirt leaves little to the imagination of her legs, then back up to her eyes. 

“Yeah,” He nods, his voice hardly audible. She clambers off his lap as his hands drop to his sides, fingers bunching up into the fleece blanket tossed onto her bed. “Do you want me to close my eyes?” He asks as she opens her shorts drawer, grabbing out a pair of plain black sports shorts. 

She looks at Oscar, the tops of his cheeks dusted in a pale pink blush and his broad chest raising and dropping quick. “You’re my boyfriend, you’re allowed to see me without pants on,” She giggles, undoing the button of her skirt. “Unless you feel uncomfortable, then of course, close your eyes.”

Oscar does not close his eyes.

He tries not too be too bug-eyed and to not stare super intensely as she slides the skirt down her legs, stepping out of it before tossing it towards the pile of other discarded clothes from earlier in the day, but, like she said, they’re dating, these are the type of states they see each other in. 

"See?" she teases, slipping into the shorts with ease. "Nothing scandalous. Just a quick wardrobe change."

Oscar grimaces, a tortured expression on his features. "Right. Totally casual." His voice is a bit hoarse, like he's barely holding it together. His knuckles are pale from how tight his fists are clenched, gripping the blanket tight. 

She steps back over to him, standing just in front of his his knees again. "You okay there, Osc?" He rolls his eyes, nudging her thighs apart with one of his knees, his hands going to the backs of her thighs again. This time, she helps him out, meeting him halfway in straddling him. 

Oscar nods, his confidence creeping back in. “Yeah,” He smirks, fidgeting with the hem of her new shorts. “Happy now.” He looks directly at her lips, staring at them, hard. "So... pick up where we left off?” 

She hardly has to think about it, just pushes her lips into his and lets instinct take the wheel from there. She runs her hands along his arms, up to his shoulders, squeezing the hard muscle. Oscar giggles into her mouth at the feeling, ‘quit tickling me!’ he grins, so she looses up, focused more on his biceps instead. 

No complaints about that.

Oscar groans into her mouth, one of his hands resting low on her back, bordering on just being straight up on her ass. She can’t help but grin, it feels really good. She pulls back for just a second, catching her breath. "You know," she murmurs, her voice breathless, "I think I’m starting to like this whole 'you being my boyfriend' thing."

Oscar laughs, his hands still caressing her back. "Oh, you’re just starting to like it now?" He asks, mocking offense. “I’m so very glad.” 

She hums softly, her fingers playing with the hair at the nape of his neck. "Mhmm. Yet, I reckon I’ll like it more once you take me out on a proper date."

“Deal.” Oscar nods, kissing along his jaw, taking a few more seconds than usual every once in a while to suckle on her skin, bordering on long enough for hickeys to form, but he always stops before they ever bloom. “I’m all yours, give me a day and we’ll do it.” 

“Tomorrow.” She grins, her hand cupping his cheek, guiding his mouth to hers. “Café for breakfast. Pick me up at 9, don’t be late.”  

Oscar chuckles, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. “I wouldn’t dare.”

y/n.priv (private account)

liked by bsf/priv, osc.priv, and 3 others

y/n.priv quite the battle to get him to wear the clogs but we got there in the end :)

bsf/n i still cant believe this is how i find out this is official ://

-> y/n.priv IM SORRRYYYY

-> osc.priv uh oh

-> bsf/n butt out of the convo, koala man

last chapter, next chapter

taglist: @prettiest-at-the-party, @forza-charles, @sltwins, @sweetwh0re, @lucktales, @ellen3101, @nxlx96, @notantou, @cloud-55, @wisestarfishbouquet,

[melpomenes-garden]

All Things End

Cregan Stark x Tyrell!Reader • Angst

Word Count: 576

She smells of woodsmoke, not flowers…”

When Cregan Stark had marched South with his men, he'd anticipated bloodshed and war, not to be enchanted by long dark hair and an even longer set of enticing legs. However, with the Hour of the Wolf upon him, Cregan Stark found himself bewitched by the lady Alysanne Blackwood.

Her laugh, her smile, the way she sat astride her horse…nothing about Alysanne strayed from his keen notice. And as such, Cregan sought out her company at every opportunity he could find.

The fluttering in his heart may not have been displayed with wide, besotted grins or flowery words, but when he sat in the throne room of the red keep and uttered those famously penned words -‘I claim your hand, I ask for all of you, forever’- he'd meant them from the utter depths of his heart.

Cregan intended to pass through life with the most vibrant of women by his side, one who understood him and matched his sensibilities.

Those plans, however, were rudely shattered when a paler flower barbed with thistles tore a nasty gash through the tapestry of his love story.

An insistent Maester from House Tyrell came to him, insistently waiving around documents, protesting his attempts to marry Lady Blackwood. Cregan had been incensed, sorely tempted to oust the man from his chambers, chain around his neck or no. It was, to his dismay, to no avail. Taking the documents in hand he had only to take a cursory glance to recognize his late father's mark at the bottom of the frayed page.

It would seem his father had in time past come across one lesser Tyrell and the two men had become quick friends. Before winter had passed they'd decided in a drunken stupor that should their first born be male and female, they should wed.

Why wasn't this brought to my notice before I married my late wife?

Cregan had asked a logical question. The maester had seemed hesitant to answer the stormy eyed young man, but he'd summoned his courage and cleared his throat.

There hadn't been time, my lord, both of our betters were long gone, Seven rest their souls, and this document wasn't discovered until after you'd already wed the late Lady Stark…by that time it seemed a moot point to insist on your father, and my master's oaths, but now…

Now, it seemed Cregan would be honor bound to make good on his late father's oath. Fisting the paper in his grasp, Cregan grit his jaw as he watched his new dreams go up in flames much like the ones in the fire before him.

Visions of being wrapped up in long sinewy limbs and lush dark hair that scented of earthy woodsmoke were dashed through with the sickening scent of flowers that wreaked of artifice. That bawdy tongue that spoke to him honestly to be replaced with one that spoke pretentiously.

Cregan knew deep down he was being unduly harsh in his judgments of the lady he'd not yet seen, but it wasn't to be helped. He'd marry this stranger, and he'd be civil, but Cregan would not be deprived of his private thoughts.

He'd marry this lady…this Lady Tyrell, and he'd do his duty and bed her, but he'd not love her, of that much he was certain.

How could he learn to love the scent of flowers when it was by woodsmoke that Cregan Stark was haunted?

Thank you for reading!!! Comments, Likes, and Reblogs always appreciated!!! 🥰

[raven-at-the-writing-desk]

He’s not a NRC student but…

Rollo: “What are YOU doing here?” (Assuming that pre Playful Land piece you wrote happened and Rollo just happened to be at NRC for whatever reason.)

[Referencing this fic!]

This interaction is fr the "wow, these people are so weird; thank god I'm the normal one" meme 🤡 Pretend Gidel's off chasing butterflies or something--

So tell me, do you wanna go?

“What are YOU doing here?!”

The words had been taken right out of his mouth. They were spoken simultaneously, two accusatory fingers pointing in the opposite directions. One away from him, one toward…

A young man with a silvery bowl cut, bangs short, dark circles under his even darker eyes shaded by a tricone hat. His robes were elaborate in their stitching, golden thread spinning into flowers that hugged his waist and circles his arms. The aura he radiated was quiet but intense, all the heat and power of a devastating wildfire contained in a single human being.

“I remember you!” Fellow cried, brusque with his declaration. “You’re that shitty brat with the awful personality! The one that brushed us off at the docks and threatened to set me on fire!"

"And you are the incredibly shifty, invasive conman who sought to lure innocent children into the claws of magic." Rollo grimaced, pressing a handkerchief to his nose. "... It seems you've dropped the polite pretenses since our last encounter."

"Yeah, well, no point in puttin' on those airs anymore. I left my last job, so I'm not obligated to kiss ass."

"How... good for you."

Rollo’s reply, while curt, was phrased politely enough—but the pause stuck out. His eyes burned with disdain, as though he were regarding something offensive. A piece of trash, maybe. No, dirt. Perhaps something even lower than dirt.

Rollo averted his gaze, as if to end the conversation then and there. The dismissive motion grinded Fellow’s gears, sandpaper rubbing on his skin.

What, am I not worth his time to talk to? Who does he think he is?!

Fellow clenched his jaw and forced a smile. “So, my good man! What have you been up to since we last met, hmm?”

“… Official business.” Rollo glanced at the documents tucked under one of his arms. “As Student Council President of Noble Bell College, it falls to me to act as our representative and to engage with other magic schools.”

Fellow blew out air through his teeth. “You’re a real hotshot, huh?”

One of the lucky ones, polished and put on a pedestal. Envy tugged at Fellow’s heartstrings. What he would give to be a part of that glittering world, not a worry to his name.

“One could say that, yes.” Rollo seemed to be frowning with his entire body. His expression, his posture. “Hmph. It is a burden I did not ask for. How troublesome.”

Fellow straightened—irked. “What are you talking about? You have any idea how many people would kill to be where you are? Be a little more grateful, wouldja?”

“Excuse me?” Rollo’s brows twitched. “Who are you to judge others and determine how they ought to behave?”

“You don’t have to be a somebody with a fancy title to know when there’s a bad seed around.”

“You do not know me,” Rollo said icily. “Do not presume that you do.”

You could never understand what I’ve been through!!

He looked the beastman up and down, noting the patchwork in his attire, the holes in his façade. “… Pray forgive that I do not place much stock in your word. You do not present as a scholar, nor an upstanding adult of any sort.”

The comment cut deep, striking at his core. Fellow lashed out in defense.

“S-So what?! I don’t need a hoity toity kid like you labelling me. You’re bound to school and its rules. Me? I’m free to go wherever I like, whenever I please.”

Rollo sniffed, unimpressed. “So you claim—yet you linger at the feet of this institution of those who worship sin. It’s perfectly clear what your motive is, Mr. Honest. Like an parasite drawn to rotting fruit, you seek to be in the vicinity of that power, hoping to leech some of it for yourself. You too are one of the mindless sheep clamoring for a crumb of magic, not recognizing that pursuit will inevitably lead to your demise.”

Fellow blinked. His anger wavered, mixing with confusion. “Wh-What the hell, kid! You always gotta talk like a doomer?! Unclench your face for a second and take a breather, sheesh! I’m getting depressed just standing here listening to you mouth off.”

Rollo scoffed. “If you ask me, you do not take life seriously enough.”

“Life’s meant to be fun. Not all work, no play. You’ll become a dull and jaded grown-up if you keep going down this path.”

“I would rather be that than a fool who holds fast to his childish delusions.”

"Psssh. Least I'm not a hardass. All the privilege in the world and you still gotta act all sour."

Rollo stared at him, his gaze cold and steely. Fellow returned it. The same thought filled both of their heads.

He isn't satisfied with what he has now. He wants something more for himself than this. He's...

Deplorable, Rollo thought.

A greedy bastard, Fellow thought.

And when, at last, the staring became too much for either to bare, Rollo coughed into a fist. "If you will excuse me. I mustn't dawdle. These documents have to be delivered to Headmaster Crowley in a timely manner."

He paused deliberately.

"... I will pray for you," Rollo murmured as he walked off, his steps brisk and snappy.

Fellow gawked after him, appalled.

"Yeah, good riddance!" he hollered. "Hope the door hits ya on the way out!!"

[merwgue]

The Night Court in A Court of Thorns and Roses is portrayed as a place of freedom and opportunity, especially within the city of Velaris. However, beneath this veneer of liberty lies a dictatorship, one that controls and manipulates its subjects to maintain Rhysand’s hold on power. The stark contrast between Velaris and the rest of the Night Court, particularly Hewn City and the Illyrian camps, highlights how Rhysand’s rule is not as benevolent as it appears. This essay will delve into the ways Rhysand’s leadership functions as a dictatorship, exploring his control over his people, his manipulation of his Inner Circle, and the lack of true freedom within the Night Court.

Control Through Manipulation

Rhysand is often hailed as the epitome of a “good” High Lord because he allows for personal freedoms within Velaris, but his rule over the rest of the Night Court paints a different picture. His dictatorship is most evident in the way he exerts control over his subjects through manipulation and fear, especially in Hewn City and the Illyrian camps.

In Hewn City, the people live in a state of oppression, fear, and isolation. The citizens of Hewn are not allowed to enter Velaris—the so-called “City of Starlight”—because they are deemed unworthy. This segregation is a form of control, ensuring that only those Rhysand deems “good” enough can experience the supposed freedom of Velaris. It's crucial to note that Rhysand does not provide any opportunity for the people of Hewn City to change or rise above their circumstances. Their exclusion from Velaris creates a class divide that mirrors the structures of totalitarian regimes, where one group of people is favored and others are subjugated.

Moreover, the way Hewn City is governed is particularly telling. Rhysand claims to despise the Court of Nightmares, yet he allows it to continue operating under the rule of his father’s cruel and oppressive steward, Keir. By permitting this, Rhysand creates a convenient scapegoat. While he distances himself from the atrocities of Hewn City, he still benefits from the power structure in place, maintaining a balance of fear and control that ensures Keir’s loyalty without directly dirtying his hands. This hands-off approach to brutality is characteristic of dictatorships that allow local tyrants to terrorize the population, creating an environment of fear while the dictator maintains a benevolent façade.

Rhysand’s treatment of the Illyrians further illustrates his dictatorial tendencies. He controls the Illyrian warriors through the threat of violence and punitive measures, such as when he punishes them en masse after they refuse to comply with his orders to stop clipping the wings of female Illyrians. Instead of working with the Illyrians to build trust and create real change, Rhysand chooses to rule through fear. His brutality toward his own people, even if it’s framed as “necessary,” showcases his authoritarian rule. The problem of clipped wings goes beyond physical abuse—it's a systemic issue that requires more than just punishment. However, Rhysand does little to address the root of the problem, instead opting to control the Illyrians through fear of his power.

Segregation of Velaris and False Freedom

Velaris is often presented as a utopia within the series, a place where everyone is free to live their lives in peace and happiness. However, the freedom offered within Velaris is illusory. Only a select few are allowed to enjoy the privileges of this city. By keeping Velaris hidden from the rest of the Night Court and the other courts, Rhysand ensures that this “freedom” remains inaccessible to most of his subjects. The people of Hewn City and the Illyrian camps are barred from entering Velaris, creating a stark divide between those deemed worthy of freedom and those left to suffer under oppressive rule. This is a form of control—if the people of Velaris are the only ones benefiting from Rhysand’s rule, they are more likely to remain loyal, while the others remain oppressed.

Furthermore, even within Velaris, true freedom is limited. Rhysand’s Inner Circle, who serve as his closest advisers, are loyal to him above all else. Their loyalty is so strong that they often suppress their own needs and desires to maintain the status quo. This is particularly evident in Feyre’s interactions with them. Though they are welcoming, their loyalty to Rhysand is unquestionable, which creates an environment where dissent is impossible. Even if someone within the Inner Circle wanted to challenge Rhysand, it’s clear that they would never act against him. This kind of unquestioning loyalty is a hallmark of dictatorial regimes, where those in power surround themselves with individuals who will never challenge them.

Moreover, Rhysand exerts subtle control over Feyre, especially in her early days in the Night Court. When Feyre is first introduced to Velaris, she is isolated from her old life, particularly her friendships with Lucien and Tamlin. Rhysand subtly undermines her relationships with these characters, ensuring that Feyre becomes more and more reliant on him and his Inner Circle for support. While Feyre’s alienation from her past is presented as her growing into her power and finding her place, it’s also a form of control. By isolating Feyre and making her dependent on him, Rhysand ensures her loyalty and obedience, even as he presents himself as offering her freedom.

The Dictatorship of the Inner Circle

The Inner Circle functions as Rhysand’s elite group of enforcers, each of whom plays a role in maintaining his control over the Night Court. This group is fiercely loyal to Rhysand, and while they are portrayed as having close, familial bonds, their relationships with him are more complicated. They are bound to him by duty, power, and past trauma, and while they may not always agree with him, they rarely act against his will.

Take Mor, for instance. Mor is Rhysand’s third-in-command, a powerful female who plays a key role in maintaining order in the Night Court. However, even Mor, who is shown to be incredibly strong and independent, remains deeply tied to Rhysand. Her loyalty to him is unwavering, even when it means sacrificing her own emotional wellbeing, such as in her complicated relationship with Azriel. In this way, Mor is part of a system that prevents any real dissent from occurring within the Night Court. If even someone as strong-willed as Mor won’t act against Rhysand, it creates a chilling effect for anyone else who might challenge his rule.

Similarly, Cassian and Azriel, despite their personal feelings and desires, always put their loyalty to Rhysand above all else. They serve as his military commanders, enforcing his will in Illyria and beyond. Their loyalty is rewarded with power and status, but it also binds them to Rhysand’s rule. This dynamic is reminiscent of dictatorships where military leaders are rewarded for their loyalty, ensuring that they remain loyal to the regime instead of acting as a check on power.

Rhysand’s control over the Inner Circle is particularly evident in his handling of Feyre’s pregnancy in A Court of Silver Flames. Despite the clear danger to Feyre’s life, Rhysand withholds crucial information about her condition from her. His decision to keep this information secret, along with the complicity of the Inner Circle, is a form of manipulation and control. Even though this decision is framed as an act of love, it reveals the extent of Rhysand’s need for control over those closest to him. He makes decisions on behalf of others, even when it involves life and death, without allowing them the agency to make their own choices. This is not freedom—this is control masquerading as care.

A False Democracy

The Night Court is often presented as a more progressive alternative to the other courts in Prythian, but the reality is far different. Rhysand’s regime is not a democracy. It’s a dictatorship, one that hides behind the illusion of freedom and progressivism. Velaris, the shining city, is kept separate from the rest of the Night Court, and only a select few are allowed to enjoy its benefits. The rest of the Night Court is ruled through fear, manipulation, and violence.

In contrast, the Autumn Court, ruled by Beron Vanserra, is at least honest about its autocratic nature. There are no pretenses of freedom or equality in the Autumn Court—it is a place where power is maintained through fear and strength, and everyone knows it. In this way, the Autumn Court is more transparent than the Night Court. While Beron’s rule is cruel and oppressive, it is not hidden behind a façade of benevolence. The Night Court’s claim to be a place of freedom and opportunity is false advertising, a way to maintain Rhysand’s power while silencing any dissent.

Conclusion

The Night Court is not the bastion of freedom it claims to be. Rhysand’s rule is built on manipulation, control, and fear, and his so-called “freedom” only extends to those who are willing to submit to his authority. The people of Hewn City and the Illyrian camps suffer under his rule, while Velaris remains a gated utopia for the chosen few. Rhysand’s Inner Circle, though powerful, is bound to him through loyalty and duty, ensuring that no one ever challenges his decisions. The Night Court is not a democracy—it’s a dictatorship, one that hides behind the illusion of freedom and progressivism while perpetuating inequality and oppression.

I just got back from college so its not all that good but I hope you like it 🥹 @tamlindudley

[fleshengine]

What happened to your friend does sound awful, but it doesn't sound like something that's actually unique to trans women. Someone making false claims after a bad breakup and people believing claims of victimization are fairly normal occurrences across the board, especially since people do generally believe it's praxis to believe all victims immediately. The fact that your friends came around in a matter of days is a better than average result.

Hi Velvet, I think this is the second or third time you've come on to one of my posts where I talked about transmisogyny and tagged it as such. Those posts don't get a ton of traction, do you just like... patrol the transmisogyny tag or something?

Anyway I do not feel a need to clarrify myself to you. But I will add that there were a lot of details that I didn't add to the post, stuff I will not be discussing, that solidifies my belief that it was an example of transmisogyny. I'm not at liberty to talk about some of it, and for the rest I honestly just do not care enough to defend myself to you. I lived my life and you read a rant about it.

That aside, do you know how many transfems I know who have been made out to be rapists/mentally ill after they broke up with their partners? Do you want me to list all the normal occurences across the board that have made me personally terrified to show others intimacy? Why is it that when someone says "that trans girl is a rapist!" people believe her but when trans girls say "we keep getting called rapists, this sucks" we get people like you telling us that it's normal to be made out into a charicature and systematically cut off from your entire social group?

Now that I've got that out of the way, let's dig into your word choice.

"What happened to your friend" this voice is so passive it's going 45 in a 50. "What that guy did to your friend" is much more direct and active, that's a sentence fragment that drinks orange juice with its breakfast. I probably would've accepted "what was done to your friend" because even though it's passive it still emphasizes that someone did something wrong. But you didn't even do that. Instead you completely removed the idea of fault from the equation, no one did it, nothing caused it, it was divine intervention that my friend nearly lost their entire support network.

"does sound awful" it doesn't sound like anything. It is awful, through and through. I hate the man that did it even though my friend has forgiven him.

"better than average result" average what? Messy breakup or transfem targetting rumor mill? It was a better than average result, I can attest to the average and it's not good. I'm glad I was there to sway people back to reality.

Moving on, you only addressed one of the two things I mentioned. I said "break up with a trans woman and unperson her" and "unperson any trans woman who's minorly annoying." You completely skipped the whole "a guy tried to tell people I was a gaslighter because I asked him to stop calling my friend a sociopath" bit. The post wasn't even saying that what happened was specifically transmisogynistic (it was), I was literally just talking about how stuff I was hearing mapped onto my life.

I also find it interesting, how you put this in an ask instead of a reblog. A reblog puts whatever I said on your account, an account I've heard you regularly use to support transmisogynists. I'm happy to talk to you more, genuinely I like to argue and you seem interesting enough. But I want what I say on your account. I'm not going to respond to another ask or reblog on this one until you reblog the original. Here I even got you a link.

[yanderes-galore]

Yandere romantic hcs for Legoshi and Juno both fighting over a wolf darling please ^^

Sure! I haven't rewatched Beastars so I hope they're both accurate. I ran out of ideas for this near the end so I'm sorry it wasn't very intense or anticlimactic....

Yandere! Legoshi vs Juno with Wolf! Darling

Pairing: Romantic - Rivalry

Possible Trigger Warnings: Gender-Neutral Darling, Obsession, Possessive behavior, SFW Scent kink, Manipulation, Coercion, Stalking, Blood, Violence, Implied kidnapping, Forced relationship(s).

This is unnerving because, while you are a carnivore and the same species as them, the two can still take advantage of you.

For example, as a fellow wolf you'd think you can trust the two....

Legoshi may be socially awkward, but he's reliable.

Plus Juno is so sociable and nice!

Unfortunately, despite that, it doesn't seem like you can trust them in this....

Juno herself has been described as ambitious, manipulative, and jealous/possessive in canon.

This is shown in how she competes to be Beastar and her behavior towards Legoshi and Haru.

Legoshi is, surprisingly, more tame than Juno.

He's humble and polite, struggles socially, and tries to be gentle/patient.

Although, since he is still a wolf, he is capable of being imposing and assertive.

He doesn't like scaring people... yet his stature as a male wolf is naturally intimidating.

Out of the two, I feel Juno would be the one more forceful.

Legoshi spends a lot of his time trying to rationalize his feelings and comprehend them.

While Juno immediately thinks it's love at first sight and you must date.

There's a lot of manipulation in this rivalry.

The good thing is, you're not an herbivore.

Which should, in theory, put you on near equal footing with them as a wolf.

You see the two wolves during classes, in the hallways, during Biology Days...

You may even have drama club with them.

As a wolf you interact a lot and don't activate any sort of hunting instinct in them.

What you do ignite within them?

A need for companionship.

Juno used to feel such a way for Legoshi until she met you.

She loves your fur, your scent, your voice...

She loves it all!

It's funny, because the moment she finds a new crush?

Her old crush also shows signs of liking them.

Frustrating.

Wolves tend to be possessive of chosen mates.

So while Juno shows this a lot more, Legoshi's capable of it too.

You're close with them as friends and fellow wolves.

You even remember their scent and are capable of sensing them through that.

Which is why it unnerves you when you start sensing them more often than you should.

Juno is much more clingy, sociable, and touchy with you.

She's assertive and it seems like she's showing every animal around her that you two belong together.

It's like she's showing claim over you.

You notice and may try to distance yourself, but the other wolf follows you closely.

Why are you trying to avoid her?

Do you not like it when she holds you? Nuzzles you?

Don't you see her tail wagging when around you?

Legoshi is less into PDA....

He's shy around you and allows you your space and independence.

He's protective more than possessive, yet those desires still linger within his actions.

He blushes at close contact, stutters when speaking to you, and overall just likes to admire you from a distance.

He's the opposite of Juno... yet he feels jealous when he sees how Juno acts around you.

Legoshi can tell you aren't a big fan of Juno's clingy behavior.

Which he uses as an excuse to pull you away and distract you a bit.

Much to Juno's frustration.

Although, while Legoshi is protective and willing to help you away from Juno...

He can end up being suffocating too.

Legoshi is less manipulative and possessive than Juno at first.

Although, with how strong the other wolf is coming on, he may feel like he has to show claim over you.

It's no doubt in his instincts if he really does view you in a romantic way.

You probably don't even see either wolf in that kind of way.

Which is why it can be overwhelming when two wolves are suddenly not only trying to win you over... but compete.

They both act caring and attentive to you when it's just you and them alone.

Yet the moment the two are in a room with one another?

There's tension and glares.

Maybe a frustrated growl here or there.

Juno is the one who acts the most moody out of the two.

She's often arguing with Legoshi, blaming him for trying to sabotage her or how she just wants him to leave you and her alone.

Her heart is still recovering from their "break-up" (They were never together).

Now he's trying to take yours from her!?

Meanwhile Legoshi just wants to make sure you're okay and Juno isn't being too... much.

Legoshi's crush is gradual, so he starts just genuinely looking out for a fellow "pack member".

Although... Over time he wonders if he should pay attention to how his tail wags and how he blushes around you....

Would the two be violent with one another...?

No... I can't really see it.

Legoshi would want to physically hurt Juno.

Juno may threaten him, standing her ground and barking about how you're hers.

But she won't actually do anything... hopefully.

Legoshi is no doubt stronger than her as a male wolf, so she's cautious.

Even other wolves can sense the tension between these two.

Biology Day feels more stressful than it should be due to Juno and Legoshi avoiding one another.

Juno would try to spend more time with you by inviting you to gatherings or trips.

You don't seriously plan on spending all of your time in the dorms, right?

You'd rather do that than deal with their tension.

She'd drag you out to hang out with her, always having an arm around you as she walks.

Her tail would be wagging fast, while yours sways with insecurity.

Legoshi would be less forceful, merely offering for you to hang out with him... doing anything really.

Since he isn't as intense, you may actually go to him more often.

Right up until he admits he has feelings for you, another wolf, and asks if you'll be his?

He may be more considerate... but he's going to want this rivalry between him and Juno to end at some point.

One of them will have to claim you as theirs soon....

You don't seem at ease around Juno... but you're at ease around him, right?

Right?

It's worse when you're walking around the halls, only to catch sight or smell of them.

You know at least one wolf is watching you at all times.

As though they're waiting for the perfect move.

Kidnapping seems OOC for both of them... but hey...

Maybe one of them will trap you in their dorm so you have to make a decision?

This rivalry could go on for months.

It really pushes you and the two wolves to the brink.

You're aware the two stalk you.

You're aware they're pushy to date you because you're such a good looking and kind wolf...

Yet you wish they'd stop.

Even when you tell them you want nothing to do with either of them...

They only seem to press more.

Juno gets more possessive, Legoshi gets more protective...

You can't trust either of them anymore.

Plus, you may even grow more concerned when you start seeing blood on their fur.

With months of tension, the two may even fight more.

Wolves are territorial and violent when it comes to mates....

You can only hope the issue resolves soon.

Those wounds are beginning to concern you.

They can't hide the smell of blood from you.

Juno may be the one most likely to lock you in her dorm until you choose her.

Although, Legoshi may lure you to his dorm in an attempt to soothe you and protect you.

Both wolves are intense and only seem to have one goal in mind...

How long will it be before one of them snaps?

You may be a wolf, a carnivore just like them...

But between them you just feel like prey.

[honeycreammilkshake]

If that leak is real Gege may really want a sequel that has Sukuna but NOT yuji lmao, sorry Gege, I LOVE Sukuna but Sukuna without Yuji doesn't sound good, he is a good character but the rest of the cast is.....I still don't get why it was so hard to understand the huge appeal Sukuna/Yuji duo had.

Same with Yuji without Sukuna, standard safe ending with a trio safe ending, sorry I don't like those anymore

100% with you, anon. even if you don't ship sukuita, you can't deny sukuna and yuuji had one of the most fascinating relationships between a protagonist and an antagonist.

they both hate each other so deeply, but everything between them has always been much more personal than when they're fighting others. and sukuna definitely gives yuuji special treatment. he uses kozou almost exclusively for yuuji (and the one time i believe he doesn't, he's still referring to megumi as the "other" brat) to the point where it's almost like a pet name.

and what is so interesting about this is that sukuna so dismissively calls megumi "brat," in a way that i feel is trying to disassociate yuuji from the word.

there's a reason why i think of this as the sukuita divorce era and that is mostly because of how sukuna keeps claiming to not need yuuji any more, always trying to sideline yuuji in favor of others, but he also can't seem to stop obsessing over yuuji and making everything about the guy he supposedly finds boring and worthless. sukuna goes out of his way to praise/compliment others during their fights, so that everyone but yuuji (who he only ever admires in his private thoughts) seems to get some kind of in-depth commentary on their abilities, while sukuna merely insults yuuji (rather weakly, too). it's even funnier when sukuna unironically can't stop making everything about the brat even when yuuji isn't there, because when sukuna's fighting maki he still manages to frame his admiration of her skill in a way that insults yuuji, despite the fact the boy isn't even there so why does it have any relevance at all??

not only that, but sukuna loves to torment yuuji, dragging his cruel taunting out in a way he doesn't do with others. he deliberately changes back to let yuuji see the devastation of shibuya, because sukuna understands how much the needless death of strangers and innocents impacts yuuji.

and he also makes a big deal of how little he thinks of yuuji, how unthreatening and boring the brat supposedly is to him shortly after possessing megumi's body.

what's really interesting here is how, despite a chance to kill yuuji, sukuna still doesn't. in fact, he's had multiple chances to get rid of yuuji but still he keeps the brat around. maybe he finds yuuji a more worthwhile opponent after all. maybe he even wants yuuji to remain alive till the end of it all, if only to see the brat suffer through the breaking of all his ideals.

there's also the matter of how sukuna can't keep his hands off of yuuji, almost as if he misses the closeness he had when yuuji was his vessel. it's far more intimate and physical than it needs to be.

this panel in particular really showcases sukuna's overall feelings toward yuuji. he's cradling the back of yuuji's neck, almost tenderly, as he pounds his fists relentlessly on the side of yuuji's head.

yuuji drives sukuna to such violent reactions because sukuna's on the defensive with him. they both get under each other's skin and ignite a hate far more consuming than others bring out in them.

and the way yuuji also fights sukuna is so unnecessarily up-close and physical as well.

the raw emotion of yuuji beating into sukuna, his crazy side really showing in how rough and unmerciful he is right now.

sukuna draws out the worst in yuuji just as much as sukuna arguably drew out the best in him, too. if it wasn't for swallowing that cursed finger and becoming the vessel of the king of curses, yuuji wouldn't have started down this path of working so hard to save other people's lives. as he himself said, he'd never before considered putting his own strength and talents to use helping others, and never before had he considered he might be the only person capable of doing so, but seeing how sukuna caused so much devastation and death drove yuuji into becoming a fighting force for good.

and just like sukuna brings out so many overwhelmingly strong feelings in yuuji, the boy does the same to him as well. sukuna is at turns extremely aggravated and enraged because of yuuji, and surprisingly pleased because of him as well.

sukuna can keep talking big about how uninteresting and inferior yuuji is yet the moment yuuji comes into view, sukuna is all psyched up for their fight....

he even looks excited and pleased to fight with yuuji again even though he claims to have no interest in the brat .... not fooling anyone sukuna ( -. -)

sukuna also can't seem to stand yuuji looking down on him with "pity" which sparks a much more violent reaction than he had with other people when they suggested sukuna was lonely and unfulfilled with his life, or even tried to "force" sukuna into thinking like them.

i think my biggest disappointment with this series overall is how gege chose to focus so much less on these two and their dynamic. i hated it when yuuji kept getting relegated to the sides over and over, and i also didn't like it when sukuna kept having rather pointless fights with everyone but yuuji.

the fact that yuuji suddenly wanted to offer sukuna mercy and even connect with him despite hating and despising his very being before was also such an unexpected twist that i would have loved gege to expand on and give a little more context and feeling behind.

i think, with a relationship as fascinating and complex as theirs, focusing more on it would have only made jjk even greater. but sadly, gege chose not to do that. and i feel like that why a lot of the recent chapters have been rather disappointing.

thank you so much for your ask, anon! sorry for the rant i came back with.

[uboat53]

LONG RANT (TM) time? LONG RANT (TM) time.

INTRODUCTION

One of the most insidious tactics in politics is the tactic of making wild and false allegations. I'm not talking about traditional spin, where a politician presents generally accurate information in the most positive way for their position, we all do that at some level. No, I'm talking about wild allegations, usually made in only a sentence or two without any supporting evidence, that are so false that it's clear that even the person making the allegation couldn't have reasonably believed it.

This is a modified form of the Gish Gallop, a technique which weaponizes lies. Duane Gish, a creationist and inventor of the Gish Gallop, discovered that, while it only takes a second or two to tell a lie, it takes far longer than that to disprove it. He would, therefore, begin every debate by spewing a torrent of wild falsehoods, forcing his opponent to spend their entire time debunking them rather than making any argument of their own.

Similarly, people in politics today, particularly MAGA Republicans, will often make wild accusations knowing that people with short attention spans will hear the accusation but won't pay attention long enough to hear the rebuttal. Even worse, through a process known as the "spacing effect", a lie repeated often enough will embed itself in the mind of people who hear it even if it is actually rebutted.

HOW TO ADDRESS IT

Given that, how can we approach this tactic?

First of all, I want you to get out of the habit of just reading the claim itself; read the name of the person making the claim. People who use this tactic rely on other people just reading information and accepting it as true without checking the source. Get used to paying attention to who is saying what and start to test some of their statements. Granted, a lot of stuff that people say is hard to fact-check, but a lot of it isn't; check those things to see if they're true. This will allow you to put together patterns where you can recognize things like "hey, this guy tells a lot of lies" or "this news source doesn't report news that's good/bad for one side." Knowing this helps you better understand the information you're receiving.

Secondly, once you recognize a pattern of lies or even a single case of an egregious lie, get used to ignoring that source of information. You don't have to listen to something just because someone says it and you don't have to turn off your brain when you engage in politics. If someone lies a lot or even if you just caught them in one particularly bad lie, it's okay to take that into account like you would with other people in your life and stop trusting them.

AN EXAMPLE

I'm going to start with an example that I saw recently. We're going to look Jeffrey Clark. If you know him at all, you probably know him as the Justice Department lawyer who wanted to give Trump permission to send the military to seize ballot boxes after the 2020 election. Only the full-throated opposition of every other lawyer in the government stopped Trump from making him acting-Attorney General.

These days he's being investigated by several layers of law enforcement for his actions around the 2020 election, the Washington D.C. Bar is in the processing of disbarring him, he's been indicted in Georgia for his actions around the 2020 elections, and he's currently working for a think tank closely linked with the Trump campaign. Here's his Wikipedia article if you're interested in learning more.

On September 23rd, Elon Musk retweeted a post by Jeffrey Clark in which Clark complained that no one could find a transcript of any case that Kamala Harris had prosecuted, giving him a much larger audience than he had on his own. Let's look at that claim, shall we?

So Kamala Harris has been Vice-President since 2020, was a Senator from 2016-2020, was Attorney General of California from 2010-2016, and was District Attorney of San Francisco from 2002-2010. None of these are positions where a person would personally try or argue cases in court. However, she was a deputy district attorney in Alameda County from 1990-1998, a deputy district attorney in San Francisco from 1998-2000, and a San Francisco City Attorney from 2000-2002. All of these are positions where she may have tried cases herself.

This is convenient because these are specific places with specific dates. Court transcripts are public records, so all you'd need to do is go to the courthouse in question and request the transcripts. I haven't tried San Francisco, but the Alameda County Court website has a search function where you can search for cases by name. Once you have the case number, you can request the transcript for that case. All of that costs money and requires you to make a login, so I haven't done it, but it's something you could do for around $100 or less. I haven't checked the San Francisco Courts, but I imagine it's similar there as well.

And I'm sure Jeffrey Clark, Attorney-at-Law, knows all of this. I'm not a lawyer and have no formal legal training and I know all of this, so he certainly does. In other words, this is not just a clearly false claim, it's a clearly false claim that the person who made it KNEW was clearly false when he made it.

RESULTS

As we've seen, this isn't a pattern of lies (though Jeffrey Clark certainly has that as well), but it is a particularly egregious one. Mr. Clark made an accusation here that he clearly knew was false even as he made it. He lied about as thoroughly as it's possible to lie, but he did it in a way that he thought he could weasel out of.

You see, Mr. Clark phrased it as an innocent query, "I'm just asking questions", because he thought that, when called on the fact that he implied Harris' case transcripts were being hidden, he could just say that he hadn't said that. But we know that he would have known they're not being hidden, his purpose in asking the question was to imply the answer in people's minds without having to take responsibility for it. In this way it's actually much worse than just a standard lie.

You can also make some assumptions about Elon Musk in all of this given that he shared this post as well. Clearly he has retweeted at least one fairly major claim without fact-checking it. Looking back on a few other things he's reposted, it seems as if he has a pattern of doing this. If you're taking what he posts at face value, it's pretty likely that you're getting a lot of misinformation fed to you.

CONCLUSION

So here I've given you a test and an example of that test applied to a real-life case. I think I've made it clear that Jeffrey Clark is a person who lies very deliberately about things he definitely knows are false and does so in a way that he thinks lets him deny responsibility for the lie. Because of that, it's safe to say that you should not trust anything he says unless you can verify it with a reputable source and you may want to question trusting what Elon Musk posts as well.

But don't think that's the end of it, take this test and apply it everywhere! If you catch someone lying a lot, or if you catch them in a particularly egregious lie like this one, stop trusting them!

There are so many sources of information around these days saying so many different things that you'll never be able to sort through it all unless you start whittling your information diet down to the people and groups that are consistently saying accurate things. Much of the information we receive is hard to fact-check, so our best method is to fact-check the things that aren't hard to check and use them to determine the reliability of a source.

Curating a good diet of information starts with cutting out the worst and least accurate sources of information. Hope this helps!

[blusandbirds]

eli moskowitz - "am i making you feel sick?"

[but-the-library-of-alexandria]

in 2024 I wanna stop hearing about betterhelp

[anothermonikan]

wait the final chapter of MYM is only 3 episodes,,,,excluding the special,,,,man.

[lander64]

“Boo Wilds doesn’t look like a monster hunter game! Boo they don’t care anymore” gog forbid a series grows and evolves throughout its life