#Traumatised branch

[cursegirlrabbit]

Shoosh Pap

from that one AU I made of Branch being absolutely feral.

[fluffykitty149]

@empressgeekt IT’S DONE!!! Also if any of you are new to my obsession with this AU here’s a link!

TW for blood! (It’s in black pen and the drawing ain’t great but just in case!)

[atanxdoesstuff]

nejisasu doodle! a universe where the hyuuga's slavery bs doesn't get ignored and Neji and Sasuke are better off for it (and also they're married)

[oidheadh-con-culainn]

i met a new person this evening and we immediately spent like. a solid 20 minutes talking about the fourth branch and what the text has to say about justice and also the extent to which gwydion is traumatised

[nonuggetshere]

Lullaby time travel au?? Please, do tell 👀

I. ALMOST MISSED THIS

I am Super exhausted now so I'll give a basic bare bones rundown and elaborate tomorrow (if I remember)

Lullaby, at the ripe age of 10 (or less), gets lost while playing with their siblings and by whatever spacetime mumbo jumbo ends up back in time when Flower was the Pure Vessel. They ran back to the palace a bit distressed but then saw their mama standing guard and ran up to them relieved. But then they wouldn't reply to her, wouldn't even acknowledge her, wouldn't *look* at her, and it all left poor Lu in so much distress. Pale King heard the commotion and came over, only for this child he's never seen before to come running over calling him grandpa and talking about how mama (the vessel) won't talk to them.

Nobody believes Lu when she tells the truth. Why would they? They don't remember anything that Lu is claiming and the vessel is far too young to be their parent. However, PK still plays along and takes care of them because otherwise the poor kid is near catatonic with despair. Since the presence of the vessel seems to calm it down, he sends the kid to sleep in the Pure Vessel's room until he prepares a room for it. Lullaby is going to be taken care of until he figures out what's wrong and finds their real parents, but the fact that everybody seems to have forgotten them and it's all so different is going to take a hard toll on poor Lu.

Once they're in the room together Flower finally breaks the character and talks to them and Lullaby is SO angry at them, damn near inconsolable as they hit them and scream at them. Flower eventually manages to calm them down and takes them on their lap, they honestly don't know what to do. They believe Lullaby, and they tell them as much, but they have no idea how it could be true. They have their dead twin's name and look like them and Lummis, but Flower is barely 20 and been dating Their partners for no longer than a year and a half. It just doesn't make sense, but they can't even tell their father this or they'll be outed.

It also doesn't really hit Lullaby what is happening until they meet their aunt Hornet who is so much younger here, obviously. And they just break down nearly on the spot.

This AU mostly consists of Lullaby interacting with the past versions of people they knew and finding out their family's history in the worst, most traumatising way possible ✌️ Flower is actually outed before the accolade in this version thanks to Lu fucking with the timeline (it doesn't change the future, it just created a brand new timeline the moment Lu made contact with PV and PK in this world) and it ends in a gigantic screaming fight between PK and them, which only terrifies and scars Lullaby further

When they return it takes a long, long time for them to heal. They have problems with unreality, PK and WL pretty much had to move back into the castle for a bit bc if Lu wasn't around them and their mama they'd be an anxious wreck, and they developed a routine where Ammi and Ivy Jr would circle the palace with them every morning before breakfast to reassure them they're home. They got better with therapy but they're never quite the same, they can't even handle hearing Flower and PK friendly bickering anymore because it brings back bad memories so the two don't do it with Lu around. They also hate with burning passion when people don't believe them. Thankfully their family did believe the whole time thing, since they knew things they absolutely shouldn't have.

Also some time later past PK and Flower experience a similar event and end up in Lullaby's time. For them it's been just a few months if not less, so their relationship is still tense and awful, while for Lullaby and her family it's been 3 years. Lu absolutely does not have a good time when she (and Ammi + Ivy) finds these two and drags them back to her mama, absolutely avoid them like wildfire for a good while after.

Thankfully they stumbled onto Beezley who managed to break the news to Flower way gentler than the three musketeers would be able to. Future Flower has a whole kingdom to run and now THIS.

[review-anon]

Well with fighting games usually every character has there own story not important or just non canon to the main story aka the arcade mode. Usually we see what happens if they live. Imagine if the DR games had chapter select. Wanna play as Mondo or Ibuki? Or maybe Miu!

As for MK not too familiar with the lore but, I think it was either time travel or they get revived after the entire tournament is over until then they stay dead. Though I could be wrong. Not really an MK guy.

//The way most fighting games work is that there is some endings and routes which are canon, and some which are not.

//I'm not a expert in Mortal Kombat either but the fact you have a multiverse, Elder Gods and universe reset shenanigans probably explains why characters don't stay dead there.

//Naturally this is not the case in Danganronpa as the dead stay dead.

//I mentioned this before but I always would love to see a Danganronpa game with branching storylines where your choices deterimine what the kill order is, who gets character development and how character progression goes.

//I know why it hasn't happened, due to it being a nightmare to code and such, but its something I would love to see.

[bsotted]

"The subtext that undergirds this new anti-racist discourse—that Black-white relationships are inherently fraught and must be navigated with the help of professionals and technical experts—testifies to the impoverishment of our interracial imagination, not to its enrichment. More gravely, anti-color-blind etiquette treats Black Americans as exotic others, permanent strangers whose racial difference is so chasmic that it must be continually managed, whose mode of humanness is so foreign that it requires white people to adopt a special set of manners and 'race conscious' ritualistic practices to even have a simple conversation."*

*(emphasis mine)

By: Tyler Austin Harper

Published: Aug 14, 2023

The hotel was soulless, like all conference hotels. I had arrived a few hours before check-in, hoping to drop off my bags before I met a friend for lunch. The employees were clearly frazzled, overwhelmed by the sudden influx of several hundred impatient academics. When I asked where I could put my luggage, the guy at the front desk simply pointed to a nearby hallway. “Wait over there with her; he’s coming back.”

Who “he” was remained unclear, but I saw the woman he was referring to. She was white and about my age. She had a conference badge and a large suitcase that she was rolling back and forth in obvious exasperation. “Been waiting long?” I asked, taking up a position on the other side of the narrow hallway. “Very,” she replied. For a while, we stood in silence, minding our phones. Eventually, we began chatting.

The conversation was wide-ranging: the papers we were presenting, the bad A/V at the hotel, our favorite things to do in the city. At some point, we began talking about our jobs. She told me that—like so many academics—she was juggling a temporary teaching gig while also looking for a tenure-track position.

“It’s hard,” she said, “too many classes, too many students, too many papers to grade. No time for your own work. Barely any time to apply to real jobs.”

When I nodded sympathetically, she asked about my job and whether it was tenure-track. I admitted, a little sheepishly, that it was.

“I’d love to teach at a small college like that,” she said. “I feel like none of my students wants to learn. It’s exhausting.”

Then, out of nowhere, she said something that caught me completely off guard: “But I shouldn’t be complaining to you about this. I know how hard BIPOC faculty have it. You’re the last person I should be whining to.”

I was taken aback, but I shouldn’t have been. It was the kind of awkward comment I’ve grown used to over the past few years, as “anti-racism” has become the reigning ideology of progressive political culture. Until recently, calling attention to a stranger’s race in such a way would have been considered a social faux pas. That she made the remark without thinking twice—a remark, it should be noted, that assumes being a Black tenure-track professor is worse than being a marginally employed white one—shows how profoundly interracial social etiquette has changed since 2020’s “summer of racial reckoning.” That’s when anti-racism—focused on combating “color-blindness” in both policy and personal conduct—grabbed ahold of the liberal mainstream.

Though this “reckoning” brought increased public attention to the deep embeddedness of racism in supposedly color-blind American institutions, it also made instant celebrities of a number of race experts and “diversity, equity, and inclusion” (DEI) consultants who believe that being anti-racist means undergoing a “journey” of radical personal transformation. In their righteous crusade against the bad color-blindness of policies such as race-neutral college admissions, these contemporary anti-racists have also jettisoned the kind of good color-blindness that holds that we are more than our race, and that we should conduct our social life according to that idealized principle. Rather than balance a critique of color-blind law and policy with a continuing embrace of interpersonal color-blindness as a social etiquette, contemporary anti-racists throw the baby out with the bathwater. In place of the old color-blind ideal, they have foisted upon well-meaning white liberals a successor social etiquette predicated on the necessity of foregrounding racial difference rather than minimizing it.

As a Black guy who grew up in a politically purple area—where being a good person meant adhering to the kind of civil-rights-era color-blindness that is now passé—I find this emergent anti-racist culture jarring. Many of my liberal friends and acquaintances now seem to believe that being a good person means constantly reminding Black people that you are aware of their Blackness. Difference, no longer to be politely ignored, is insisted upon at all times under the guise of acknowledging “positionality.” Though I am rarely made to feel excessively aware of my race when hanging out with more conservative friends or visiting my hometown, in the more liberal social circles in which I typically travel, my race is constantly invoked—“acknowledged” and “centered”—by well-intentioned anti-racist “allies.”

This “acknowledgement” tends to take one of two forms. The first is the song and dance in which white people not-so-subtly let you know that they know that race and racism exist. This includes finding ways to interject discussion of some (bad) news item about race or racism into casual conversation, apologizing for having problems while white (“You’re the last person I should be whining to”), or inversely, offering “support” by attributing any normal human problem you have to racism.

The second way good white liberals often “center” racial difference in everyday interactions with minorities is by trying, always clumsily, to ensure that their “marginalized” friends and familiars are “culturally” comfortable. My favorite personal experiences of this include an acquaintance who invariably steers dinner or lunch meetups to Black-owned restaurants, and the time that a friend of a friend invited me over to go swimming in their pool before apologizing for assuming that I know how to swim (“I know that’s a culturally specific thing”). It is a peculiar quirk of the 2020s’ racial discourse that this kind of “acknowledgement” and “centering” is viewed as progress.

My point is not that conservatives have better racial politics—they do not—but rather that something about current progressive racial discourse has become warped and distorted. The anti-racist culture that is ascendant seems to me to have little to do with combatting structural racism or cultivating better relationships between white and Black Americans. And its rejection of color-blindness as a social ethos is not a new frontier of radical political action.

No, at the core of today’s anti-racism is little more than a vibe shift—a soft matrix of conciliatory gestures and hip phraseology that give adherents the feeling that there has been a cultural change, when in fact we have merely put carpet over the rotting floorboards. Although this push to center rather than sidestep racial difference in our interpersonal relationships comes from a good place, it tends to rest on a troubling, even racist subtext: that white and Black Americans are so radically different that interracial relationships require careful management, constant eggshell-walking, and even expert guidance from professional anti-racists. Rather than producing racial harmony, this new ethos frequently has the opposite effect, making white-Black interactions stressful, unpleasant, or, perhaps most often, simply weird.

Since the murder of George Floyd in May 2020, progressive anti-racism has centered on two concepts that helped Americans make sense of his senseless death: “structural racism” and “implicit bias.” The first of these is a sociopolitical concept that highlights how certain institutions—maternity wards, police barracks, lending companies, housing authorities, etc.—produce and replicate racial inequalities, such as the disproportionate killing of Black men by the cops. The second is a psychologicalconcept that describes the way that all individuals—from bleeding-heart liberals to murderers such as Derek Chauvin—harbor varying degrees of subconscious racial prejudice.

Though “structural racism” and “implicit bias” target different scales of the social order—institutions on the one hand, individuals on the other—underlying both of these ideas is a critique of so-called color-blind ideology, or what the sociologist Eduardo Bonilla-Silva calls “color-blind racism”: the idea that policies, interactions, and rhetoric can be explicitly race-neutral but implicitly racist. As concepts, both “structural racism” and “implicit bias” rest on the presupposition that racism is an enduring feature of institutional and social life, and that so-called race neutrality is a covertly racist myth that perpetuates inequality. Some anti-racist scholars such as Uma Mazyck Jayakumar and Ibram X. Kendi have put this even more bluntly: “‘Race neutral’ is the new “separate but equal.’” Yet, although anti-racist academics and activists are right to argue that race-neutral policies can’t solve racial inequities���that supposedly color-blind laws and policies are often anything but—over the past few years, this line of criticism has also been bizarrely extended to color-blindness as a personal ethos governing behavior at the individual level.

The most famous proponent of dismantling color-blindness in everyday interactions is Robin DiAngelo, who has made an entire (very condescending) career out of asserting that if white people are not uncomfortable, anti-racism is not happening. “White comfort maintains the racial status quo, so discomfort is necessary and important,” the corporate anti-racist guru advises. Over the past three years, this kind of anti-color-blind, pro-discomfort rhetoric has become the norm in anti-racist discourse. On the final day of the 28-day challenge in Layla Saad’s viral��Me and White Supremacy, budding anti-racists are tasked with taking “out-of-your-comfort-zone actions,” such as apologizing to people of color in their life and having “uncomfortable conversations.” Frederick Joseph’s best-selling book The Black Friend takes a similar tack. The problem with color-blindness, Joseph counsels, is it allows “white people to continue to be comfortable.” The NFL analyst Emmanuel Acho wrote an entire book, simply called Uncomfortable Conversations With a Black Man, that admonishes readers to “stop celebrating color-blindness.” And, of course, there are endless how-to guides for having these “uncomfortable conversations” with your Black friends.

Once the dominant progressive ideology, professing “I don’t see color” is now viewed as a kind of dog whistle that papers over implicit bias. Instead, current anti-racist wisdom holds that we must acknowledge racial difference in our interactions with others, rather than assume that race needn’t be at the center of every interracial conversation or encounter. Coming to grips with the transition we have undergone over the past decade—color-blind etiquette’s swing from de rigueur to racist—requires a longer view of an American cultural transition. Civil-rights-era color-blindness was replaced with an individualistic, corporatized anti-racism, one focused on the purification of white psyches through racial discomfort, guilt, and “doing the work” as a road to self-improvement.

Writing in 1959, the social critic Philip Rieff argued that postwar America was transforming from a religious and economic culture—one oriented around common institutions such as the church and the market—to a psychological culture, one oriented around the self and its emotional fulfillment. By the 1960s, Rieff had given this shift a name: “the triumph of the therapeutic,” which he defined as an emergent worldview according to which the “self, improved, is the ultimate concern of modern culture.” Yet, even as he diagnosed our culture with self-obsession, Rieff also noticed something peculiar and even paradoxical. Therapeutic culture demanded that we reflect our self-actualization outward. Sharing our innermost selves with the world—good, bad, and ugly—became a new social mandate under the guise that authenticity and open self-expression are necessary for social cohesion.

Recent anti-racist mantras like “White silence is violence” reflect this same sentiment: exhibitionist displays of “racist” guilt are viewed as a necessary precursor to racial healing and community building. In this way, today’s attacks on interpersonal color-blindness—and progressives’ growing fixation on implicit bias, public confession, and race-conscious social etiquette—are only the most recent manifestations of the cultural shift Rieff described. Indeed, the seeds of the current backlash against color-blindness began decades ago, with the application of a New Age, therapeutic outlook to race relations: so-called racial-sensitivity training, the forefather of today’s equally spurious DEI programming.

In her 2001 book, Race Experts, the historian Elisabeth Lasch-Quinn painstakingly details how racial-sensitivity training emerged from the 1960s’ human-potential movement and its infamous “encounter groups.” As she explains, what began as a more or less countercultural phenomenon was later corporatized in the form of the anemic, pointless workshops controversially lampooned on The Office. Not surprisingly, this shift reflected the ebb and flow of corporate interests: Whereas early workplace training emphasized compliance with the newly minted Civil Rights Act of 1964, later incarnations would focus on improving employee relations and, later still, leveraging diversity to secure better business outcomes.

If there is something distinctive about the anti-color-blind racial etiquette that has emerged since George Floyd’s death, it is that these sites of encounter have shifted from official institutional spaces to more intimate ones where white people and minorities interact as friends, neighbors, colleagues, and acquaintances. Racial-awareness raising is a dynamic no longer quarantined to formalized, compulsory settings like the boardroom or freshman orientation. Instead, every interracial interaction is a potential scene of (one-way) racial edification and supplication, encounters in which good white liberals are expected to be transparent about their “positionality,” confront their “whiteness,” and—if the situation calls for it—confess their “implicit bias.”

In a vacuum, many of the prescriptions advocated by the anti-color-blind crowd are reasonable: We should all think more about our privileges and our place in the world. An uncomfortable conversation or an honest look in the mirror can be precursors to personal growth. We all carry around harmful, implicit biases and we do need to examine the subconscious assumptions and prejudices that underlie the actions we take and the things we say. My objection is not to these ideas themselves, which are sensible enough. No, my objection is that anti-racism offers little more than a Marie Kondo–ism for the white soul, promising to declutter racial baggage and clear a way to white fulfillment without doing anything meaningful to combat structural racism. As Lasch-Quinn correctly foresaw, “Casting interracial problems as issues of etiquette [puts] a premium on superficial symbols of good intentions and good motivations as well as on style and appearance rather than on the substance of change.”

Yet the problem with the therapeutics of contemporary anti-racism is not just that they are politically sterile. When anti-color-blindness and its ideology of insistent “race consciousness” are translated into the sphere of private life—to the domain of friendships, block parties, and backyard barbecues—they assault the very idea of a multiracial society, producing new forms of racism in the process. The fact that our media environment is inundated with an endless stream of books, articles, and social-media tutorials that promise to teach white people how to simply interact with the Black people in their life is not a sign of anti-racist progress, but of profound regression.

The subtext that undergirds this new anti-racist discourse—that Black-white relationships are inherently fraught and must be navigated with the help of professionals and technical experts—testifies to the impoverishment of our interracial imagination, not to its enrichment. More gravely, anti-color-blind etiquette treats Black Americans as exotic others, permanent strangers whose racial difference is so chasmic that it must be continually managed, whose mode of humanness is so foreign that it requires white people to adopt a special set of manners and “race conscious” ritualistic practices to even have a simple conversation.

If we are going to find a way out of the racial discord that has defined American life post-Trump and post-Charlottesville and post-Floyd, we have to begin with a more sophisticated understanding of color-blindness, one that rejects the bad color-blindness on offer from the Republican Party and its partisans, as well as the anti-color-blindness of the anti-racist consultants. Instead, we should embrace the good color-blindness of not too long ago. At the heart of that color-blindness was a radical claim, one imperfectly realized but perfect as an ideal: that despite the weight of a racist past that isn’t even past, we can imagine a world, or at least an interaction between two people, where racial difference doesn’t make a difference.

[ Via: https://archive.today/8zfvc ]

[satoruhour]

STILL (ALWAYS) HERE

a/n: part two to this but not really? enjoy!

wc: 2.4k

warnings: spider-man!gojo, a little ooc gojo, mentions of blood and bruises, cleaning up wounds, some angst -> comfort, play on that one scene from tasm 2

you’re thinking that you’ve hit another dead end when you groan into your sheets from the headache that wraps around your head. it’s mild and dull but there’s still that throb at the back of your consciousness that you can’t exactly take your mind off of. at least, that was what you were telling yourself — normal headaches caused by the stress of university, and definitely not because of a trivial fight with your boyfriend.

the daunting calculus question stares back at you like it was mocking you, teasing you for getting heated over such a small thing when you knew he was only looking out for you with the best intentions in mind.

with a longing look to your abandoned convo with spider-man!gojo, you sink again into your pillow, lights suddenly looking too bright and the music in your ears, jarring. you haven’t seen him in school today, thinking him to be dramatic as always. but he didn’t need lectures and seminars at this point, either, knowing him to be one of the smartest people you know.

in the midst of quelling your headache and thinking of how to apologise, you don’t notice the way your vigilante boyfriend weaves his web around the trees just outside your window, crafting a sweet message of i miss you along the branches and leaves.

a tangle of webs, stuck like honeycomb to some abandoned shed, a tangle of webbing like his hip to yours. tangles of countless webs like his lips along your forehead when you fall asleep too early during study sessions and finally, his heart beating in time with yours.

one fell swoop of a rock from above makes you head tilt in utter confusion; in no world could a rock fall against your window in an arc like that come from anyone of this world, this dimension, yet you know no other person with wall-sticking and web-shooting abilities and it’s then when the complicated entanglement of letters come into view.

your heart clenches up just a little at the sight, a clear indication that it’s satoru from the similarity of his handwriting that’s on his own pre-calc homework. before you can call out, he shifts diagonally outside your window, mask removed and chest heaving at the anticipation of your reaction — both to the tension of your fight before and possibly another thing.

the darkness of the night hardly provides clarity, though, so when you don’t walk away, gojo feels the pull of your eyes on him, drawing him in and trapping him within your own web like prey. crawling along the side of your house, he gives you one more small pleading look: roughed up hair looking a little dirty and his body just aching so much.

“baby . .” he mumbles, blue eyes softening at the sight of you after not seeing you for just one day. it does things to him, “may i?”

but you’re not truly prepared for until your ceiling light exposes the reality of gojo’s situation, what with his cut-filled face and rips all over his suit. it’s dirty, like he was dragged around and made a fool of fighting god knows who, and he’s — oh my god — is all you mouth out, he’s bleeding from a fairly large wound in his side which he has held pressure with his mask.

“’toru!” you panic and quieten down, “oh— oh my god, fuck, fuck fuck, what do i do? satoru— you’re b-bleeding—” and you regret every single word you yelled at him just the day before, now rewarded (or cursed, rather) with his pristine white suit stained a deep, traumatising red. you’re shaking, rightfully so, and gojo is more calm than you, using his free and clean hand to rub circles into your sides.

“breathe, you gotta breathe, princess.”

“n-no— you breathe! you’re l-losing blood!’’ your throat closes in, your head fills with thoughts of his coffin being lowered. you start to sob, “satoru—”

“hey, hey, hey,” it’s both gentle and strong enough to catch your attention, brushing the stray strands from your face and you already lean into the long-awaited touch. his thumb wipes away the tears that already start falling, “’m still here, ’m still here. i’ve tried my best to cover the wound with extra shirts of mine, just stuffed into my suit.”

sniffling, you speak through hiccups, “why the hell do you have extra shirts in your fighting-villains backpack? w-why do you even bring a fighting-villains backpack?”

through the absurdity of it all: fucking spider-man bleeding out on your wooden floor, your tears mixing in with blood, the branches outside starting to snap and fall from the added tension of the webs, satoru laughs softly, fully cupping your face now and trying his best not to grimace at the increasing ache in his side. 

“and you always laugh at the weirdest fucking times!” you chastise, still speaking through periodic hiccups and sniffles that you keep stuttering, not even able to smack him like you like to do because you know he hurts, “now wait here, you loser.”

a soft thank you is heard, able to breathe a little harsher now that you’ve gone to find the first aid, anxiety obvious in the pattering footsteps heard. without wasting any time, you grab the kit and let him peel off the suit in the bathroom, not even that much focused on his toned body but the amount of bruises and cuts that litter it.

a new wave of panic settles in your bones, a whimper sounding out when your feather-like touches span over his body.

“satoru . .”

“i’m so—”

“no,” you mumble, getting to work fast by taking out the gauze, bandages, whatever you could use. thank the heavens you at least knew some first aid, wincing whenever he hisses at the stinging alcohol. “let’s not talk about our fight now.”

he swallows, knuckles white from how tight he was gripping the sink, “f-first time you’re not asking me to apologise, heh—”

from behind, he can see you lift your eyes from the careful care you execute on his side, meeting your eyes in the mirror that gloss over again with tears and his heart sinks again.

“p— please don’t make jokes when i’m literally stitching you up, satoru,” you whisper, forehead bumping into his bicep, soft but quick breaths fanning over the skin there, “i don’t wanna talk, not while i almost lost you.”

“but it’s hardly any—”

“gojo satoru!” the shout of his full name shocks both of you, not even sure whether you were feeling angry at the fact that he always downplays his injuries, or sad at the fact that he can’t see that he deserves to be taken care of, too. it was always a guessing game with satoru.

“it’s not just anything, g-god! can you have some regard for yourself?” you don’t care that your words echo off the bathroom walls, its acoustics probably making your wails even more heartbreaking for your boyfriend. “look at yourself and tell me that it’s hardly anything! tell me, say it to my face!”

your nose is red, tear stains already making their home on your pretty face while your fingers squeeze the gauze instinctively, and he tells himself it’s all because of him. it’s all because he didn’t want to be a couple in public in fear that his enemies would target you, because he was afraid they’d use you as leverage, as a decoy, as a trade deal. but that has only made the yearning for you more difficult — pinkies barely brushing against each other, an inside joke swallowed into his throat.

satoru is silent, not sure what he could say that wouldn’t hurt you any further and he turns to lean against the sink counter, bloodied hands staining the marble and suit. and if he looked hard enough, he’s sure he can see the ache of your palpitating heart, bleeding down your chest and pooling at the floor from all the pain he’s caused you.

you dance across the bathroom floor, tiles both cold and warm under your feet as you make your move without any sound, afraid, afraid, like he would get pulled away the moment you touch him.

but he doesn’t go anywhere — just jerking a little at the sudden contact.

“satoru . .” hoarse, tired, it’s what he made your voice sound like just yesterday from shouting, and now, today, “i . .”

you cry quietly but never stop your ever loving hands, holding his face to look up from the shame, and you see how dull his cerulean ones look now, softened but dim, gentle but lacking vivacity. you think maybe it’s the tears hindering it. bit by bit, gojo’s tears fall and he apologises.

satoru apologises over and over, i’m sorry’s muttered into your hair, into your forehead, into your lips and both your hands are shaking like on a first date.

“i just can’t bear to lose you,” you mumble shakily, trembling fingers tracing the lines of his features, “and i hope you know how much you mean to me, and— and how much it hurts to see you so nonchalant about being beaten up like this . .”

you stifle a sob when he kisses your fingers as they travel over his lips, having crossed oceans over his eyes and mountains through his nose. his lips, his lips look just like the sanctuary of everything soft and good and righteous, that sliver of perfect time like on juliet’s balcony.

“i’m sorry, i am so sorry, darling. i—” gojo sighs, pain now turning numb but still trying his best not to move an inch, “i guess i just become so used to taking care of aunt may that, i . . am not used to being taken care of.”

you nod in understanding, “i’m sorry too, for lashing out, for dismissing your efforts to make me feel safe. you were only looking out for me.”

gojo’s eyes avert from yours again, looking down at the one thing that signified his place in society — never that much seen, not much recognised, but still revered as the city’s hero. it represents anything from something as simple as getting back an old lady’s handbag to fighting off a scientist-turned-reptilian. but it also represents the why.

why he fights so hard. a star student like gojo definitely wouldn’t pass off the praises when he saves a falling civilian, but it was much deeper than that when it came to it, wanting the city he grew up in to be safe and to seeing the grateful, relieved expressions of passers-by.

it was for you, when the last face he sees before he closes his eyes for the night is your pretty one and he’d be damned if that changed any time soon.

that night where satoru is all patched up and lying like a statue because he’s afraid he’d tear your nicely done stitches (you assured him it was mediocre at best), his hand finds your hand naturally again, playing with the strands aimlessly.

all thoughts of the news articles showing his cheeky spider mask expression, to the funky poses he pulls (from a camera so high up it would really only be one person who plants it there), phases out the cool, suave spider-man persona and centres the stupid, goofy, annoying gojo satoru.

and you smile softly to yourself knowing you’d be the only one to see gojo satoru like this. 

“i should’ve told you why; it wasn’t fair of me to just stop acting like we’re head over heels— hey, why are you smiling?”

“no reason.” and your smile brightens.

“that’s not no reason,” he matches your grin, pulling on your cheek playfully before his hand goes to your nape like clockwork and tugs gently. like you were just a normal couple after a long day, without any indication of a gash along his side, but gojo satoru was far from normal in the grand scheme of things, “there’s always a reason.”

“is that the motto that the great spider-man lives by?” you inch closer to him, smiling from above in the dimness of the room so much so that it makes you look like royalty and him a mere commoner.

“uh . . no, pretty sure it’s ‘with great power comes great responsibility’,” gojo jests with sarcasm laced in his voice, roping you in and you, letting yourself get caught always as you lower yourself on his chest, but not before your lips meet his in a soft, quiet dance with you both being the only ones in the ballroom.

the rush of love that fills you overflows in the way your mouth moves against his, not wanting this sweet, sweet dream to end. especially if you come out empty-handed at the end of it all with spider-man’s, gojo’s blood on your hands, so you keep your eyes shut tight with a promise to yourself to welcome him with welcome arms the second, third, fourth, nth that he climbs through your window, bloodied and tired.

“i’m still here,” satoru whispers against your lips when he feels just how tense you are, easing out the lines of your face and holds you in that moment, held frozen in time like a scene in a snow globe, “i will be here for as long as we are alive,” he takes your hand and puts it up to his heart to remind you of its status, of how it speeds up a tad bit when you stroke his chest, “and i am alive whenever you are near.”

the quiet moment is shared with another soft kiss, features now relaxed when you smile against his lips and inspire the next few moments of endless laughter and jokes, falling into the same breath when sleep catches up.

in the bathroom lies his white-turned-red suit, left abandoned for the normalcy you both chase in your bedroom for at least a few hours until spider-man has to go back to being spider-man and you have calc questions to finish up on. but until then, with the alarm you set at 6am in secrecy before his classes, you’d wake up just to soak and hand wash the red out, returning the blue and white suit back to its glory.

when satoru wakes up the next morning, he finally knows why your warmth in bed was missing for a brief moment of time when he sees the clean folded up suit with his mask on top. you don’t miss with a sandwich either, and a cheeky note — all the best for your most dreaded class!!! if u can fight and come out alive i believe u can survive prof. masamichi lol.

and he laughs softly, sparing a glance to your sound, peaceful self and he finds a renewed sense of the reason why he decided to become spider-man.

spider-man— satoru seals his love with a kiss to your forehead and a messy mumble of i love you, long overdue from the night before.

“thank you for loving me.”

[sparsilees]

the blacks aren’t an incestuous family

you can say sirius is rather unhinged and depressed from prolonged dementor exposure and the violent tragedy of betrayal and loss. you can say he’s traumatised by his upbringing and the first wizarding war. or that the horrors™ have done a real number on him. that bellatrix lestrange was too brilliant, too enchanted with the dark arts, or too broken from azkaban.

don’t blame it on ‘black family madness’, it doesn’t exist in canon. don’t blame it on inbreeding.

the pureblood families generally intermarried between ‘suitable’ bloodlines (sometimes they brought in halfbloods, too). the blacks are no exception—why marry your silly cousin when there’s a wider pool of eligible pureblood contenders? because according to the back family tree *checks note* walburga and orion are the only cousins known to have married in canon—specifically, they’re second cousins.

the black family tree roots are far-reaching and expansive. there’s always a black daughter that’s married into every other notable family—the burkes, the crouches, the lestranges, the longbottoms, the malfoys, the prewetts, the potters, and the weasleys—the wizarding world is built on the black bloodline.

everyone’s related in some capacity to the blacks, with certain individuals more closely than others, like how sirius black and arthur weasley are second cousins once removed, with their closest common ancestor being former headmaster phineas black.

the black family members featured in the books descend from either arcturus (the main branch) or pollux. this means that, due to their parents’ union, sirius and regulus have black, macmillan, and crabbe ancestry. whereas the black sisters are entirely removed from the heir line and share black, crabbe, and rosier bloodlines. sirius and regulus, and bellatrix, andromeda, and narcissa share exactly one set of grandparents and one set of great-grandparents.

(also, if you subscribe to the alternate canon that james’ parents are dorea and charlus, it means sirius and james are first cousins once removed; james and arthur are second cousins; and harry and ron are third cousins, placing them in the same generation as the black quintet and closer to phineas black than draco or tonks.)

canonically, it’s the gaunts who were “a very ancient wizarding family noted for a vein of instability and violence that flourished through the generations due to their habit of marrying their own cousins”, and even nearly pulled off sibling marriage to continue their line.

unlike the gaunts, the blacks did not bring together first cousins into a union and added various bloodlines into the family, so the ‘black family madness due to incestuous practices’ theory doesn’t hold water, bye.

[newkatzkafe2023]

Fem Humanoid King Kong Y/N Part 2?

Wukongs Brothers. Sisters, friends, and enemies meet King Kong Y/N?

Lol how would they react to this strong, giant, female King Kong, AKA Queen of The Apes

Like Wukong just brings his brothers, sisters, friends, and enemies to an island and their waiting for her, when a GIANT TALL ASS KONG appears and they are all freaking out except for Wukong who just yells out "WIFEEEEEEEE 😍🥰" and just transforms into a the same size as her and hugs her. Everyone is happy for him or is traumatised. (Tho I can see the adoptive children of the Wukongs like her).

Thanks!~ ❤️

(LMK Wukong) He was pulling Mk and the gang to an island 🏝 place. He was so excited that he's actively chirping in joy. MK, Macaque and the others were confused and suspicious of him.

Mk: Umm Monkey king where are we going??

Wukong: we going to skull island 🏝😊

The others were confused and slightly scared

Tang: Um why???

Wukong: well duh to meet my wife

Everybody jaws dropped hearing the news. Wukong was married and he never heard shared the news with them. Then again he has many other secrets but this one, is something they didn't expect him to hide.

Just like how they didn't expect his wife to be a giant gorilla and for her to be THE LEGENDARY QUEEN KONG!!!!!!🤩🤩🤩🤩

Mk and Mei were Fangirling and Fanboying all over the place, Redson looked pale as he called his parents Wondering if they knew about this, Tang was speechless, Sandy waved a you as a greeting, and Macaque....Uh he looks like died all over to again.

Pigsy: (Sigh) Why does this make so much sense???😒😤🤦‍♂️

(Mk Reborn Wukong) The monk was curious about where he sneaks off to when he's on his free time. Sandy was to scared to ask and Pigsy thought it was something shady. So he went to quietly follow Wukong and Fruity one day and what he found shocked the hell put of him.

Pigsy: Master I found what the monkey was hiding!!!!😱

Master Tang: Oh and what is it🤨

Pigsy: um well you It might wanna come and see for yourself.Because you're not gonna believe me if I told you😧

The monk was confused but not deterred, because the next day the pilgrims secretly followed Wukong and Fruity. To their usual spot and behold Wukong had wondered back to the same giant gorilla women that saved them a year ago and the most shocking part.

Wukong showering you with affection and care while fruity flew around your head calling you mama.

So the monk fainted, sandy was pale as snow, and pigsy bit into a tree branch seething in jealousy😵😱🤬

(NR Wukong) Li and Su were at a standstill as they looked at a Tall giant gorilla that sat behind Wukong.

Wukong: Li, Su I want you to meet my wifey (Y/n L/N) or well Yn Ln Wukong now🥰

Li's jaw dropped as his brains were buffering trying to wrap his head around the whole situation. While Su was dumbfounded by who she saw.😵‍💫😵‍💫😵‍💫😵😵😵

Su: Wukong....... YOUR MARRIED TO QUEEN KONG??!?!?!?!?😲😲😲😱😱😱

Wukong nodded as he cuddled into your giant arm. Meanwhile your wondering why Wukong didn't tell you that he had grown children🤔

(HIB Wukong) The kids immediately loved you already, in fact silly girl was dying to see you again and loves you so much. Wukong was blushing harshly when Silly girl would cry mama for hours because she missed you awfully. Luier loves you too, you seem to be more patient with him and would listen to him talk endlessly as Silly girl would climb on your back like she did the first time. Yes Wukong didn't need to be worried about the kids because they love you as much as you love them. Meanwhile pigsy was scared sh*tless because you snared at him for flirting with you to much.

(Netflix Wukong) Lin and Dragon king were pulled to skull island by Wukong as a surprise was waiting for them.

Lin: Seriously where are we going??

Dragon king: Yeah what are you trying to show us??

Wukong: Lin, dragon king I want you guys to meet my wife.

Both: wait what???

So Wukong chirps into the forest and waits. Then suddenly, the ground shook as you made your way to your husband. Lin and Dragon King soon saw a giant female gorilla. Wukong got excited and grew into his kaiju form and hugged you tightly. The second Dragon king saw who it was he fainted.

Dragon king:(scared) Queen......Kong😰😨😱😵

Meanwhile Lin sat on your hand as she looked at you in Astonishment.

FEEL FREE TO REBLOG 🦍

[anli-rambles]

No bc the 18th century assassins were actual shit and I'm not just talking about the Colonial branch, like-

The British brotherhood let a Templar GRANDMASTER run off with the son of one of their master assassins after his death and never did anything to save him. Years later that boy grows up to be a Templar, climbs up the ranks of the Order at lightning speed, and kills one of their assassin masters after stealing his hidden blade. And how do they respond to that ? They send one of their novices after him on a ship to Boston to kill him. Alone. And that novice, instead of going the assassin way and stab Haytham in the back or something, tries to defend him from getting killed by some other guys on deck before engaging him in a fucking sword fight during which he gives Haytham, A MASTER SWORDSMAN, HIS OWN GODDAMN SWORD, LIKE WHAT IN THE-

Then you have the disaster that was the Colonial Brotherhood. Achilles, the last student of Ah Tabai, goes on to do the one thing Ah Tabai spent the entirety of Black Flag warning Edward against (tampering with Isu sites) and becomes mentor to absolute psychopaths. They were working with gangs who were harassing civilians for protection money and developing chemical weapons that they planned on unleashing on entire cities, not to mention that they caused two earthquakes that killed hundreds of thousands and were going to do it a third time (and probably would never have stopped) had Shay and Haytham not intervened. Also, instead of talking shit out with an obviously traumatised Shay, they demonised him, shot him off a cliff, and left him for dead without even checking if he'd died or not - they were so bad that they made Shay, the most un-Templaresque person ever, defect to the Templars, which inevitably led to their downfall and you can't even blame the Templars for massacring all of them bc they were an absolute menace to society. Plus they were allied with the Fr*nch and it should be common knowledge that this is the worst crime one could ever commit

AND SPEAKING OF THE FRENCH ! Those bitches were also completely brain dead !! Like, they knew what happened to Haytham and how the man turned out, but they still let the Templar Grandmaster adopt Arno, the son of one of their master assassins, just like the British had done with Edward. Like, they should have known it could end in an absolute disaster. And they banished Arno, probably their most promising recruit since Charles Dorian's death, for doing his fucking job as an assassin just because he broke some rules, which is so dumb coming from people whose motto contains the lines "everything is permitted", I just- ☠️

Ratohnhaké:ton was legit the only 18th century assassin with a functioning brain cell istg

[i-cant-sing]

Fushiguro baby reader staring at the walls of their bedroom/at the door or closet because they sensed 'demons' at that specific place (the demons being random ass kidnappers trying toget reader for some random reason) and just staring

If baby Fushiguro is still with Toji:

Baby Fushiguro is sleeping with her father, Toji, in his bed, and she just suddenly wakes up because she sensed someone was in the house. She crawls out of Toji's arms(who is a light sleeper and knows immeadiately when reader leaves his arms, but thinks nothing of it since she has a habit of doing it often to go roam around the house, maybe go to the kitchen to get herself a cookie or go to her room to find her plushie. He's not concerned).

He is concerned though when reader doesn't return after a few minutes, which then turns into 30 minutes. He gets off the bed, eyes still groggy from sleep as he quietly leaves the room to look for you, only to find you sitting on the floor in front of the back door.

He looks at you, then at the door, then at you. And he signs at you (yes, Toji taught you sign language long before you could actually speak)

'What are you doing here, bub?'

You smile sleepily at him. 'Waiting for my friend.'

'What friend?' He asks, heart sinking.

'The one hiding behind the door. He's brought 3 other guys too, but they're in a van outside. Do you think they brought me presents?' You ask with hope.

And then as Toji looks at the door again, he catches a glimpse of a slight shadow under the door.

Toji looks at you and signs. 'Why don't you go up and get ready with your tea cups? I'll bring them up.' You nod and walk back up the stairs while Toji goes out and obliterates the men who were planning on breaking in and kidnapping the child they'd been spying on and found that lived at the apartment alone often because Toji left for work.

Of course, when Toji returned, he consoled you and put you back to sleep, all while making plans of moving to another safehouse the next day, all while his heart thumps at the fact that you were able to sense that someone was outside your house without any indication, that you weren't just able to sense curses but also humans at your age, it made him uneasy to think that if anyone else were to know about your... powers, they'd make you a target.

If baby Fushiguro is with Naoya/Zenin Clan:

Naoya wakes up to someone screaming, and leaves the room with a groan because he doesn't have the energy to deal with you terrorising yet another servant.

Naoya is only confused as he finds the rest of the Zenin clan outside in the garden, where they're all watching you swing your Hello Kitty katana around at the intruder who was hanging upside down from the tree, his foot held by a tentacle belonging to a curse which apparently you had summoned to hold him from the tree branch while you played a very gory version of "piñata".

"Y/N!" He yelled, startling you. "What are you doing?!"

You explained how you felt someone was outside in the garden, so you went out to see and found the man had "put the head nanny to sleep" (which meant he knocked her out) and said he wanted to play a game with you. He said you could choose any game you liked, if you come outside, so you chose piñata. But since Uncle Naoya had refused to get you a real piñata because "NO CANDY/SUGAR FOR Y/N!", you made him a piñata.

"He said it was okay." You mumbled. Clearly the intruder had underestimated you. "I only got my friend to help me hang him up." By friend, you meant the 14 tentacles monster curse who was currently hiding in the tree. He'll be dealt with by your uncles. Naoya needs to handle the intruder who almost fucking kidnapped you.

"I'll get you the stupid piñata if you if you go to bed right now."Naoya said nodding at Aunty Zenin to lead you back to your room as you beamed and skipped happily.

"As for you..." He turned to the intruder who was traumatised for life. "- You're about to be in a world of pain."

[ghostmoor]

Zooz gets a routine refresher every now and again since they're my very first Oddworld character. A former Flub Fuels worker, Zooz had a hard time with the culture shock on being thrust out into the free world with little guidance and none of the conveniences or (few) comforts industrial life afforded.

Trill is a former vykker test subject who escaped the lab he was held in in the midst of an accident that left him momentarily unattended and unsecured. In the chaos he suffered a nasty chemical burn and after breaking out crash-landed in Zooz's figurative back yard. Zooz, at the time, was at the end of his tether, struggling with isolation and his inability to integrate into the local community. Finding Trill exhausted, bloodied, and still bearing the markers of his previous captors, Zooz felt a certain kinship with him. Where a lot of people would have found a pissed-off, unfamiliar apex predator and decided to leave well alone or put it out of its misery, Zooz' inclination was to help.

Caring for Trill gave Zooz a distraction and new sense of purpose, and being forced to reach out to others in the community finally gave him a foothold into developing new relationships.

Once healed, Trill showed no desire to leave. Far from the natural range of his species and provided with a relatively comfortable life with Zooz, he had no reason to. These days Zooz has him fitted with a saddle and acts as a kind of scout/messenger/general errand-runner, with the ability to travel further and bypass difficult terrain that terrestrial travellers are limited by. They enjoy exploring but unfortunately make the most dogshit maps you've ever seen in your life.

The village Zooz lives in is called Halfway. Originally nothing more than a hastily-constructed camp for newly-free mudokons, it attracted the attention of some of the native population. These people had no culture, no land, no real home--and as alien as they might seem, they would never have these things if nobody taught them how to survive.

Ambassadors were sent. Agreements were made. Halfway would be a meeting point, a middle ground, for knowledge to be shared and understandings to be reached, in pursuit of saving what rampant industrialism had brought to the brink of extinction.

Halfway has been slowly growing ever since. It's not explicitly allied to any resistance movement and tries to keep a low profile, so as not to attract unwanted attention from corporate entity that might decide it owns their land and wants to plonk a factory down on there, or that it's justified in raiding the place for escaped workers, but it's a common drop-off point for the Spirit of 1029 branch operating out of a collapsed paper mill a few hours away by land vehicle, for those who decline to join the militia themselves.

The people who wind up in Halfway are deeply traumatised, and its leadership are acutely aware of that. Halfway has few rules, but those rules are strict: No brew. No fighting. Respect your neighbour. Break 'em, and expect swift intervention. Generally, the peace is kept. A mudokon's own home is entirely private--a concept new to many--but those in need of help, or simply desiring social contact, will never find themselves more than a few feet from a fiendly face.

As well as providing a safety net for newly-free mudokons, it has notable populations of displaced native mudokons, many of whom have seen the last of their clans or tribes captured or killed, if they know their fate at all. Halfway welcomes them with open arms just the same, and some of them are quite willing to pass on knowledge to fresh minds in the hope that the memory of their people might not die out completely.

It's not always an easy place to live, but its people are carving out a fresh future.

[creepling]

that boy is a monster - j. slaughter / 2.6k

in contribution with THE HAUNTED HOEDOWN

prompts: sex in the woods or somewhere public (added bonus if it includes knife, blood, hunter x prey kink)

summary: everyone comes and goes from the slaughter residence, either as survivors or stacks of meat. but as you escape and run further into the woods, johnny won't let you go that easy.

tags: DEAD DOVE - read at your own risk. smut. MINORS DNI. fem!reader. non-con. hunter/prey. knife/blood-play. descriptive injury. narcissistic johnny. fem penetration. blood hunger. choking. roughplay. slapping. kidnapped ending.

It would help to know the surroundings. Sprint the track to get to the finish line. But you’re bleeding. Your legs ache, and the tree branches are tearing at your skin. The calls of the Slaughter family echo in the distance.

Running for your life is supposed to be the escape. You’re out of the house, but your heroic end is not at a close. You have to keep running. You have to survive. And one person, in particular, will not give you up so easily.

“You’re the reason this is happening. You brought them damn kids here. You go get ‘er!” Drayton told off Johnny, waving his bloody stick towards the exit you stumbled out of.

Johnny was cool in his stance. He is cleaning his knife, sharpening its blade. He admires the glint of it in the moonlight, a sly smirk winking back at him in its reflection.

“Keep yer panties on, old man. I’ll get her,” He brushes off the Cook, swaggering towards the gate.

With his family seeing him off, Nubbie chuckles and cheers him on. Sissy claps and howls. “Bring her back fresh now, ye hear!”

Johnny was not going to share. He wants to play with his food and keep you all to himself. Once he finds you, you’re going to scream. He will have your insides, grip your flesh and suck your blood. His family will not have a nip of you. You’re all his.

The beginning of the hunt sent Johnny’s instincts into overdrive. Your shadow mystifies into the forest, and he picks up the pace to dive into the belly of the beast. He grunts as he sprints, inhaling the air. He was only human, but everything in his attitude was animalistic. A coyote in a man’s body, wanting to catch your scent, embarks on the trail you left behind and chases you until your soft flesh is between his teeth.

Deep within the sun-dried trees, Johnny halts his speed and listens to the silence. He peered his hearing for the snap of a twig, the ruffle of a leaf, anything to assume you were close by. He crouches to the earth and calculates the ground. His eye caught an indent, your shoe print heavy in the dry dirt, the heel dragged out, exposing your struggle. Johnny was mesmerised for a moment, then he advanced, tailing the track of your footprints to the direction of your hiding spot. He arrives at a dead end, cursing under his breath. He catches a look above, checking the trees, but both the trees and you are too fragile to hold weight. His eyes scan the horizon, wondering how far you have gone.

“I’m gonna find ya soon enough, sweetheart. Why don’t you come out, and we can get this over with?” Johnny called into the night, his skin tingling at the thought of you nearby.

He was closer than you thought. Tugged low in the dip of the earth, you bite the inside of your cheeks and muffle any sound of panic that threatens to burst. You may be bleeding, tired, and traumatised, but you will not give up. If he wants you to meet the same faint as your friends, he will have to come and get you.

At the deafening silence, Johnny sighs. It was long and drawn, but it soon shifted into a chuckle, and he gripped the handle of his knife tighter. “Fine, I like the challenge.”

Johnny advances, his footsteps descending to whisper when you decide to leave your hiding spot. You drag your limping body in the opposite direction, clenching your side as a cramp takes over. You look around with alert eyes, hoping to find an opening or another hiding spot if he is close. Your hope dwindles at the same scenery repeating: trees, branches, dirt. Over and over. No sounds alert you, making your eyelids droop and blur your vision. You look down at your body, your clothes drenched in blood, giving sense to your lightheadedness. The blood loss and dehydration were slowly creeping up and taking over you. Legs wobbling, making you fall.

“Come on,” You whispered, “You can do this.”

Johnny had his eyes on you. He watches you struggle, crouching within the dry branches. Your pain and fatigue amuse him, reassuring him that mortality can be handy for this line of passion. He loved a prey’s fear, how it ignites them with the endurance to keep living. Yet, the thing that is chasing them will always catch them. It can only get them so far. It lets them die with a fight still in them. People call that honour, but to Johnny, it is the thrill of the game.

It has been long enough. Johnny watches you collapse, grunting at the pain taking over, your knees buckling as you try to crawl your way further. Johnny cracks his neck and readies his blade, his heavy steps approaching you.

“I gotta hand it to ya. You got some fight in ya,” Johnny mused, towering over your struggling state.

The widening of your eyes made Johnny chuckle, tuts leaving his mouth as you began to sob.

“Come on now, I ain’t gonna kill ya. Not yet, anyway,” Johnny grips the back of your hair, yanking your head from the ground and crouching down on top of you. His legs saddle your sides, squeezing in to hold you in place. You catch the glint of his knife hovering over your throat, threatening to slice if you struggle.

“Ma mama always got at me for playing with my food as a kid. I never grew out of it. Y’know why?” Johnny presses his lips to your ear. You could now hear the husk in his voice.

“Because I fuckin’ love it,”

Your hands grip the earth, and a scream bellows from your strained throat, sirening through the trees, making birds take flight. Johnny shoves your head to the ground to silence you, pressing his blade tighter to the skin of your throat.

“You shout one more time, and I’ll cut you,” He spat, causing you to dwindle your struggle into small whimpers.

“Just kill me, please,” You plead, Johnny on top of you, detecting that you would rather be dead than be at his mercy.

Johnny enjoys having the upper hand far too much, grazing his gloved hand down your spine, lingering on the skin exposed from your summer blouse. He glances at the cuts littering your exposed arms, blood dripping from a knick on your shoulder. Johnny licks his lips in anticipation, locking his lips on your wound. You gasp, cringing at the suction from his mouth, his tongue swirling around the cut and soaking his mouth with your blood.

As if energy surged through him, Johnny groans at your taste, licking his lips dry. Your taste is sweetly metallic. He has never tasted something so pure—the blood of a lamb or a calf, laced with innocence and avoidant of bitterness. Johnny’s eyes wander down at you like the discovery of the Holy Grail. “You taste amazing.”

Johnny grips your arm and manhandles you to lie on your back, your arms feeble in your struggle. Johnny scans your body for more wounds, grunting in annoyance as most were muddy grazes. His legs add pressure to your sides, his hand nipping at the hem of your blouse.

“Keep still,” Johnny orders sternly, moving his knife to your shirt and cutting the thin fabric with the blade. You whine in defiance, but your top is torn off completely and tossed to one side. Johnny stares at the curvature of your bra, tucking his knife under the band and slicing it swiftly. Your breasts graze with goosebumps at your exposure. You squeeze your eyes shut from the humility. Johnny runs his knife down your left breast, the blunt end teasing your hardening nipple.

“You are a sight for sore eyes,” He breathes out, removing his glove with the pinch of his teeth. His bare, rough hand grips your breast, making you squirm. You glance up at Johnny, the maddening of his eyes, the flex of his muscles as he holds you in place. Sweat glistens on his face. You feel warmth between your legs as Johnny’s bulge presses against your stomach.

Without warning, Johnny slices a small incision on your soft breast, making you gasp from the shot of pain. Johnny immediately locks his lips on the fresh slice, his tongue collecting your new blood, letting a groan vibrate against you. He sucks your breast as he would with your nipple, except his infatuation is solely on your blood. Your fingers lace through his hair, and you attempt to yank him away, but he points his blade quickly to your throat.

“Move your hand, or I’ll cut you open,” Johnny threatens, pressing the blade hard, alerting panic within you.

“I can’t- I can’t do this, please,” You beg, “I want to go home,”

“Is this not want you want, darlin’?” Johnny teased, “Your cunt says otherwise.”

His head motions down and between your legs, sliding his fingers along the denim fabric of your shorts. Your throat hitches, and your legs tense, locking eyes with the darkening stare from Johnny.

“You want this, I know you want this,” Johnny mutters against his lips, “Let me make you feel good. I need this, darlin’, you gotta give yourself to me.”

His lips lock roughly with yours, his kiss hard - possibly laced with a lingering passion. You taste your blood on his tongue. You moan unexpectedly.

“See? You taste so good. Let me taste you more,” Johnny said as if he were asking, but you know you have no choice.

The sound of panic bubbles in your throat as you feel Johnny’s hands unbutton your shorts, yelping as he tugs the tight fabric down your legs. He crawls his fingers under your pants, catching your slick cunt with the tip of his fingers, collecting your wetness. Johnny groans, reaching his fingers to his lips and licking your juices. Just as sweet as your blood, warm and intoxicating.

Johnny grinds his hips down onto you before unbuckling his jeans, tossing his belt to your eye level. Your eyes trail to the sky, your mind dissociating at the sound of his jeans undone. Johnny preys your legs wider apart with his thighs, the tip of his cock at your entrance.

“You’re so wet for me, darlin’. Still sure you don’t want this?” Johnny’s pride swells at your defeat, pupils dilated at the sight of yours glazed and lost.

“I would rather be dead,” You said airily, almost inaudible. Johnny narrows his eyes, power swelling in his muscles. He wants you to beg for his cock or mercy; it does not matter.

Without warning, Johnny thrusts his cock inside, and pain shoots up your spine. He was big, more significant than you have ever taken, and he was stretching you out. You squeeze your eyes shut, and the tears trapped in your waterline pour down your cheeks. You silence the yelps filled with pain to adjust to the horrible feeling. But your cunt was wet, wet enough for Johnny to thrust deeper inside you and hold his length firmly inside you.

“Fuuuck,” Johnny groaned. Your walls clenched around his cock, and his hands grip the sides of your waist. “Sucha tight little pussy,” Johnny chuckled.

You shift your body back and forth to adjust to the pain, but it paralysed you, and Johnny drilled you deeper into the ground with the weight of his body. The cool earth stings your wounds and gathers in the grooves of your skin. It is disgusting. It is revolting. You wanted the ground to swallow you whole. “Fuck you,” You spit at Johnny, manifesting your cunt to grow teeth and bite his cock clean.

Johnny furrowed his brows at your revolt, burning a glare to your core. “The fuck you say to me?” Johnny smacked your face, stunning you, but you force eye contact.

“I said fuck you, you fucking-“ Your rage stopped short at the shuddering pain shooting through you. Johnny digs his knife into your side, toying with an open wound. You squirm, scream, try to pry him off you, but his other hand pins your wrists above your head, and his cock is stuffed deeper inside you.

“You really think talking to me like that is a good idea?” Johnny scoffs, watching the pain in your expression with perverted fascination. “Such a stupid ‘lil brat. I need to teach you a lesson.”

The pain melted into numbness. Your eyes drift further away from reality, and Johnny amps his stamina. It seemed neverending, his cock pumping into your cunt, the depth of his thrusts consistent. Johnny’s body towers over you, his knife tossed to the side. It proved useless as your body grew limp, the strength of Johnny’s arms pinning you in place enough to restrict your escape. No more were you retaliating to Johnny’s dominance.

“That’s it, good girl. Take it,” Johnny grunted, but he was not satisfied with your reaction. Lying there as you get fucked dumb, staring into space. He needs you to be compliant, to be grateful. Johnny tugs your hair and forces your gaze onto him, bathing in your bewildered stare.

“C’mon girl, I know you want this. Say how much you want it,” Johnny demands, continuing to rut into your pulsing cunt.

“I-” It was hard to string words together, but you had nowhere to look except deep in Johnny’s hunter eyes as he pressed his forehead against yours.

“Say it, fucking say it,” Johnny grew impatient, smacking his fingers over your cheeks, hoping that knocked sense into you.

“I want you, Johnny,” You sobbed, mesmerised by his insanity.

“Yeah, you fucking do. Start thanking me for fucking you so good,” Johnny enfolds his cock deep inside, holding it in place until you speak what he wants to hear.

“Thank you,” You swallow the lump in your throat, “You’re so good at fucking me. I want you to keep fucking me.”

Swelling with pride, Johnny exhales a deep groan and continues to drill into you, picking up the pace. He felt his climax ascending from his core, gazing at the bounce of your tits, your plump skin covered in the blood he poured from you. He bites the inside of his cheek.

“I’m so close, darlin’. Fuuuck,” Johnny wraps his callous hand around your throat, suppressing your air flow until you see stars.

Johnny rutted his cock to ride his high. You feel the strips of warmth melt from your slit as he pulls out, his pants hot and misty against your neck. Your eyes trail over to Johnny, buckling his jeans and quickly putting on your underwear and shorts.

“Sorry about your blouse,” He mutters, removing his tank top and putting it on you. There is no point in convincing yourself he did it out of the kindness of his heart, as it is to carry you back to the place you tried to escape from and not make the rest of the family suspicious.

Johnny lifts you and tosses your body over his shoulder, your mind and body too exhausted and petrified to wiggle from his grasp. “Let’s take you back home,” He says.

Home. That place was not your home. But to Johnny, he is making it your home. There goes the days of elaborate escapes, deception and retribution. He will have you wrapped around his figure. He shall convince you that no one else cares for you. Only he will protect you, care for you, and love you. 

Welcome to the family. 

[irreverent-saints]

PREVIOUS NEXT FIRST

Reckless Decisions

Weeks went by. She was onto her tenth venture without dying, others had for sure done worse. She only took what she needed. She tried memorizing schedules and shortcuts. From the way activity peaked in the evening, to the easiest plants to climb.

Once again she found herself in the Jotun’s garden. She plucked rasberries. He lounged on a rock, snacking on whichever plants were within arms reach. Cruel. Greedy. Violent. Stupid. These traits all paled in comparison to the Jotun’s true flaw: an idleness so dire it seemed to warp time itself. He turned over on his back, leaning his head on a boulder in a manner she could only describe as deeply self satisfied. His eyes were half shut. Arms with the strength to single-handedly raise barns were busy scratching his chest. How come he got to have a lush treasure trove at his disposal, so rich that it would take a lifetime to get through all of it? How come his physique was sculpted and rugged without the chisel of hard labor? Why did she break her back to no yield, how could God smite her more than this abomination? Idun considered firing an arrow at the lad, if only to get him to do something. Then again, a diligent gardener would have caught her by now. She took her share, letting sleeping giants lie.

Idun made her way back. Sweaty under her coat, hands scratched and calloused from grappling branches all day. She took one last glance at the Jotun. He curled up, twining his tail tip with a finger. His eye twinkled, wide and alert as he dragged his hand by the riverbed. Probably traumatising the poor creatures that had made it their home. He leaned to the side, tensing sculpted, elegant muscles. He smiled, a genuine, warm smile that highlighted his tall cheekbones and long lashes. The same expression one would expect from someone seeing an old friend again. Then he twitched his wrist, snagging a pike on his long claw. Idun winched. She shook her head, taking notice of the wiry fur that covered his legs, the flaky scales of his hand, and the unruly quills that lined his tail. In all likelihood he had a breath of rotted flesh, fleas the size of locusts and a propensity for soap dodging.

She walked away while he nibbled at the fish. Suddenly the giant lifted his torso. He leaned forwards, staring directly at the shrub Idun walked behind. She froze in place. He didnt blink, his glowing eye unmoving as his body rose around it. He seemed less like a being, and more like an incomprehensible mass of sheer force. A natural disaster. Idun’s legs fell weak as he lurched towards her. He quickly narrowed the gap between them. Her throat closed up. She hoisted her sack of foraged goods and tossed it as far from her as she could. Then she ran in the opposite direction, towards an old log. She clawed through soil and debris, squeezing herself through a small gap. From inside the trunk she watched as he picked up the bag. His huge paws shifted slightly in the dirt, his tail curled as he stood up. Soon enough he dropped it to the ground. As the contents spilled he rapidly approached. Idun braced as he hovered above her. Suddenly everything shook. She clawed into the bark. The ground began to shift. Tremors, jerks. Vertigo as one side slowly lifted. She clung to some vines inside the log, barely able to breathe. Heavy claws scraped right next to her. Bits of debris fell from above. Everything shook. Her whole face tensed up. Commotion mixed with frustrated grunts and laboured breathing. A voice so deep that it resembled thunder. Tapping claws. One pierced through the rotting wood. Splinters flew. She stumbled backwards as a rugged, talon-clad hand grappled just in front of her. It reached for her, scratching deep grooves into the wood. Idun pressed herself as far back as she could manage. The hand fought, but remained stuck in place. The spurs up his arm had snagged on the wood. Idun stared in mute terror. He thrashed. His hand carried the presence of a rabid bear. He jerked, as if caught in a trap. A futile, agitated outburst. He withdrew.

Idun let out a deep sight as his arm slinked out from the hole he had burst. She held around her knees. It all fell quiet around her. For what felt like an hour she laid completely still. She looked at the crucifix on her chest. How it vibrated slightly with each heartbeat. The only movement she dared make.

Then the tapping continued. A slight push, the scraping of claws just overhead. She stared out at nothing. Then. Silence. Another dreadfully long minute where the only thing she sensed was her own breathing.

The log violently shook. She reeled. Splinters flew everywhere. Piercing light as the dark log ripped apart. The dust settled, revealing a huge gap where the rest of the tree used to be. Two pinched fingers carefully pulled her out. She laid flat against the ground, covering her head and neck. A shadow crept over her. He placed his hand just a few meters from her.

“Why are you here?” He asked. Idun struggled to speak.

“I will leave.” She managed to stutter.

With a single claw he turned her over on her back. She tucked her arms close to her chest.

“You’re the lady from earlier,” he remarked.

“I really don’t mean any harm,” she cowered. He tilted his head to the side.

“This is not a good place for you to be,” he said, “are you the thing that has been stealing from me these few past weeks?”

Idun hesitated, then she took a deep breath.

“Yes.” She spoke from her chest. The Jotun loomed over her. An alert gaze, dozens of sharp teeth and claws ready at his disposal. She shut her eyes.

“But why? Don’t you realise how unsafe you are?”

“I do.” She spoke through gritted teeth. “My other option is to starve back home,”

Her whole body trembled, every explanation was an excuse. A but, a plea to be found present but not guilty. The jotun reclined.

“That’s just your nature, isnt it?” He said, stepping over her. Idun laid low. He picked up her sack, carefully collecting most of what laid scattered around it. “birds know to fly away from danger, wolves know to hunt or starve, and humans get by through cheating, deception and thievery,”

“Will you let me live?” She stuttered.

“I wont hold your instincts against you. Come back in three days time. Bring a bell and ring it near my door” He said. He tied up her bag and handed it to her. She took it. The Jotun left without a word.

—

Idun tossed in her sleep. Visions of collapsed houses and trampled fields. A trail of blood meandered through the city, leading straight to her doorstep. She saw his one yellow eye through her window, long claws creeping towards her. All the senseless destruction and broken bodies merely a stepping stone. He ripped her out of bed. She heard angry protests, townsfolk throwing stones at the witch that seemed to attract trouble wherever she went. Fangs slammed shut above her, dooming her to an endless abyss.

She woke up, sheets drenched with sweat. Idun patted the mattress, still here. The town was quiet. She dared look past her curtains. A bright yellow light shone. Her heart skipped a beat. Shaky hands pulled apart the blinds once more.

The full moon. Idun let out a sigh of relief. Still, sleep eluded her, so she lit a candle and got dressed. Why would he ask her to come back, she lamented, staring into the flame. This afternoon. That was the deal. She had her cowbell on the side table, and Psalm 23 in her pocket. She wrapped a blanket around her shoulders. The sun lit dead trees. Birds sang. Her chamber was warm and safe, a statement she repeated over and over. She knocked against the wooden wall. Who was she kidding? One swipe of his tail would easily splinter her humble cottage. Worse yet, she could see beastly footprints where she had once tried to build a life. Every time a plank shifted or a shadow went past her window she winched. She could tuck close to the wall, or bury herself under the sheets, but her house was a mere shell, an illusion of safety in the middle of open land.

She recited a prayer, as she had done so many times these past weeks. She yelled into a pillow, then splashed cold water in her face. She then straightened her back and tempered her heart. Idun got dressed, focusing only on the motions as she blocked out the world. With blinders on she aimed straight for the tundra. A steady march all the way up to the mouth of the cave. She stood before the enormous, intricately carved door. Outside logs made from whole trees were propped up, creating a patio of sorts. A fire pit, scraps, odd items she had no chance of identifying. She stood before his entrance, fidgeting with the cowbell. At first she rang it carefully, unsure it would make a sound at all. Silence. She repeated it a few times, taking a break to listen for movements. Nothing. Finally she rang it as hard as she could, a cacophony that stung her ears. She heard something shift behind the thick door. Idun held her breath. Claws tapping against stone. A tail dragging over slate. She hid behind a large beam. The door creaked open, thunderous rumbles. A scaly hand revealed itself.

“Evening,” He called out. His eye flashed in the slim gap. Idun took a brave step forwards. He opened the door further,

“You asked me to come,” she said bluntly.

“…And you did,” he agreed.

“A woman must stay true to her words, who would I be if I didn’t?” She spoke from her chest, never mind her whole body shaking. He nodded, crouching down to place a pulley before her. It was loaded full with sacks, crates and loosely tied down produce.

“Here you go,” he said, pushing it towards her.

“What. Why?” She asked.

“I don’t want to be taken for a fool, I’d rather make a deal outright,”

“…What deal?” She asked,

“Come inside,”

[mirrow-hamato]

Oh guys sheeeshh I'm going to have Brozone!Fell AU (aka underfell if you know what i mean). In this au they living together in bunker. A hard core au, where trolls barely escaped from Bergens. Most of them just died.

Some random headcanons of those badasses:

John Dory:

Definitely smoking and a lot. Drinking energetics. Being selfish, but have no self-care. He's ready to yell at everyone when something goes not the way he wants to. Swears. But actually really trying resist swearing in front of Floyd (look at Floyd headcanons) or Bitty B. He usually trying to command Spruce and Clay as two second oldest brothers. He definitely has resistance against Clays pranks. He likes annoying him with surprising hugs or turning Clays prank against himself.

Spruce/Bruce:

Mostly care about how he looks like. He have a lot of experience of talking to ladies, he's a heartbreaker. He really hates when John starts telling him what to do, especially if he having conversation with his ladies. John was so annoying towards him that he starts hate most of food. (Especially salads.) Sometimes it could coming that he didn't eat anything for whole day. But he doesn't starve himself, he eats anything and everything he wants to (as long as John doesn't sees). Will not let John take care of Bitty B.

Clay:

This middle child jerk will make your life a living hell. He will find any ways of annoy you with his evil pranks. He even likes doing pranks when he sees that you have a bad day.

As it probably was expected, he's actually the most traumatised one. He often has bruises on his body cuz of troubles he getting into. (Spruce actually making sure this jerk won't get into another trouble, but usually fails. So he helps him with his wounds and bruises) He terrible hates John and will take any opportunity to tell him that in face or prank him as hard as he can. Terrible hates when John hugs him it's pisses him off.

When he's finally alone in his room, he takes a chance to read some books, the only thing that always makes him relaxed and kind of happy. (Sometimes it's Floyd and Branch.)

Floyd:

He's a very rude but emotionless guy. He just doesn't care about anything that is happening around him. And never cared until he hold Branch in his arms for first time. His little brother was the only thing that melted his heart and he changed just a bit.

Now he's just a rude guy who have no clue how to show support or that he's worried. He would just yell at you aggressively. Or for example he would punch John in stomach as soon as he sees him smoking or hearing his swearing.

He terribly hates knowing that Spruce haven't eaten in full day and he would just yell at him for it too. He and Spruce are only brothers tht actually cooking something that is not just "eatable" but tasty. They do cooking together, but always argue, so it's happening very rarely.

Surprisingly respects some of Clays motives. He still hates his pranks, amd find him annoying time to time. But Floyd is the one who can talk to Clay seriously about just random stuff. In very rare times, they going on library together to get some new books to read.

Floyd is usually playing a guitar in his room and came up with random songs. It's sounds more rock way, but it's still have some pop in it. In other spare time he's journalling or taking care of his only truly beloved little brother.

Bitty B/Branch( to 6 years old)

As a small little child each of brothers started loving him a lot. He was different, kind, loving and always happy.

His favourite brother? Floyd of course. But he wouldn't tell you that, to not hurt any other brothers feeling.

When he grows up to 6 y.o. he finally started spending more time with his brothers and understands what's going on around.

With John they are rock climbing. He likes his little pet Rhonda and plays with her very often. (John Dory actually trying to hide that he smoking in front of Branch.)

With Spruce they learning cooking. Sometimes Branch is just here to support his brother while he's training. They both secretly eating stuff they shouldn't while John doesn't looking. Spruce like taking him on his dates, cuz ladies really like little pure child. But he doesn't do that much often, in case those girls learn him something bad.

Branch and Clay together are kings of pranks. Clay is being extra careful when they pranking together, so Branch would not get in any troubles. He's the one who secretly reads him fairytales. If Clay making any pranks on Branch, those are absolutely harmless and actually just silly and funny.

Floyd sends much of time with Branch. They dancing, singing and just walking together. He singing him a lullabies and helps him learning about the world they living in. He keeps ALL the drawings Branch ever made for him.