#return to primevals eye | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

obitohno · 1 year

Text

fantasising about werewolf! bakugo, who—unbeknownst to you—has spent majority of your friendship secretly grooming you into accepting your fated role as his bondmate.

fem! reader, 18+, werewolf! bakugo, human! reader, friends to lovers, bondmates, hidden feelings, pining, mutual pining, possessiveness, making out, masturbation, dry humping, dubcon

1.8k

reblogs are appreciated ~

it starts with a touch.

it’s a gentle brush of his fingers to your elbow, one day, grip tightening around the bend of your joint as he steadies your balance. clumsily, you’d somehow managed to trip over your own feet, stumbling into the open threshold of his apartment, your forehead dangerously close to colliding with the warmth of his chest. admittedly, you are a tad dismayed when he’s able to save you the shame of face-planting the very comfortable-looking space between his pecs, the broad muscles hidden beneath the stretch of fabric that you recognise to be his favourite band t-shirt. you choose to pointedly ignore the bout of disappointment that settles at the back of your throat when he straightens you upright, grunting something indecipherable under the heat of his breath as he kicks the door shut behind you. you follow him into the comfort of his apartment, but whilst you’re free to ogle at the shape of his back as he leads you into the living room, you’re blind to the way that he forcibly hides the smug curl of the corners of his mouth with a twitch of his lips.

over time, his touches become more frequent.

again, you’re oblivious to the way that there’s a deliberate brush of his fingers whenever he’s passing you the remote, eyes already gluing themselves to the television, missing the brief flash of irritation that gleams the colour of his own crimson. there’s a press of his shoulder when the two of you are invited over to a movie night at kirishima’s, a group of five crammed onto a second-hand settee that was made for two. he’s purposeful in the way that the warmth of him is almost fire-like when his skin touches yours, but again, he’s humbled, for you bare no visible signs of reacting, too busy giggling along to something stupidly un-funny that shitty hair has spouted. the redhead can’t fathom as to why bakugo spends majority of the evening glaring scornfully at the side of his face when he should be focusing on the movie instead.

but, eventually, there comes a time when you start to lean into the palm of his hand when he’s grabbing at your bicep to tug you inside whenever you appear at his doorstep, and it leaves him feeling smug when you coo about how warm he is. he’s surprised, yet satisfied when you even go as far as to slug your feet onto his lap when the two of you collapse onto the settee after sharing a meal one evening, expelling a happy hum from the back of your throat when the pad of his thumb kneads at your heel.

after this, tactfully, he switches to scent.

it isn’t obvious, he doesn’t think, the way that he greedily inhales when you greet him at the door when he stops by after a late-night patrol. except, maybe it is, because he swears that it’s taking you a tad longer than usual to lock the door shut behind him. your scent sits on the tip of his tongue as he stands in the middle of your living room, watching as you disappear into the kitchen to flick the kettle on. momentarily alone, that wild part of him is frantic, forcing his nostrils to flare, a low groan bubbling in the pit of his stomach as his ribs expand to accommodate the stretch of his lungs as he eagerly breathes you in. it’s overwhelming, the sweetness of your scent that clings to all four corners of the room, and bakugo can do nothing as it entices a longing that coils deep in his stomach when you return from the kitchen—two steaming mugs of hot chocolate in hand—his eyes snapping towards the column of your throat.

there, bakugo just knows that you smell the sweetest, the gleam of his stare narrowing in on the very space where he, primeval beast that he is, aches to embed his canines into. his gums itch, threatening to do just that, and he forces himself to swallow down the urge around a scalding mouthful of hot chocolate.

it’s just after this when he starts to realise that although your scent is very much you, it is his own that he often catches latching into the strands of your hair, or seeping into the threads of your clothes. you don’t notice, of course, the way it drives him feral when you steal a well-worn hoodie of his, the fabric draping over your shoulders as it’s too large for your frame. he insists that you keep the hoodie for yourself, mumbling an excuse about how he no longer wears it (he’s lying—the fabric is saturated in his scent), a gluttonous instinct of his now placated when you agree easily—happily, he thinks— slipping the fabric over your head. you’re enshrouded by a bubble that tastes of his musk, and the fire that singes the blood in his veins is one that he can’t get rid of, even when he desperately fucks his cock into the palm of his fist later that night.

eventually, torment has him resorting to sound.

the beat of your pulse is one that bakugo has long memorised, ingrained into the very makings of his own dna. it’s usually a throb that dulls in the background, his instincts latching onto the sound even if he’s busy acting as if he can’t hear each steady inhale that is drawn between the very lips that he struggles to refrain from gawking at each day. it’s a task, one that takes months to perfect, especially when he has to learn that not every spike of your pulse is a cause for alarm.

but, somehow, the gentle thud, thud, thud that he becomes accustomed to has morphed. he’s not entirely sure when it happens, but almost a year has passed since the two of you became friends, and one day, he notices. you’ve invaded the private space of his home once again, only, this time, you’re lazily sprawled across his bed, tittering away to yourself when you make a joke about how his hero name should’ve been ‘boomshakala’. he’s swearing at you, shoving the flat of his foot against your hip, and although there’s no malice in his actions—his grin is far too wide for someone who does a very good job at being angry all of the time—there’s a tiny noise choked out from the back of your throat.

t-thump-thump-th-thump.

there, he thinks, is the spike of your pulse, again. it’s fluttering, uneven as you peer at him, mouth frozen on the shape of an exclaim that isn’t voiced. you’re staring at him, wide eyed—mortified—because did you just moan?

he’s still, watching you, the glower of crimson tainted by a molten heat that bleeds into his irises, and you find that you can’t look away. he looks hungry—starved—and you dare to think that maybe there’s a small chance that he—

he’s on to you.

literally.

you aren’t able to finish that final thought, because now he’s shoving, pressing you to the mattress, looming over you as he pins you still with the weight of his hips, grinning a smile that is all teeth and little else. you’re gawking up at him, a little wide eyed, dazed as your lips part, wetted by a flick of your tongue. unabashed, bakugo has decided that he cares very little for being inconspicuous, and now, he blatantly stares at the way you lick your lips, his own tongue wiggling from out of his mouth to mirror your actions.

and holy fuck, does he have fangs?!

you suppose that you ought to be terrified—because you’re definitely confused—and yet, suddenly, bakugo’s senses are overwhelmed by the existence of your very present arousal. the musky scent is dulled by your hesitation, your fingers, soft and pliant, wedged between the crooks of his own. but where your legs are hooked around the width of his waist, he can feel the way that your clit has begun to throb wantonly as you murmur his name so breathily that he’d’ve failed to hear the syllables—broken on the shape of another moan—if not for the fact that his sense of hearing far surpasses that of a human being. there’s a perspiration that has built on the nape of his neck, and he’s sure that you can feel the way that his cock has engorged, flooded with blood that surges south when you allow him to curl a possessive hand around the width of your pretty little neck.

‘you’re mine,’ he snaps, leaning close enough to catch the stutter of your breath on the curve of his cheek, leaning to tongue over the seam of your lips before you can reply.

bakugo was right. you do taste sweet. sweeter than he’d imagined, too. you’re gasping, the fragile skin of your throat jumping as your pulse quickens, and to his surprise, you’re keeping up with the repeated press of his lips, returning his affections with as much fervour as he’s giving. your fingers are twisting into the shock of blonde that rests atop his skull, and a stroke of his groin to yours has you choking, pulling on the strands with a sharp tug. in turn, bakugo snarls, lips tearing from the shape of yours, teeth dragging along the length of your neck. again, he was right, because here, your scent is as sweet as your taste.

‘tell me you’re mine,’ he demands, desperate as he ruts against you. he groans, the pitch low before it catches on a keen that has your toes curling within the confides of your socks. dizzied by how quickly he’s rendered you into nothing but putty, you’re unable to voice your surprise when the tips of his fangs catch on the dip of your collarbone.

things are moving quickly—too quickly, you should think—and yet you’re just as desperate as he, seeking friction as your hips roll to meet his.

‘say it,’ he’s all but begging, breath hot on your skin as it tickles its way down the shell of your ear. pinned beneath him, you shiver, and he huffs, seemingly upset by your silence. ‘say it—say you’re mine.’

his teeth actually nip at the jut of your jaw, and you cry out, mildly incredulous and incredibly turned on.

‘y-yours,’ you relent, gasping, moaning sweetly into the meat of his shoulder. ‘all yours.’ sated by your promise, he listens to the rapid thump of your pulse, the sound almost deafening at it strums at your clit, increasing in tempo when the hard lines of his cock nudges once, twice, thrice, accompanied by the scratch of his canines at the crook of which your neck meets your shoulder.

there, he decides, is where you’ll wear his mark.

pride has his blood stirring, his nostrils flaring as he devours the scent of you—whom he can now finally claim as his own. his lips curl around the shape of a smirk, and he sneers one word against the beat of your jugular.

mine.

you have no idea what you’ve just agreed to.

#♡ jordy is writing ♡#bnha x reader #mha x reader #bnha smut #mha smut #werewolf! bakugo #bakugo x reader #bakugo x you #bakugo smut #bakugou x reader #bakugou x you #bakugou smut #bakugo fluff

4K notes · View notes

thefirstknife · 10 months

Note

rip gambit you will be missed 😔

Don't even know what to say tbh.

For those that don't know, the big State of the Game article came out detailing incoming changes and adjustments and all the big stuff. Gambit was mentioned! But at what cost. Basically, they are ceasing any kind of support for Gambit. What we have now is what it is. We will get the Dreaming City map back in TFS and they will add Shadow Legion and Lucent Hive as enemy factions in TFS. That's all.

Full text:

As many of you have noticed, we’ve been quiet on Gambit since last year’s overhaul that launched alongside The Witch Queen. In that revamp, the team made significant changes across five categories in Gambit: core activity fundamentals, Primeval tuning, invasions, ammo economy, and rewards. Unfortunately, these updates didn’t move the needle for player engagement. Although we know our Gambit fans mostly care about new or returning maps, this is an area of the game with lower engagement that would take resources away from more popular parts of the game to shore up. While we don’t have plans to dedicate more resources to significantly transform Gambit, we do have a few updates planned for the year of The Final Shape. These include porting the Cathedral of Scars map and its beautiful Dreaming City setting into the latest version of Destiny 2, as well as adding the Shadow Legion and Lucent Hive enemy types.

I don't know how to tell you this Bungie, but the reason "engagement is low" in Gambit is because Gambit sucks. Ever since half of it was removed with DCV, it just sucked. It has no variety, the gameplay is largely busted, it's not sufficiently updated, ammo changes suck, invasion cycle sucks (why is the enemy even getting a portal when their Primeval is at 5% health and the other team is still in mote collecting phase is beyond me), there are no cool armour sets to chase (just look at Iron Banner and Trials stuff, imagine dedicated cosmetics) and finally there are simply no weapons that are worth anything. Both Vanguard and Crucible have more weapons and also adept versions. There is zero reason to go into Gambit without major changes to Gambit. And now with the further changes to how playlists and challenges will work, there will be even less reason to go into Gambit. Observe:

Before then, we’re making Gambit entirely optional to maximize your rewards unless you’re looking for a piece of gear that’s specific to the mode. Gambit will continue to serve as a source of Exotic engrams via weekly challenges, though as we mentioned above, you’ll be able to complete all your weekly challenges in any ritual you’d like starting in Season 22. If you want to stick to Vanguard or Crucible challenges without touching Gambit, now you can. We’re also reducing the number of Gambit-specific Seasonal Challenges starting in Season 22, so players won’t need to bank motes to be able to earn that big purse of Bright Dust for completing nearly every challenge in the Season. Finally, we’re adding Fireteam Matchmaking to Gambit next Season, which will replace the Freelance node and should result in faster, better matchmaking by combining both Gambit playlists. We’ll keep an eye on reception and player engagement after these additions take place, and we hope you’ll visit ‘ol Drifter next Season to get your hands on his new Void Machine Gun.

Ngl, but I don't think anyone besides like a total of 6 people will play Gambit next season. The incentive to go in there is completely removed. You won't even have to go in there for pinnacles or for challenges. The Void Machine Gun will not be enough of an incentive because the chance of that gun being better than two recently available craftable Void Machine Guns (Commemoration and Retrofit Escapade) is very low. And besides, once you get it at the end of your first match, you can leave Gambit forever.

This is the feedback loop that just reinforces the idea that people don't like Gambit. And I mean. Who would at this point. I'm pretty sure that if Crucible had stayed the same as it was at the start of Beyond Light, engagement would be low there too. But you know. Crucible has received major updates pretty much every season since with multiple new modes, several Trials overhauls, Iron Banner overhaul, competitive overhaul, new armours and weapons added and YES, even new maps. God forbid even 5% of these resources went into Gambit.

Anyway, this is the whole section about Gambit in 6500 words. It's basically a "you guys aren't playing this so we're doing the bare minimum of keeping it in the game as is, no new work will be done on it ever." Thanks I guess.

And for the record, something I also added while having a rant in my discord, I want to make it clear that I don't want anyone to spiral into a Bungie hate train. Even for this. I understand perfectly well what's the community attitude towards Gambit and what it's been for years now. People just don't like it and they're not incentivised to like it and they're actively encouraged to hate it. Spending resources into a game mode on the hope that maybe you can change people's minds would be insanity. Like, the amount of change Gambit would need to MAYBE start appealing to gamers would be beyond any reasonable time and resources Bungie can put in. And if you could guarantee that people would love and play Gambit then, fine. But you can't. Most likely, even if major changes happened, people would still just do their weekly stuff and bail. It's simply not worth it. In order for people to like it, it needs to be completely and thoroughly overhauled in a way that would need more time and effort than the entire Light subclass overhaul and it's just not a reasonable expectation, nor is it guaranteed to work. So I get it.

I'm still disappointed and annoyed about it because I believe it wasn't given a fair chance at all. I also know how good it can be and how Gambit Prime could've been improved upon over the years if they tried. Instead, it got removed and that was honestly the death sentence for Gambit. It's unfortunate. It's my favourite game mode that could've been so much better was it given even a fraction of attention of Crucible.

I'll still be playing it. You will find me in the Gambit queue waiting for 2 hours to find 7 other lunatics to play with, don't worry about it. But I'm absolutely incredibly sad about them being basically forced to axe the potential of the whole game mode that is incredibly creative and fits with the type of game Destiny is perfectly.

There's other interesting stuff in the article and some upcoming really cool improvements and changes to the game. But if you're a fan of Gambit in any capacity, this is a death certificate for the mode. I suggest coming to terms with it quickly because Bungie changing their minds about this is highly unlikely.

#destiny 2 #gambit #ask #long post #says 'don't know what to say' at the start. writes an essay. FHKSJHFKJS #i won't go too much into it outside of this. we all know what this means no need to beat the dead horse #i'll still play it and the mode is still there but i expect a drop in quality and population significantly #the issues we have will never be addressed nothing will ever be fixed. we'll get a 5th map (returning) in 6 months and that's it #yay. I guess.#don't think there will be anyone in the playlist anymore by that point so I'm not sure why even bother with that alone #but still. if that does happen at least new people will be able to see that map now. it was very pretty #unfortunately not good gameplay wise. but at least it will help to not get deep six 17 times in a row #anyway. sad situation for gambit enjoyers. please don't turn into crucible bros to harass devs though

162 notes · View notes

ascendingaeons · 22 days

Text

Relationships With The Netjeru: Set

Of all the Netjeru I work with, Set (Seth, Sutekh) has been with me the longest. He came into my life when I was seven years old and was my constant companion growing up. I was in the second grade during our first trip to the school library. Almost immediately, I found a picture book depicting the Kemetic Mystery Play, the story of the primeval pharaoh Asar’s (Osiris) betrayal at the hand of His evil, jealous brother Set. Asar’s queen, the beautiful and wise Aset (Isis), traveled long and far with Her devoted sister, Nebt-Het (Nephthys) to restore Her husband to life. Sadly, because a “piece” of Him was lost, Asar was unable to fully return so He descended to the Duat to reign over the souls of the dead. With that “piece” Aset conceived and was left to raise Their son, Herupakhered (Horus the Younger). Eventually, the young Heru grows up and challenges His uncle for the right to rule. In the end, Heru is victorious and earns the kingship over the land of Kemet. I was absolutely enthralled.

Of all the Gods in that story, Set stood out to me. I noticed pretty quickly that He was different. To my young mind, Heru was probably the most similar to Set as they both had animal heads. If the story hadn’t said otherwise, They could be brothers! I was a… unique kid who struggled to fit in so I related to Set’s otherness. I could understand His anger and the distance He put between Himself and His fellow Netjeru. With Set in my life, I felt like I wasn’t alone even when it appeared that I was. I felt His presence even before I could understand what that meant.

Controversial as this may be, I believe nothing would get done without Set. He represents the force of opposition, without which there could be no momentum or growth. Without expulsion forces, planets would leave their orbits and galaxies would rip themselves apart. Without friction, we could not walk. Without challenges, we would not improve. Without bad conduct, we would not know how to act. Set is the primeval Other that churns the waters of creation. Even in the Mystery Play, Asar would not become the ruler of the Duat without Set being there to kill Him. Set along with His brother Heru-Wer (Horus the Elder) were the Egyptian kingmakers since the predynastic era.

Long before the fertility cult of Asar gained prominence Kemet was divided into tribal territories possessing different patron deities with Set belonging to an archaic stellar cult and Heru-Wer belonging to a proto-solar cult. Eventually, these two cult centers and their mythos merged, originating in the concept of the Two Lands and creating the earliest narrative of the Contendings of Heru and Set or the Tale of Two Brothers. Set and Heru-Wer embodied the complementary forces of the cosmos that, through their interactions, are responsible for what we consider the creative principle. An important thing to note is that through all Kemetic mythos, Set and Heru fight and sustain injury but neither can destroy the other.

Set has a very aristocratic, noble personality that does not bow or bend to adversity. Once a benevolent storm God, psychopomp, and ruler of the honored dead, Set’s role was recast from the Second Dynasty onwards. He became reviled by those outside of the priesthood for millennia, representing isfet, destruction, and conquering foreigners—an irony I believe He revels in. Set knows His worth and recognizes those who recognize Him. Despite His treacherous role in the Asarian myth, every night Set defended the solar barque from the onslaught of Apep, a task otherwise reserved for the Eye of Ra. Set was so trusted by Ra that He was given the task of defending the light of creation in its most vulnerable moment.

Set was directly responsible for a lot of growth in my life. As a child, Set opened my mind to the vastness of the cosmos, showing me that there is so much more to… everything. He began to impart an understanding of All That Is and I began to question the apparent order of the world. As a teenager, He started to guide my Initiation, acting as an agent of Khepera through my expanding consciousness, and so I began to write. As an adult, He began the tedious, painful process of removing from my life and my being all that does not serve me, and so guided me through my first dark night of the soul. Without Him there to challenge me I don’t know where or who I would be. Set is the dad who tells you to get back up when you fall off your bike and takes you out for ice cream when you get it right.

Humor is one of the ways I commune with Set. He loves bad jokes, dirty jokes, and particularly irony. In all likelihood, Set invented the dad joke. It’s no surprise one of His sacred animals is the hyena. Laughter is a universal language that every conscious being can understand. It has been shown to promote physical healing in otherwise irrecoverable patients and I’ve known people with debilitating chronic depression whose road to recovery began with laughing until they cried. Humor is a way to take ourselves less seriously and release from material attachment. It moves mountains by illuminating what is hidden in darkness. All at once, Set’s Gift releases us from what doesn’t matter and shows us what does.

Even though His domains are unpleasant, Set is kind to a fault. It is actually because of His raw, destructive capability that Set is kind. Among the vices Set detests are self-pity, hypocrisy, and victimization whereas He respects those who take responsibility, speak the truth, and do their best. One of Set’s epithets is “Great of Strength.” He knows exactly what you are capable of and expects nothing less than that. He also validates emotions such as defeat, depression, grief, and anxiety. Were Set truly unkind and incapable of recognizing inner truth, He would be utterly incapable of guiding someone through a dark night of the soul.

He is also notoriously confident and proud. Although it might be difficult to discern there is a difference between arrogance and confidence. I think arrogance is like a snow globe and confidence is like a diamond—one is carefully crafted to be alluring but is ultimately hollow while the other is forged into something relentless by pressure, heat, and time. Working with Set is like becoming a diamond and reaping the rewards of your endurance. His confidence and bravado are reassuring and they often come out during His praise. He’s the dad who sits tall with a cheeky grin pointing out His kid who scored the winning touchdown.

Of all the things that I revere about Set one stands apart from the rest. Among Kemetics, Set is widely considered to be a “Gay God.” Until recent years, being LGBTQIA+ was widely considered to be unnatural, immoral, and in many instances criminal. I grew up living in South Texas surrounded by angry bigots, probably one of the worst places to be for someone queer. When I realized I was bisexual I decided that for better or worse I would never live in the closet. That was simultaneously the best and worst thing I could have done but it was also the most Setian thing I could have done. That decision made me who I am today and I made the conscious choice to never look away. I’d like to point out that all of the Netjeru detest acts of bigotry as it is antithetical to ma’at but Set in particular stands as a symbol of strength, courage, and resistance among the LGBTQIA+ community.

Set is my father, teacher, healer, and friend. I don’t see as much of Him now but He is around. I’ve gotten to a point where I don’t quite need Him as much but He still makes Himself known. The occasional life lesson sown by isfet reminds me that His lessons never end. He sometimes shows up as things go awry—always situations that He knows I can handle. Will I stress and worry or will I ride out the storm, however brief it is likely to be? One thing I’ve learned from Set is that I can choose what to worry about. If something isn’t worth my energy, I owe it only one thing—if even that—and that is to walk away.

Set represents the aspect of chaos that is beneficial in that it, by becoming aware of itself, undergoes self-transformation. His is the power of Ouroboros, the cosmic serpent that devours itself to so engender the greater alchemical process of eternal return. In slaying Apep, Set is proving that His Will and Nature transcend that of mindless chaos. In this way, Set has both an aristocratic air and that of a seasoned warrior. He is a trickster, a fighter, and a lover of red meat, spicy food, hard liquor, terrible jokes, and all things over-the-top. He is a Master of what we call magick and His is the process of Initiation. Set is all of these things. He is the Netjer of many hats.

Dua Set!

Recommended Books:

Seth: God of Confusion by Herman Te Velde

Images of Set by Joan Lansberry

Tankhem and Bull of Ombos by Mogg Morgan

Set by Judith Page and Don Webb

The Setian by Billie Walker John and Melusine Draco

The Sky Religion in Egypt by G.A. Wainwright

A Silver Sun and Inky Clouds by Bibliotheca Alexandrina

25 notes · View notes

the-ninjago-historian · 1 month

Text

Quick Into The Deep Q and A!

I got a few questions here to answer about Into The Deep! Thanks to @dexter-the-dog for sending these in! And if anyone reading this has any other questions about this fanseason, feel free to send them! I love to hear them! Now, let's get started!

(Question 1: What is the Insectoid Army?)

Great question! I actually made a post on them not to long ago. But some of that information is outdated now. So I'll make this the new reference for them!

The Insectoids are a swarm of bug like warriors that hail from the deepest reaches of Primeval's Eye! Their society is formed similar to ants and bees. There are different classes such as soldiers and workers. Soldiers tend to be more heavily armored, and also have different sub classes, depending on what type of armor or defense adaptions the soldier has. Insectoids are based of many insects. Like praying mantises, rhino beetles, and dragonflies! The Insectoids are ruled by a single queen and they all live together in a hive.

Thousands of years ago, the Insectoids were attacking villages and stealing their crops. Wu and Garmadon were called in to help stop them. Somehow, the brothers managed to trap them in The Amber Tree! (This tree is talked about a bit in the official Ninjago short story Amber Spiral.) The Insectoids became frozen in the tree's sap for thousands of years. They are later awakened by Vangelis. They help aid him in his plot to overthrow Shintaro and become King again. Some notable Insectoid characters you can look forward to are listed here;

Queen Ocellex: The leader of the Insectoids and a blood thirsty conqueror. She is the largest Insectoid and most powerful. Her head sports a large pair of horns, and she has praying mantis like front limbs. While she is bloodthirsty, she cares deeply for her hive. Vangelis promises her territory for her people to take control of, in return for her helping him take over Shintaro.

General Torrlax: Ocellex's highest commanding officer. He is distinguishable from the other Soldier Insectoids by a large scar over the right side of his face, along with a blind eye. He takes his job very seriously, and won't let anything stop him from completing his goals. He will use any means necessary to achieve them. He's very close with his younger brother Mandorax, one of the few people he's actually soft and caring towards.

Mandorax: Torrlax's younger brother and his right hand man. He's much shorter and stockier than Torrlax, and he has huge mandibles. Hence his name. (A mixed up version of the word mandible.) Mandorax is heavily armored and can roll into a ball to crush enemies like a pill bug. He's also not very bright, but Torrlax is convinced he's a military genius! Most of his shows of this intelligence are however, just very perfectly timed coincidences. But it's enough to convince Torrlax! Another interesting trait Mandorax has is that he's uncharacteristically gentle for an Insectoid.

(Question 2: What is Cole's Grandpa's role in this story?)

Cole's Grandpa takes on a few roles! He's a teacher, warrior, and guide through Deep Lands for the team! He also serves as a connection to Lilly for Cole. The two bond over missing her, and learn things about each other and the Earth Tribe through it! Although, Cole's Grandpa hasn't quite delt with his grief of losing Lilly in as healthy a way as Cole. This eventually leads to some brief conflict. (Family angst, my beloved.🤣) He's also the very last chief of the Earth Tribe! So he has that role as well!

(Question 3: Where is the Jaya wedding going to be held?)

This question made me think actually! Initially, I was going to have the whole thing held at the Monastery. I felt like the place was special to everyone and it was the place he proposed. So it seems to fit!

But I think the reception party is going to be held at a new location never seen in the show! A really beautiful beach side event hall and ballroom in Ninjago City! I already know how it will look, but I have yet to name the place. Ideas are welcome!

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

And that's it! Hope you all had fun reading! Bye for now!

(Tag List: @shatteredhope123 @nocturnal-nexu @dexter-the-dog @aroninshonour @piereoglyphics @looonytooons 😁👋)

Want to be added to the tag list? Just ask! That way you can stay updated on Ninjago: Into The Deep all the time!

23 notes · View notes

ilikeyoualive · 2 months

Text

A snippet for the next fic in our Primeval series, keep in mind that snippets could be is subject to change, so what you're reading now may be different in the final product. If any of you are interested in exploring this AU further, check out my Main Masterlist!

Warnings: Missions Gone Wrong, Canon-Typical Violence

Word Count: 529

Soap jerked awake with a strangled shout, sluggishly lurching upright as his wild eyes raked over the familiar layout of his personal sleeping quarters, his frantic search for a nonexistent threat coming to an abrupt halt when his brain finally kicked out of survival mode. Even so, residual adrenaline hummed through his veins as he bonelessly fell back onto the mattress, rubbing his hands over his weary face with a deep sigh, desperately trying to shake off the vestiges of the dream that had cruelly torn him from sleep.

Every time he closed his eyes he heard the low hiss of a large predator echo in his ears, the sound sending a bolt of ice down his spine, his hands holding a minute tremble as he resisted the urge to reach for the green and black throwing knife that he stashed under his pillow at night. He could still feel the warm water slogging down his legs, trapping him in place as those red-brown eyes peeked out at him from water so black it reflected like the surface of a mirror, the creature’s gaze boring into him with an intensity that made his hind brain scream ‘run’ in a desperate mantra.

He pressed the heel of his palms into his eye sockets until he could see spots dance across the backs of his closed eyelids, goosebumps erupting across his body as he tried in vain to ignore the fact that the flat stare of the animal felt akin to the cold touch of death lingering on his clammy skin. His hands trembled as he held the pressure for a few seconds before letting up with a shaky exhale, his palms reluctantly lifting away from his eyes so he could aim his frustrated stare at the ceiling.

Inevitably, Soap gave up on staying in bed since he wouldn’t be able to find sleep with the ominous dream still stubbornly lurking at the edge of his awareness. So he begrudgingly sat up, carelessly throwing his covers back and swinging his legs off the edge of the bed, shivering as the cool air of the room eagerly bled the warmth from his skin. He was in nothing but a simple pair of black boxer briefs since he ran hot, though he really only wore them for the sake of modesty because people –namely his Lieutenant– have barged into his room on more than one occasion.

Soap pushed out of bed with a grunt of effort, the sensitive scar tissue on his lower back pulling uncomfortably with the motion, and he paused in order to allow the sharp twinge to ease into something a little more manageable. It had been approximately six days since he’d found Price rummaging around in the fridge in the common room as a six-hundred pound grizzly bear in the middle of the night and fourteen days since he’d been impaled by a wayward piece of shrapnel so, while he had already been cleared for active duty and was thankfully able to get away from his desk –and the endless paperwork– in order return to his usual schedule, the scar was still a little tender if he moved wrong.

#cod shifter au #shifter tf 141 #crocodile shifter ghost #human soap #simon riley #john mactavish #ghost #soap cod #soap call of duty #ghost x soap #ghostsoap #cod mw2 #modern warfare ii #call of duty mwii

24 notes · View notes

adventure-showdown · 6 months

Text

What is your favourite Doctor Who story?

The Enemy of the World and The Time Monster tied. These are the 12 stories that were closest to making it through and so have been given a second chance

ROUND 4 MASTERPOST

synopses and propaganda under the cut

The Edge of Destruction

Synopsis

As they slowly recover from the shock of being thrown to the TARDIS floor, the Doctor, Susan, Ian and Barbara all start acting strangely. Unexplained events occur and the travellers start to turn on each other as they contemplate what is happening on the TARDIS.

Propaganda no propaganda submitted

The Dalek Invasion of Earth

Synopsis

The TARDIS returns to London; however, it's the 22nd century. With bodies in the river, and quiet in the Docklands, the city is a very different place. The Daleks have invaded and it's up to the Doctor to thwart them once again.

Propaganda no propaganda submitted

The Enemy of the World

Synopsis

On Earth in 2018, the Doctor and his companions are enmeshed in a deadly web of intrigue thanks to his uncanny resemblance to the scientist/politician Salamander. He is hailed as the "shopkeeper of the world" for his efforts to relieve global famine, but why do his rivals keep disappearing? How can he predict so many natural disasters? The Doctor must expose Salamander's schemes before he takes over the world.

Propaganda no propaganda submitted

Spearhead from Space

Synopsis

Forbidden to continue travelling the universe by his own people, the Time Lords, and exiled to Earth in the late 20th century, the newly regenerated Doctor arrives in Oxley Woods accompanied by a shower of mysterious meteorites. Investigating the occurrence is the United Nations Intelligence Taskforce (UNIT for short), an organisation which had previously been associated with the Doctor during the Cybermen's invasion.

Propaganda no propaganda submitted

Inferno

Synopsis

UNIT is providing security cover at an experimental drilling project at Eastchester, designed to penetrate the Earth's crust and release a previously untapped source of energy. Soon, however, the drill head starts to leak an oily green liquid that transforms those who touch it into vicious primeval creatures with a craving for heat.

The Doctor is accidentally transported ""sideways in time"" by the partially repaired TARDIS control console into a parallel universe where the drilling project is at a more advanced stage. Thwarted by his friends' ruthless alter egos, he works to save both universes.

Propaganda

Not only does this story have the BEST companion and beautiful stylish (kind of canonically) lesbian scientist Dr Liz Shaw, but the story is brilliant. A murder investigation. An alternate universe where Britain is a fascist republic. Camp, evil, moustacheless and eye-patched Brigade Leader Lethbridge-Stewart. Mysterious green ooze from the earth's core that turns people into blue werewolves called Primords. We're treated to AU Benton turning into a Primord. The slowly building pressure and stress across the seven episodes, until the penultimate one where the alarm is constantly blaring, and the few remaining survivors have to not only escape the threat of the Primords but also escape the explosion that is imminent. The fact that the whole thing is basically hopeless, they're all going to die and there's no way to stop it because nobody listened to the Doctor. Like, everyone in the alternate universe just straight up dies. Also Fascist Liz's bowl cut. (anonymous)

Terror of the Autons

Synopsis

The Earth is endangered by a renegade Time Lord known as the Master, who steals a dormant Nestene energy unit from a museum. He reactivates it using the facilities of a radio telescope, then uses his hypnotic abilities to take control of a small plastics manufacturer, Farrel Autoplastics, where he organises the production of deadly Auton artefacts, including plastic dolls, chairs and daffodils.

Propaganda

the worlds ugliest doll, a blow up chair eats a man, 10/10, would watch again (anonymous)

The Time Monster

Synopsis

The Master, in the guise of Professor Thascalos, has constructed at the Newton Institute in Wootton a device known as TOMTIT — Transmission Of Matter Through Interstitial Time — to gain control over Kronos, a creature from outside time. The creature is summoned but proves to be uncontrollable.

Propaganda no propaganda submitted

The Face of Evil

Synopsis

The Doctor arrives on a planet where two tribes, the savage Sevateem and the technically brilliant Tesh, are at war. He meets Leela, an exile from the Sevateem, and discovers that their god of evil is apparently himself.

Propaganda no propaganda submitted

Earthshock

Synopsis

A conference to unite military powers against the Cybermen is taking place and the Cybermen plot to destroy the Earth by crashing a space freighter into it. The Doctor must stop them, whatever the cost...

Propaganda no propaganda submitted

Enlightenment

Synopsis

Materialising on an Edwardian sailing yacht in space, the Fifth Doctor and his companions Tegan and Turlough find themselves caught up in a mysterious and deadly race. The prize is Enlightenment - the wisdom to find your heart's desire - and it quickly becomes clear that one of the crews will let nothing and no-one stop them claiming victory.

As the Black Guardian pressures Turlough to complete his side of their murderous pact, it seems that the Doctor may not survive to cross the finish line...

Propaganda no propaganda submitted

Battlefield

Synopsis

The TARDIS materialises in the English countryside near the village of Carbury, where a nuclear missile convoy under the command of UNIT Brigadier Winifred Bambera has run into difficulties. Lying on the bed of nearby Lake Vortigern is a spaceship from another dimension containing the body of King Arthur, supposedly held in suspended animation, and his sword Excalibur.

Propaganda no propaganda submitted

Ghost Light

Synopsis

The Doctor brings Ace to Gabriel Chase, an old house that she once burnt down in her hometown of Perivale. However, trying to get Ace to accept her guilt is not the real reason the Doctor came here; a mysterious and highly mentally unstable being slays below them.

Propaganda no propaganda submitted

#round 4 #tiebreak #i don't know what im going to do #most of these are amazing

49 notes · View notes

dailyanarchistposts · 12 days

Text

Introduction. The hypothesis of a God

II.

It seems, then, that all is ended; it seems that, with the cessation of the worship and mystification of humanity by itself, the theological problem is for ever put aside. The gods have gone: there is nothing left for man but to grow weary and die in his egoism. What frightful solitude extends around me, and forces its way to the bottom of my soul! My exaltation resembles annihilation; and, since I made myself a God, I seem but a shadow. It is possible that I am still a me, but it is very difficult to regard myself as the absolute; and, if I am not the absolute, I am only half of an idea.

Some ironical thinker, I know not who, has said: “A little philosophy leads away from religion, and much philosophy leads back to it.” This proposition is humiliatingly true.

Every science develops in three successive periods, which may be called — comparing them with the grand periods of civilization — the religious period, the sophistical period, the scientific period. [3] Thus, alchemy represents the religious period of the science afterwards called chemistry, whose definitive plan is not yet discovered; likewise astrology was the religious period of another science, since established, — astronomy.

Now, after being laughed at for sixty years about the philosopher’s stone, chemists, governed by experience, no longer dare to deny the transmutability of bodies; while astronomers are led by the structure of the world to suspect also an organism of the world; that is, something precisely like astrology. Are we not justified in saying, in imitation of the philosopher just quoted, that, if a little chemistry leads away from the philosopher’s stone, much chemistry leads back to it; and similarly, that, if a little astronomy makes us laugh at astrologers, much astronomy will make us believe in them? [4]

I certainly have less inclination to the marvellous than many atheists, but I cannot help thinking that the stories of miracles, prophecies, charms, etc., are but distorted accounts of the extraordinary effects produced by certain latent forces, or, as was formerly said, by occult powers. Our science is still so brutal and unfair; our professors exhibit so much impertinence with so little knowledge; they deny so impudently facts which embarrass them, in order to protect the opinions which they champion, — that I distrust strong minds equally with superstitious ones. Yes, I am convinced of it; our gross rationalism is the inauguration of a period which, thanks to science, will become truly prodigious; the universe, to my eyes, is only a laboratory of magic, from which anything may be expected.... This said, I return to my subject.

They would be deceived, then, who should imagine, after my rapid survey of religious progress, that metaphysics has uttered its last word upon the double enigma expressed in these four words, — the existence of God, the immortality of the soul. Here, as elsewhere, the most advanced and best established conclusions, those which seem to have settled for ever the theological question, lead us back to primeval mysticism, and involve the new data of an inevitable philosophy. The criticism of religious opinions makes us smile today both at ourselves and at religions; and yet the resume of this criticism is but a reproduction of the problem. The human race, at the present moment, is on the eve of recognizing and affirming something equivalent to the old notion of Divinity; and this, not by a spontaneous movement as before, but through reflection and by means of irresistible logic. I will try, in a few words, to make myself understood.

If there is a point on which philosophers, in spite of themselves, have finally succeeded in agreeing, it is without doubt the distinction between intelligence and necessity, the subject of thought and its object, the me and the not-me; in ordinary terms, spirit and matter. I know well that all these terms express nothing that is real and true; that each of them designates only a section of the absolute, which alone is true and real; and that, taken separately, they involve, all alike, a contradiction. But it is no less certain also that the absolute is completely inaccessible to us; that we know it only by its opposite extremes, which alone fall within the limits of our experience; and that, if unity only can win our faith, duality is the first condition of science.

Thus, who thinks, and what is thought? What is a soul? what is a body? I defy any one to escape this dualism. It is with essences as with ideas: the former are seen separated in Nature, as the latter in the understanding; and just as the ideas of God and immortality, in spite of their identity, are posited successively and contradictorily in philosophy, so, in spite of their fusion in the absolute, the me and the not-me posit themselves separately and contradictorily in Nature, and we have beings who think, at the same time with others which do not think.

Now, whoever has taken pains to reflect knows today that such a distinction, wholly realized though it be, is the most unintelligible, most contradictory, most absurd thing which reason can possibly meet. Being is no more conceivable without the properties of spirit than without the properties of matter: so that if you deny spirit, because, included in none of the categories of time, space, motion, solidity, etc., it seems deprived of all the attributes which constitute reality, I in my turn will deny matter, which, presenting nothing appreciable but its inertia, nothing intelligible but its forms, manifests itself nowhere as cause (voluntary and free), and disappears from view entirely as substance; and we arrive at pure idealism, that is, nihility. But nihility is inconsistent with the existence of living, reasoning — I know not what to call them — uniting in themselves, in a state of commenced synthesis or imminent dissolution, all the antagonistic attributes of being. We are compelled, then, to end in a dualism whose terms we know perfectly well to be false, but which, being for us the condition of the truth, forces itself irresistibly upon us; we are compelled, in short, to commence, like Descartes and the human race, with the me; that is, with spirit.

But, since religions and philosophies, dissolved by analysis, have disappeared in the theory of the absolute, we know no better than before what spirit is, and in this differ from the ancients only in the wealth of language with which we adorn the darkness that envelops us. With this exception, however; that while, to the ancients, order revealed intelligence outside of the world, to the people of today it seems to reveal it rather within the world. Now, whether we place it within or without, from the moment we affirm it on the ground of order, we must admit it wherever order is manifested, or deny it altogether. There is no more reason for attributing intelligence to the head which produced the “Iliad” than to a mass of matter which crystallizes in octahedrons; and, reciprocally, it is as absurd to refer the system of the world to physical laws, leaving out an ordaining ME, as to attribute the victory of Marengo to strategic combinations, leaving out the first consul. The only distinction that can be made is that, in the latter case, the thinking ME is located in the brain of a Bonaparte, while, in the case of the universe, the ME has no special location, but extends everywhere.

The materialists think that they have easily disposed of their opponents by saying that man, having likened the universe to his body, finishes the comparison by presuming the existence in the universe of a soul similar to that which he supposes to be the principle of his own life and thought; that thus all the arguments in support of the existence of God are reducible to an analogy all the more false because the term of comparison is itself hypothetical.

It is certainly not my intention to defend the old syllogism: Every arrangement implies an ordaining intelligence; there is wonderful order in the world; then the world is the work of an intelligence. This syllogism, discussed so widely since the days of Job and Moses, very far from being a solution, is but the statement of the problem which it assumes to solve. We know perfectly well what order is, but we are absolutely ignorant of the meaning of the words Soul, Spirit, Intelligence: how, then, can we logically reason from the presence of the one to the existence of the other? I reject, then, even when advanced by the most thoroughly informed, the pretended proof of the existence of God drawn from the presence of order in the world; I see in it at most only an equation offered to philosophy. Between the conception of order and the affirmation of spirit there is a deep gulf of metaphysics to be filled up; I am unwilling, I repeat, to take the problem for the demonstration.

But this is not the point which we are now considering. I have tried to show that the human mind was inevitably and irresistibly led to the distinction of being into me and not-me, spirit and matter, soul and body. Now, who does not see that the objection of the materialists proves the very thing it is intended to deny? Man distinguishing within himself a spiritual principle and a material principle, — what is this but Nature herself, proclaiming by turns her double essence, and bearing testimony to her own laws? And notice the inconsistency of materialism: it denies, and has to deny, that man is free; now, the less liberty man has, the more weight is to be attached to his words, and the greater their claim to be regarded as the expression of truth. When I hear this machine say to me, “I am soul and I am body,” though such a revelation astonishes and confounds me, it is invested in my eyes with an authority incomparably greater than that of the materialist who, correcting conscience and Nature, undertakes to make them say, “I am matter and only matter, and intelligence is but the material faculty of knowing.”

What would become of this assertion, if, assuming in my turn the offensive, I should demonstrate that belief in the existence of bodies, or, in other words, in the reality of a purely corporeal nature, is untenable? Matter, they say, is impenetrable. — Impenetrable by what? I ask. Itself, undoubtedly; for they would not dare to say spirit, since they would therein admit what they wish to set aside. Whereupon I raise this double question: What do you know about it, and what does it signify?

1. Impenetrability, which is pretended to be the definition of matter, is only an hypothesis of careless naturalists, a gross conclusion deduced from a superficial judgment. Experience shows that matter possesses infinite divisibility, infinite expansibility, porosity without assignable limits, and permeability by heat, electricity, and magnetism, together with a power of retaining them indefinitely; affinities, reciprocal influences, and transformations without number: qualities, all of them, hardly compatible with the assumption of an impenetrable aliquid. Elasticity, which, better than any other property of matter, could lead, through the idea of spring or resistance, to that of impenetrability, is subject to the control of a thousand circumstances, and depends entirely on molecular attraction: now, what is more irreconcilable with impenetrability than this attraction? Finally, there is a science which might be defined with exactness as the science of penetrability of matter: I mean chemistry. In fact, how does what is called chemical composition differ from penetration? [5].... In short, we know matter only through its forms; of its substance we know nothing. How, then, is it possible to affirm the reality of an invisible, impalpable, incoercible being, ever changing, ever vanishing, impenetrable to thought alone, to which it exhibits only its disguises? Materialist! I permit you to testify to the reality of your sensations; as to what occasions them, all that you can say involves this reciprocity: something (which you call matter) is the occasion of sensations which are felt by another something (which I call spirit).

2. But what, then, is the source of this supposition that matter is impenetrable, which external observation does not justify and which is not true; and what is its meaning?

Here appears the triumph of dualism. Matter is pronounced impenetrable, not, as the materialists and the vulgar fancy, by the testimony of the senses, but by the conscience. The me, an incomprehensible nature, feeling itself free, distinct, and permanent, and meeting outside of itself another nature equally incomprehensible, but also distinct and permanent in spite of its metamorphoses, declares, on the strength of the sensations and ideas which this essence suggests to it, that the not-me is extended and impenetrable. Impenetrability is a figurative term, an image by which thought, a division of the absolute, pictures to itself material reality, another division of the absolute; but this impenetrability, without which matter disappears, is, in the last analysis, only a spontaneous judgment of inward sensation, a metaphysical a priori, an unverified hypothesis of spirit.

Thus, whether philosophy, after having overthrown theological dogmatism, spiritualizes matter or materializes thought, idealizes being or realizes ideas; or whether, identifying substance and cause, it everywhere substitutes FORCE, phrases, all, which explain and signify nothing, — it always leads us back to this everlasting dualism, and, in summoning us to believe in ourselves, compels us to believe in God, if not in spirits. It is true that, making spirit a part of Nature, in distinction from the ancients, who separated it, philosophy has been led to this famous conclusion, which sums up nearly all the fruit of its researches: In man spirit knows itself, while everywhere else it seems not to know itself — “That which is awake in man, which dreams in the animal, and sleeps in the stone,” said a philosopher.

Philosophy, then, in its last hour, knows no more than at its birth: as if it had appeared in the world only to verify the words of Socrates, it says to us, wrapping itself solemnly around with its funeral pall, “I know only that I know nothing.” What do I say? Philosophy knows today that all its judgments rest on two equally false, equally impossible, and yet equally necessary and inevitable hypotheses, — matter and spirit. So that, while in former times religious intolerance and philosophic disputes, spreading darkness everywhere, excused doubt and tempted to libidinous indifference, the triumph of negation on all points no longer permits even this doubt; thought, freed from every barrier, but conquered by its own successes, is forced to affirm what seems to it clearly contradictory and absurd. The savages say that the world is a great fetich watched over by a great manitou. For thirty centuries the poets, legislators, and sages of civilization, handing down from age to age the philosophic lamp, have written nothing more sublime than this profession of faith. And here, at the end of this long conspiracy against God, which has called itself philosophy, emancipated reason concludes with savage reason, The universe is a not-me, objectified by a me.

Humanity, then, inevitably supposes the existence of God: and if, during the long period which closes with our time, it has believed in the reality of its hypothesis; if it has worshipped the inconceivable object; if, after being apprehended in this act of faith, it persists knowingly, but no longer voluntarily, in this opinion of a sovereign being which it knows to be only a personification of its own thought; if it is on the point of again beginning its magic invocations, — we must believe that so astonishing an hallucination conceals some mystery, which deserves to be fathomed.

I say hallucination and mystery, but without intending to deny thereby the superhuman content of the God-idea, and without admitting the necessity of a new symbolism, — I mean a new religion. For if it is indisputable that humanity, in affirming God, — or all that is included in the word me or spirit, — only affirms itself, it is equally undeniable that it affirms itself as something other than its own conception of itself, as all mythologies and theologies show. And since, moreover, this affirmation is incontestable, it depends, without doubt, upon hidden relations, which ought, if possible, to be determined scientifically.

In other words, atheism, sometimes called humanism, true in its critical and negative features, would be, if it stopped at man in his natural condition, if it discarded as an erroneous judgment the first affirmation of humanity, that it is the daughter, emanation, image, reflection, or voice of God, -humanism, I say, if it thus denied its past, would be but one contradiction more. We are forced, then, to undertake the criticism of humanism; that is, to ascertain whether humanity, considered as a whole and throughout all its periods of development, satisfies the Divine idea, after eliminating from the latter the exaggerated and fanciful attributes of God; whether it satisfies the perfection of being; whether it satisfies itself. We are forced, in short, to inquire whether humanity tends toward God, according to the ancient dogma, or is itself becoming God, as modern philosophers claim. Perhaps we shall find in the end that the two systems, despite their seeming opposition, are both true and essentially identical: in that case, the infallibility of human reason, in its collective manifestations as well as its studied speculations, would be decisively confirmed. — In a word, until we have verified to man the hypothesis of God, there is nothing definitive in the atheistic negation.

It is, then, a scientific, that is, an empirical demonstration of the idea of God, that we need: now, such a demonstration has never been attempted. Theology dogmatizing on the authority of its myths, philosophy speculating by the aid of categories, God has existed as a transcendental conception, incognizable by the reason, and the hypothesis always subsists.

It subsists, I say, this hypothesis, more tenacious, more pitiless than ever. We have reached one of those prophetic epochs when society, scornful of the past and doubtful of the future, now distractedly clings to the present, leaving a few solitary thinkers to establish the new faith; now cries to God from the depths of its enjoyments and asks for a sign of salvation, or seeks in the spectacle of its revolutions, as in the entrails of a victim, the secret of its destiny.

Why need I insist further? The hypothesis of God is allowable, for it forces itself upon every man in spite of himself: no one, then, can take exception to it. He who believes can do no less than grant me the supposition that God exists; he who denies is forced to grant it to me also, since he entertained it before me, every negation implying a previous affirmation; as for him who is in doubt, he needs but to reflect a moment to understand that his doubt necessarily supposes an unknown something, which, sooner or later, he will call God.

But if I possess, through the fact of my thought, the right to suppose God, I must abandon the right to affirm him. In other words, if my hypothesis is irresistible, that, for the present, is all that I can pretend. For to affirm is to determine; now, every determination, to be true, must be reached empirically. In fact, whoever says determination, says relation, conditionality, experience. Since, then, the determination of the idea of God must result from an empirical demonstration, we must abstain from everything which, in the search for this great unknown, not being established by experience, goes beyond the hypothesis, under penalty of relapsing into the contradictions of theology, and consequently arousing anew atheistic dissent.

17 notes · View notes

chasingfictions · 2 years

Text

ok something about super buffy in primeval having yellow eyes just like vampires. something about super buffy at her most complete state, her heart mind and spirit fully integrated in her body, is when she mirrors the creatures she's destined to kill. something about fool for love "how many of my kind reckon you've done?" / "not enough" / "and we just keep coming. but you can kill a hundred, a thousand, a thousand thousand and the enemies of Hell besides and all we need is for one of us...". something about "you think we're dancing?"/ "that's all we've ever done" something about buffy and vampires being locked in an endless step with each other. she is the vampire slayer. definitionally, she needs their existence for hers. if she were to kill every last vampire, she would cease to be a slayer. it's the dance.

it's restless, which comes off the heels of primeval, the dream state that primeval unlocks -- primeval holding for one second, complete wholeness, which is a state we're not meant to exist within ("we are forever"), and so to come out of that wholeness, that total union with one's family/community/no loneliness within the body, is to open yourself up to see exactly where you're fractured. you return to your body, no longer entwined, and suddenly you're aware of how your body is lonely, of where your aches are, in a way you weren't, a second ago when you were whole, and in a way that maybe you never were before. it's restless containing "we're not demons" / "is that a fact?" and it's restless' sister episode, buffy vs. dracula, containing buffy's hunger for the darkness. it's get it done confirming, that the slayer is made from demons.

it's, if we want to go there because i'm always going there, it's buffy coming back into the room with the scoobies in it, riley in tow, who she had already encountered before the spell began, but then oh boy spike is there, his presence unexpected and confusing, registered with a brief baffled eye. it's the scooby ritual space--the camera swiveling around them, enclosing a magic circle, being literally interrupted by spike barging into the room, with a demon, killing a demon. the wholeness of the spell disrupted, shattered, by the presence of the shadow. by the mirror of buffy's mission -- a vampire, the thing buffy's existence depends upon, performing the action that defines said existence, killing a demon. carrying that punctuation reminder of, in 5x01 terms, "[her] true nature. wanna taste?". reconciliation with the found family established, we now re-break the world, start over the cycle, to find a new brokenness -- the shadow, unreconciled. barely looked at. the loneliness inherent in the shadow itself (this post from @impalementation comes to mind).

we come back into the body, we arrive back at the brokeness of life after the fullness of song ("life's not a song. life isn't bliss, life is just this, it's living. you'll get along. the pain that you feel, it only can heal, by living. you have to go on living. so one of us is living"). ready to inch towards the next fullness. the next reconciliation, wholeness, completion.

which we do. which buffy does. it's buffy's full reconciliation with her shadow. the yellow light of flame reflecting in both their eyes. their hands clasped, united in total wholeness for one moment.

only for the hands to break. we return from wholeness, again, into the world, again, on to find the next brokenness. it's the repetition of cycles. it's how you finally arrive at the ending, the exaltation, the completeness, of the world, only for the cycle to restart. to become the fool again. back to zero.

all things looping back on themselves. the closed fist a kind of the ouroboros. the flames eat at the skin of the hands but the system remains closed, nothing destroyed, nothing created, but everything constantly being eaten.

in short, it's you think we're dancing? that's all we've ever done.

#THIS WAS GOING TO BE A TWO LINE TWEET AND THEN I GOT OVERWHELMED #this got way more pretentious than i meant for it too but i'd just like everyone to know that im NOT sorry and i hope next time im even #MORE pretentious hehe #<3 #btvs meta #long post.

207 notes · View notes

grizzersmamma · 1 year

Text

The Butterfly Effect | Simon “Ghost” Riley x F!Reader | Chapter 1

“One moment your relationship with Simon is perfect. The next, it’s gone. A single mistake is all it takes for you to return to an empty home and a world where Simon Riley is marked as deceased and only the infamous Ghost remains. Will you be able to rekindle the love that once existed in a world long gone, or will you succumb to the pain of losing your other half?”

Overview: CoD x Primeval Crossover. Reader is a member of ARC - the Anomaly Research Center - a group responsible for investigating temporal anomalies that open up all over the UK. Lovers to Strangers to Friends to Lovers.

A/N: No prior knowledge of Primeval is required, I should be able to explain it well enough as we go along.

Warnings: Fluff with angst at the end. Minor injuries.

Ghosts & Monsters: Masterlist

Next Chapter

You’re roused from your deep sleep by the sound of an alarm blaring from your phone on the bedside table. The room is lit up by the screen as the phone violently vibrates to try and get your attention. Blindly reaching out with a hand, you slap at the screen, hoping to silence it without actually lifting your head from where it’s comfortably buried into your partner’s chest.

Luckily, you’re successful in your goal and able to melt back into the embrace of the warm body under you. A displeased grumble comes from Simon, who curls his arms a little tighter around you, nosing his face into your hair. It’s only his second day back home after a lengthy deployment and you had been hoping to enjoy his presence uninterrupted for a few more days. But it seems that the universe has other ideas, choosing the middle of the night to disturb your rest.

“Need to get up,” you mumble into his chest, making no real effort to move.

A grunt is all you get in return, neither of you prepared to be the first to release their embrace. It’s comfortable being wrapped up in the strong muscles of Simon’s arms, his familiar scent luring you further from wakefulness and back toward the abyss of sleep. Going for so long with only a cold, empty bed had almost made you forget just how tempting it is to spend all day snuggled up against your favourite soldier, showering him in gentle affirmations and affectionate kisses.

Your phone buzzes again, the sound of an incoming text. It’s enough to pull your focus back to the present and the need to somehow untangle your limbs from Simon’s.

He’s far from co-operative, for every arm or leg you’re able to detach from yourself another quickly takes its place, keeping you firmly trapped. You wish you could just concede defeat and call in sick for the day, but your job is the kind where anything short of an actual crisis wouldn’t be accepted as a valid excuse. It’s for a good reason, however – the lives of both your co-workers and the public could be very easily compromised should you decide to slack off – as much as you would love to ignore the midnight summons.

“Simon,” you coo, placing a tiny peck against the tip of his nose, “I need to get up, there’s been an alert.”

His eyes crack open, squinting a little thanks to the disgruntled expression he’s wearing. It takes another kiss, this time to the side of his face, for him to finally relinquish his hold on you. Albeit with a sigh, acting as though the very action has caused him unspeakable pain.

“You don’t need to get up, I’ll probably only be a couple of hours,” you assure him, running one of your hands through his blond hair, “then, you’ll have me all to yourself again.” He seems to accept this compromise with a nod, allowing you to clamber your way off your shared bed. The first thing you do is check the location of the alert on your phone, noting that it’s only a short drive away from the apartment.

You don’t have time for a shower, but thankfully you’d had one before heading to bed earlier in the evening. Grabbing a set of work clothes, you head into the ensuite attached to your bedroom to change, not wanting to disturb Simon any further by switching on the lights. You know he hasn’t had much sleep lately, so you want to give him as much opportunity to recuperate as you can.

With your clothes changed, you exit the bathroom again, only to find that your boyfriend has vanished from the room entirely. You don’t have time to question it, instead snatching up your phone and jogging down the short hallway toward the small living room and kitchen.

The sound of the electric kettle can be heard as it bubbles away. A single light illuminates Simon as he silently moves about the space, grabbing some tea from the cupboard. At first, you assume he’s making it for himself since he has been known to stay awake and wait for you to return, but before you can try to tell him to go back to bed again, he pours the hot water into your travel mug.

By the time you’ve finished lacing up your boots Simon has walked over to your side. “Here you go, love,” he says, holding out the tea in offering, his voice much thicker due to sleep. It’s a sweet gesture, almost enough to distract you from the slight lingering guilt from waking him up at such an ungodly hour.

“Thank you,” you smile, hoping it’s enough to convey just how much you appreciate not just the tea, but him too. It’s taken a long time for this relationship to get to where it is. An immense amount of work was required from both sides, especially with how deep Simon’s insecurities and trust issues ran. It likely helped that both of your jobs are so secretive – there was an immediate understanding between the two of you that some things just couldn’t be talked about and that was okay – you never pushed one another too far, content to live in the unknown for as long as it took for the other to finally feel comfortable sharing.

You’d been introduced to him as ‘Ghost’, the terrifyingly competent special forces lieutenant who seemed to just emit an aura of danger. But now, here you were, looking up at his face, hair mussed by sleep and expression completely unguarded.

Accepting the drink from him you stand up from the chair you’d perched on to fit your shoes and softly pull his face toward you with a gentle hand to the back of his head. Placing a kiss against his cheek, you allow your lips to linger on the tiny prickles of stubble growing there. “I’ll be back soon,” you say once again, seeing the briefest flicker of uncertainty in his deep brown eyes. It’s difficult to catch, but you’ve had a lot of practice using his eyes to determine what kind of thoughts are swirling around behind them.

“I know,” Simon nods, “just make sure you come back in one piece, yeah?” Danger comes with your line of work no matter how cautious you try to be and both of you know it. But it fills you with a sense of purpose unlike anything else and, much the same way Simon can’t just abandon his job, you could never bring yourself to quit yours.

“Always,” you promise, for all the good it would do.

Although reluctant, the two of you manage to part from one another. You grab the backpack containing all your equipment and swing it over your shoulder, bringing up the location of the alert on your phone screen. A couple of brief “love you’s” are exchanged between you and Simon before you’re out the door and on your way.

You find yourself a good half hour’s drive away from the bustling city of London, pulling up outside a rather unassuming warehouse. It’s fortunate that the alert came from somewhere with ample space, since it lowered the chances of a civilian stumbling across your work by accident. There are already several other cars pulled up outside the warehouse, soldiers milling about to secure the area and unload equipment from the vehicles.

When you step out from your car you are immediately met by Captain Becker.

You’ve known the captain for several years now, ever since he was moved from running special ops missions with the military to heading up the security division of the ARC. He runs a tight ship, doing everything in his power to ensure that you and the team are kept as safe as humanly possible. Many would go as far as to say he’s emotionless, but much like your Simon, he just expresses his compassion for others in more subtle ways.

Becker works hard to protect everyone on the team, not just because it’s his job, but because he cares so deeply about everyone. He takes each loss personally, blaming himself whenever a member of the team is injured or worse.

It doesn’t take long for the area to be swept and you’re allowed to enter the warehouse. The walls and floors are decrepit, with rotten wood, falling apart in places and covered in some sort of dark mold. It stinks, but it’s certainly not the worst thing you’ve come across.

Seeing a temporal anomaly will never get old, no matter how many times you come across one. A bright, circular light, hovering just above the ground with beautiful shards of glass-like specks floating around it. The transparent shards drift in circles, orbiting the warm, orange light at the anomaly’s centre like moons around a planet. Like an explosion frozen in time, it has a distinct otherworldly aura about it that draws you in and makes you want to reach out and touch it.

Unfortunately, messing around with a crack in the very fabric of time and space is not the best idea, as much as your little magpie brain wants to touch the bright shiny thing.

One of the laboratory technicians begins to set up the anomaly locking device while you assist them in taking readings from this particular anomaly. It’s not your specialty – you’ve got degrees in animal behaviour and veterinary technology, not physics – but thankfully most of the equipment is easy enough to use with some simple instructions.

Things are running smoothly, and you’re relieved that soon enough the anomaly will be contained and you’ll be able to crawl back into bed with Simon. But, of course, that means the universe decides to throw a spanner in the works.

Something behind you hisses, drawing the attention of everyone in the room. A large reptile is perched on one of the large wooden beams overhead, gnashing its teeth at the humans gathered below. It appears to be a raptor of some kind, but you don’t have the chance to identify it any further before it launches from the roof.

It lands far too close to you for comfort, shrieking and flaring up its feathers. The soldiers around it have their weapons raised, and it seems to be enough to startle it, for it makes a dive toward the anomaly. Unfortunately, you stand directly in its path to freedom. You twist around to try and get out of the way, but the animal is moving too quickly and it slams directly into you, sending you both toppling through the anomaly.

It’s blindingly bright for several second, before your body hits hard stone. You roll several times before coming to a stop, jagged rocks stabbing into your arms and legs as you try to get back to your feet. It’s sunny where you’ve ended up, making it difficult for your eyes to adjust, but eventually you’re able to take in your surroundings.

From the warehouse you now find yourself in the middle of the woods, covered in leaves from plants that have been extinct for millions of years. Normally, you would be ecstatic to be able to see and potentially explore the world in such an alien state, but you have much more pressing matters. Matters such as the teeth of a raptor currently a mere inch or two from your face.

You spit out a panicked curse, throwing your body away from the animal as it tries to snap at your face. Both of you are disorientated after being thrown from the present and into the past, but you’re lucky enough to be the first back on your feet. There’s no way you’d be able to outrun it, but adrenaline is one powerful drug and you’re immediately breaking out into a full sprint.

You can hear it behind you, feet slamming into the dirt and hissing, growing closer by the second.

Your life is flashing before your eyes as you run, fearing that this is the end, the way you die. But suddenly, just as you feel the heat of the raptor’s breath caress the back of your neck, an explosion rings out.

Startled, you miss your next step, slipping and going down like a stack of bricks. When you look back you expect to see sharp teeth as they go to clamp around your neck, but instead, you’re met with the retreating form of your pursuer. The raptor is fleeing into the forest, abandoning your defenceless body on the ground.

Your chest is heaving, body still trying to catch up with what your eyes are seeing. You’re not dead. It was a close call, but somehow, somehow, you’re still kicking.

A bush rustles and you’re about to try and leap to your feet again, only to see the familiar face of Captain Becker. “You alright?” he asks, jogging over to you and crouching down at your side, already looking you over for any potential injuries.

Not an explosion then, a gunshot.

A deep breath leaves you as you’re filled with relief. The soldier armed with his rifle is definitely a sight for sore eyes. “Still in one piece,” you assure him, accepting the hand he offers you to pull you to your feet.

“Good,” Becker huffs, gently coaxing you back in the direction of the anomaly once he’s certain you can stand on your own two feet, “because I’m pretty sure Ghost wouldn’t appreciate me sending you back in anything less than perfect health.” He grumbles about it, but his underlying worry is clear in his tone. You certainly would not be the first person to go through an anomaly and never come back.

“Perhaps we shouldn’t mention our little expedition to him... or that the animals here aren’t exactly friendly,” you grin, moving a little faster now that you can see the vibrant glow of the anomaly that leads back home, “I think I give him a heart attack with some of the things that happen here.”

“You give me a heart attack with some of the things that happen here.”

You both reach the anomaly without further issue – hopefully the shot the captain fired was enough to scare the raptor away permanently – and you’re quickly ushered back through the light. It’s always an odd sensation to be transported from one place to somewhere completely different. The very air feels strange and moving from the light of midday into the dark of night is equally jarring.

But you are back home, in the correct time and place, much to the relief of several of your co-workers who each give a cheer.

The lab techs activate the anomaly locker, watching as the anomaly draws in on itself until it’s a condensed ball of shards, too solid for anything to move through. From now until the anomaly fades away again and closes completely, it will be safe to be around.

No more scaley visitors from the past.

“We’ll have to write up a report on this incident, so I’m afraid we’re going to need to head back to the ARC,” Becker reminds you, “might be a few hours before we can head back home again.”

You groan a tad dramatically, shoulders drooping at the thought of all the forms you will need to fill out because of tonight’s incursion. No doubt there will also be a mandatory meeting to discuss what went wrong and how to prevent it in the future.

Well, there goes your plan of crawling back into bed with Simon.

“Sure, let me just text Ghost before we leave so he knows I won’t be home for a while,” you say, pulling your phone out of your pocket.

“Ghost? Who’s that?” asks one of your teammates, Connor.

At first, you think he’s just joking and go to laugh, but his expression is nothing but sincere and that puts you on edge. “What do you mean? You know Ghost.” There’s an uncomfortable weight that settles in your gut, anxiety building by the second.

Connor knows Ghost just as well as any of your other teammates. You introduced Simon to them months ago, the first time Task Force 141 were asked to assist with containing a major creature incursion. Of course, you had only introduced him as Ghost, seeing as both of you were working at the time, but he isn’t exactly a person that’s easy to forget. Hell, your teams have even met for drinks more than once.

“Pretty sure I don’t know any ghosts,” is all Conner is able to offer, a single eyebrow raised in your direction.

You share a look with Becker, who seems to be just as confused. “Of course you know him, Connor. You told me he ‘looked like he was pulled right out of a horror game’ the first time you saw him,” Becker says, lips pulled into a deep frown.

Fear is gripping at your throat as you select Simon’s contact on your phone, pressing it to your ear and praying with every fiber of your being that you’ll get an answer. But all you get is an automated voice emotionlessly informing you that the number doesn’t exist, as if it isn’t giving you life shattering news. The second and third attempt are met with the same response.

“I-I need to go,” you choke out, turning and running.

You hear your team calling for you to stop, but the panicked thundering of your heart is spurring you on and to your car.

This can’t be happening.

Surely, going through the anomaly can’t have changed the timeline that much... right?

The drive back to your apartment feels like it takes years, especially with the new surge of adrenaline pumping through your veins. The world feels like it’s closing in on you, your only focus being to get home and find Simon. Because he has to be there. There’s no way he could be gone. It’s impossible. Impossible.

You keep that thought repeating in your mind as you park and rush up the stairs to your floor. You fumble to try and unlock the door, cursing at the keys when you struggle to get them into the lock.

When you finally get it open, you can’t be bothered closing the door behind you, stumbling into the living room. Entire pieces of furniture are missing, along with anything Simon had brought over to your apartment from his own. It feels startlingly empty, with only your own possessions on display, but you’re quick to push that aside, rushing down the hall and to your bedroom.

You near enough throw the door open, eyes trying to seek out your partner.

But the bed is empty. Only the covers on your side of the bed have been disturbed and there’s no sign of anyone else ever having been there.

You’re all alone.

#writing #call of duty modern warfare #primeval #simon ghost riley #ghost x reader #simon riley x reader #ghost x you #simon riley x you #hilary becker #masterlist will be up soon

73 notes · View notes

jinxed-ninjago · 1 year

Text

Okay, I want to make a post about Llourumi because I feel like people are too harsh on it, especially after Crystalized.

Harumi's not evil, I've made a post about this previously. She's misguided at the absolute worst. She thinks she's doing the right thing and once she learns she's been basically going after the wrong thing since the Devourer incident, she completely changes. She helps Garm and Lloyd defeat the Overlord, and, fair reminder, she basically SOLD HER SOUL TO THE OVERLORD FOR CONTINUED LIFE. She had pledged her allegiance to the Overlord in the most extreme way possible but betrayed him anyway, and you know what happens in those kinds of plotlines: person who sold their soul to higher power ends up DEAD. Not just this, but Harumi is shown in A Sinister Shadow to be just as easy to manipulate as Lloyd because of her ideals and the fact that she's so misguided, something the Overlord took advantage of.

NONE of this changes the fact that she did manipulate and abuse Lloyd, even going as far as to -- in my view -- sexually harass/assault Lloyd in Sons of Garmadon and Return to Primeval's Eye (saying this because she makes advances on him, both verbal and physical, despite him not being into it in that moment). She still abused and manipulated Lloyd, and Lloyd's still traumatized from it if his feelings about Vania at the beginning of Master of the Mountain are anything to go off of.

However, it's ALSO worth noting that Lloyd still feels attraction towards her. He still likes her romantically, to the point he risked quite a bit trying to find her in the debris of the building collapse.

Harumi's feelings for Lloyd are also implied to have been genuine, even if she was using it for her own gain. She cares about him enough that she tries to sway Lloyd to the Overlord's side instead of killing him like she was supposed to.

So what's my point here?

There's still mutual feelings between them both. Lloyd obviously has trauma to work through if Lloyd and Harumi are ever going to have a healthy relationship (probably Harumi too), but I don't think it's fair to immediately say their relationship is and always will be unhealthy. It's not fair to say their relationship should never happen because Harumi abused and manipulated Lloyd while she was under the impression that it was his fault her biological parents are gone. Their relationship is more complex than that, there are more nuances to it than that.

There's a lot of potential for a long-term story between these two specifically, a story I'd love to see get told. The desperation in Lloyd's actions when he tries to find Harumi after the building collapse that initially killed her almost makes me cry. These two have a story to be told. Their relationship -- in my opinion at least -- could absolutely be healthy at some point, and I'd love to see that story be told, whether through fanfiction or official media. There are nuances that aren't brought up. It's not a simple "abuser-abused" relationship for these two, like people make it out to be. Harumi was misguided and while it doesn't excuse her actions, it does explain them.

There are nuances in Lloyd and Harumi's relationship that aren't talked about enough, and I don't think it's fair to ignore said nuances in favor of accusing Harumi of being a terrible person for what she did to Lloyd.

I also don't think Harumi's personality as The Quiet One and as the Crystal King messenger is her true and honest personality. When she realizes she's misguided, her personality does a complete 180 and she's shown to be a nervous and shy person. I genuinely think that's her genuine and honest personality, not cruel and sadistic. She let her trauma and grief take over her, and it's never talked about.

There needs to be more discussion on the nuances with Llorumi and by extension Harumi, because both are very three dimensional, something I don't see talked about pretty much ever. For a fandom that realizes Ninjago grew up with its audience, it's really fucking sad to me.

#ninjago #lego ninjago #ninjago lloyd #ninjago harumi #llorumi #lloyd garmadon #lloyd montgomery garmadon #analysis #ninjago analysis

117 notes · View notes

icy-watch · 2 months

Text

"Something green"? *gestures to jungle below*

#liveblogging #ninjago #crystallized #season 15 #episode 18 #return to primevals eye #s15e18

30 notes · View notes

obitohno · 2 years

Text

primeval | 02

satoru gojo x reader

synopsis ⤸

you have never believed in fairy-tales. besides, werewolves don’t actually exist… right?

chapters ⤸

៚ contents

៚ prev | next ᝰ

themes ⤸

fem! reader, 18+, dark fic, werewolf! gojo, human! reader, slow burn, soulmates, omegaverse, werewolves, mating bond, smut, masturbation, cunnilingus, blowjobs, anal, breeding, creampies, ruts, heats, action, angst, graphic depictions of violence, mentions of blood

word count ⤸

6.1k (edited, lowercase intended)

a/n ⤸

thank you to everyone who shared the first chapter of ‘primeval’. i honestly didn’t think many people would like it bc the first chapter doesn’t jump straight into the smut… it’s coming, though, dw. this chapter is a little more action packed, which i’m still getting my head around on writing, but it was fun to write. also!! i actually edited this one?!?! wow??!!! feeling v proud of myself bc this’ll probably never happen again, lmaoo

reblogs are appreciated ~

two:

when you come to, two days have already passed. your mother’s face is the first you see, and you're bewildered at the sight of unshed tears that glisten in the very eyes you’d inherited from birth.

‘mum?’

your mother barely contains a muffled sob, shaking hands reaching to embrace you into a bone-crushing hug. you groan, head swimming as you reluctantly return the gesture with an awkward pat to your mother’s shoulder.

‘what’s wrong? i—’

your mother’s voice is grave, with an expression to match, as she leans back from the embrace to stare at you, ‘we need to leave.’ frown forming between your brows, you move from the bed, standing on shaky legs. with a glance, you realise that you’re still wearing your dress, the fabric crinkled and matted in places, and your frown deepens, lips parting to question just how long you were asleep for, but your mother interrupts you, ‘now.’

before you can even think of a reply, your mother’s fingers are curling around your wrist, pulling you towards the door. your temples throb and you wince, a wave of vertigo hitting you just as she pulls you to the bottom of the stairs. your left hand flails to catch your balance on the wall, but your mother doesn’t wait, pushing you towards the front door. your confusion doubles when she doesn’t even allow you time to tug your shoes on. ‘what’s going on—?’

‘no time,’ she snaps at you, yanking the front door open and pushing you out of it. stumbling, you wince as the gravel bites into the soles of your feet. ‘get in the car.’

doing as you’re told, you slump into the passenger seat with an exhausted sigh. you’re unsure of why you feel so tired, but there’s no time to dwell, your mother sliding into the driver’s seat, slamming the door closed. she wears an expression of panic, and whilst you have so many questions to ask, they die on the tip of your tongue when the car rumbles to life. your mother wastes no time in reversing the vehicle out onto the road, almost colliding with a passing car, the sound of their horn cutting through the air. wide eyed, you gawk at her, she who pointedly concentrates on the road, kicking the car into drive.

the small car makes it to the other side of town in record timing, and you’re sure that your mother has broken just about every road law along the way. just as the car starts down the long winding path that leads the way out of the town, you dare to ask, ‘where’s dad?’

the car speeds even faster and you grip the door handle to keep yourself from slamming into the door as the vehicle swiftly veers off to the left.

something is definitely wrong, you think. horribly wrong.

‘w-wait! dad—we can’t just leave—!’

something suddenly slams into the car from behind, the tyres skidding across the tarmac so roughly, the noise rings in your ears. your body is lurched forward, hands flying out to stop your head from colliding with the dashboard and your seatbelt groans under the strain of your weight, the fabric burning into your shoulder. wincing, you do your best to ignore the ache in your forehead, your mother letting a sharp yell slip past her lips. it isn’t long before the car skids to a halt and your entire body trembles, breath mixing with the warm air, steaming the windows from the inside. with shaking hands, your mother reaches for you, and you look up, horrified to see the blood pooling from her temple.

‘m-mum—!’

a low, animalistic growl echoes from the outside, the sound tracing its way down your spine until it reaches the tips of your toes. and then, you smell it again. freshly cut grass, only this time, it intermingles with the scent of… dog? it reeks, seeping in through the metal framework until you have no choice but to inhale it. your nose crinkles and you have to force down the urge to gag.

‘did we hit something?’ you dare to whisper, hand reaching to wipe the condensation from the window. the sight of a large shadow makes your stomach churn, your back hitting the seat as you slump, slack-jawed. the shadow moves closer, close enough that you can just make out the shape of four legs, accompanied by a tail. ‘oh my god—i-is that—?’

your mother’s fingers are pressing the button on your seatbelt and she leans over, throwing the passenger door wide open, ‘you need to run!’

your head head whips to gawk at her, ‘do you not see that? it’s a fucking wolf!’ tears cloud your vision, ‘oh god—dad! he said… i… i should have—’

she shoves you, hard. hard enough that you lose your balance, body hurtling out of the side of the car. your left wrist takes the brunt of your weight, the impact shattering its way up the length of your arm. a shriek is punched from your lungs and your bottom lip wobbles, pain stinging your now bloodied hand. dazed, you look up to meet your mother’s panicked stare.

‘run! you have to run!’ her eyes are glossy, the tears staining her cheeks in a way that you have never seen before. when you don’t immediately heed her order, she all but screams at you, ‘fucking run!’

heart in your mouth, you scramble to your feet, body wavering as you almost trip over your feet. to your horror, the wolf is much closer that you had initially thought, not even a few yards away. behind you, the forest takes form again, and you take another wobbly step back, debating on the possibility of you escaping into the thick foliage.

what the hell are you even thinking?

if the wolf gives chase—which seems likely as its steely gaze is glued to you, completely ignoring your mother’s frantic wailing—there’s no way you could out-run it. just the sheer size of it seems unnatural—is it even possible for wolves to grow to such a size? even the colour of its fur seems ludicrous. the palest of silvers seems to gleam, almost white in colour, and if not for the animal advancing closer, you would stop to admire the sheen that spreads across its spine. the scent of freshly cut grass grows stronger with each step the wolf takes towards you, and you match its pace with one step backwards. there’s another scent in the air, something you can’t quite decipher, but you don’t bother to question it, stumbling back with another unbalanced step.

the ache in your temples has now spread to the back of your head and you suddenly find it a little harder to keep your eyes open.

your mother calls your name again, begging, ‘run… please, you have to—!’

the beast releases a growl so loud that you feel it vibrate beneath your bare feet. something snaps to your left, a branch, perhaps, but you don’t stick around to find out, legs moving of their own accord. faster than you’ve ever moved before, you lunge towards the tree-line, barely processing your mother’s voice that echoes after you, egging you on. your feet sink into the soil, branches whipping past your head as you weave through the heavily crowded birch trees, the trunks stretched high above your head. the further you run, the denser the trees become, making it increasingly difficult to move. you duck under a particularly low hanging branch, feet pausing as you strain to listen.

the forest is eerily quiet, the canopy of the trees blocking out the sunlight, making it harder to see. you listen as best as you can, sucking in air between your lips, nursing your injured wrist to your chest. your teeth bite into your bottom lip in order to muffle the cry that escapes, eyes welling. blinking rapidly, you sniffle, continuing your escape with a limp hindering your movements. you don’t think that you’ve been followed, but if you have, there’s no way that that huge, muscled body would ever be able to follow you through the thickening tree-trunks that now make it a task for your frame to slip through.

you quietly pray that your mother has gotten to safety.

you’re unsure of how much time passes as you walk, but suddenly, there’s a break of light in the swarm of trees. you rush forwards, tripping over your feet just as you burst past the last of the roots, falling as you do so. you make the mistake of bracing your weight onto your injured wrist, unable to stop the pained shriek that ripples out into the darkening sky. it’s far too late when you slap your uninjured hand over your mouth to swallow the sound, and for a tense moment, you lie still, dirt caking your clammy skin, buried under your nails and matting the hair that sticks to the space behind your ears.

then, you hear him.

his footsteps are slow, calculated and not at all rushed. yours, however, are panicked, trying your best to stand, but soon realising that your right foot is trapped, squeezed into a tight gap between two large birch trees. this time, you don’t bother to hide the chest-wracking sobs that escape you, scrambling into a sitting position to try and dislodge your foot. it makes no difference, and the more you pull, the faster the pain throbs its way up your leg, dizzying. a pained moan breathes past your lips, blood ignited with adrenaline.

he’s closer now, heavy footsteps almost deafening as he stalks towards you. he seems to be moving cautiously, which would have confused you had you not been focused on wrenching your foot free. but to your trepidation, the beast approaches, stepping into your line of sight, hackles slightly raised.

stilling, you tilt your head back to look at the animal towering above you. and much to both your relief and horror, it’s not him. gone is the fur lined with silver; this beast is coated in a dark brown that almost looks black. its eyes, as equally as dark, watch you for a moment, before taking a slow step forward. immediately, the fear returns by a tenfold, and you begin to struggle again, your ministrations more urgent, panic-driven. you cry out as your foot twists painfully and in your distress, you almost miss the sight of his body morphing before your very eyes.

the sound of cracking bones makes your stomach lurch, and you’re only just able to swallow the bile down, glossy eyes wide as the wolf disappears, only to be replaced by the large frame of a stark-naked man.

you blink once, twice, thrice, absolutely baffled as to whether your eyes are deceiving you.

but then he takes a tentative step closer, and your heart immediately lurches into your mouth.

‘g-get away from me,’ you stammer, twisting your leg once more.

the man raises his hands, as if to prove he means you no harm. something you’re unable to believe, especially when he just transformed from the form of a wolf. your father may have warned you of the wolves out here in shirakawa, but you wonder what his reaction will be once he hears the wolves can shape-shift into humans. the thought of your father is enough for the tears to return, features settling into a quiet cry as you attempt to twist your foot once more.

the man is slow to approach you, and you pretend that you can’t see his penis hanging between his legs, as naked as the day he was born. ‘i can help,’ his voice is quiet but you are just able to hear him over the sound of your buzzing blood echoing in your ears. the mere thought of this… man? wolf… hybrid? whatever the hell he is…. the thought of him touching you makes you shiver and you look at your leg, miserable. there’s only one option that you can think of to aid your attempt to escape, and just imagining it makes you grimace. but you have no choice. the man seems to guess your next move and with surprising speed, he’s rushing towards you, shouting, ‘no! don’t!’

but it’s too late.

gritting your teeth, you use the momentum of your weight to twist your leg as far as it will go, before the tibia bone eventually gives way under the pressure. the snap! rings down your eardrums, followed by a choked scream of pain. blood rushes behind your eyes as you somehow manage to wrench your foot free, but that’s as far as you get, your body immediately giving in and crumpling to the floor.

the naked man is by your side, his hands reaching for you. you don’t even have the energy to move out of his grasp. he lifts you easily and you babble unintelligently, head lolling over his forearm. black clouds your vision and your entire leg now throbs, body barely able to process the pain that throbs underneath the surface of your skin.

‘fuck,’ you are just able to hear the man curse, eyelids heavy as you try to blink up at him. your injured hand hangs limp, dangling in the air as he begins to trek away from the shadows of the trees. you attempt to tell him to leave you behind, to remove his strangely human hands from your body. but your tongue is heavy in your mouth and whatever you plan to say is rendered useless as you slip in and out of consciousness for the remainder of the journey.

when you eventually come to for the fifth time, it is when a light is shone directly into your left pupil, and you groan, eyelid snapping to shut out the intrusion. someone gently shakes at your shoulder, but when you try to blink your eyes open, your sight is blurred. blinking your pupils back into focus, you recognise that you’re now indoors, lying on your back, head tilted up towards the ceiling. the first face you see is of the man who had carried you from the trees. you instinctively flinch at the sight of him, although, your eyes continue to peer at him curiously. his lips seem to be curve into a slight smile, and although he is now clothed, the memory of your meeting makes you flinch, grimacing.

you attempt to sit, bracing your weight on your uninjured hand. your left wrist is bandaged, the fabric wrapped neatly to secure the injury in place. you don’t dare to look at the damage of your leg, an ache pounding across your forehead as you successfully pull yourself into an upright position.

‘careful,’ the dark haired man coaxes, his expression one of barely concealed amusement. his words gain the attention of the other person in the room, one you hadn’t even noticed. he’s a pink haired man who stands to your right, torch in hand. he grins down at you, toothily and welcoming. he appears to have a peculiar taste in facial tattoos, and you can’t help but gawk at them. is that a mouth?

his grin broadens. ‘humans,’ he tuts, but he’s still grinning, ‘so jumpy.’

you grimace, tearing your gaze from him, back to the brown haired man to your left. he’s still watching you, his expression unreadable now. ‘don’t worry,’ he assures you of worries that you daren’t acknowledge out loud. ‘everything will be—’

the door flies open so wildly that it ricochets back off the wall behind it. you have to bite the inside of your cheek in order to stop yourself from yelping out in surprise. your eyes flicker to the doorway, along with the two men in the room, the three of you peering at the man who enters the room.

you stare.

it’s hard not to.

especially when the first thing you notice of him is the wild mass of white hair that sits atop his head. you tremble when he steps inside the room, all but slamming the door shut behind him.

‘so jumpy,’ the pink haired man repeats, chuckling.

you sit frozen on the tabletop that you’ve been placed on, watching the unnaturally tall man stare down at you with a scowl that makes the bottom of your stomach churn with nerves. you swallow, the room silent as no-one dares to speak. you have so many questions, most of which you’d never thought that you’d ever have to ask, but your tongue doesn’t seem to want to work, frozen stiff in the confines of your mouth. you dare to inspect the white haired man, who is yet to say a word, or to even blink an eyelid.

if he’s at all bothered by your stare, he doesn’t voice it, taking the time to look you up and down, electric-blue eyes loitering on the expanse of skin that is bare to the world as your torn dress has ridden up your thighs. you try to not look so jumpy as you clench your thighs shut, eyes sweeping over his abnormally large form. his biceps strained under the neatly ironed dress-shirt that he wears, crossed over his chest, and you try to not notice the freckles on his lips, nor the way his trousers fit perfectly around his—

someone clears their throat and your eyes snap away from him, cheeks hot as you realise that you’ve been caught staring.

‘now she’s awake, i’ll go fetch the male,’ the pink-haired man announces to no-one in particular.

he crosses the room, brushing past the white-haired man whom is yet to stop staring at you. ‘what of the female?’ his voice is deeper than you expect, the sound charming its way into the centre of your abdomen.

a pair of brown eyes glance towards you before he answers, ‘sedated.’ and then he’s leaving, closing the door shut behind him. you feel the ache dull slightly and you manage to exhale with relief, good hand reaching to massage at your temples with your index finger.

‘i can get you something for the pain,’ the dark-haired man—your saviour, you think bitterly—offers. but he seems to decide for you, already rising from his chair. however, his white-haired companion beats him to it. he crosses the room faster than you can blink, sneering down at you before his canines elongate and harshly sink into the meat of his own wrist. horrified, you watch him leer over you before his other hand snaps out to grab a fistful of your hair, pulling your head backwards.

yelping at the sudden pain, you recognise your mistake a second too late. he presses his bloodied wrist to your open mouth and your cry is muffled against his skin. with your uninjured hand, you attempt to slap him away, gagging at the taste of iron filling your mouth, coating your tongue. his grip is relentless, however, and he doesn’t budge, his fingers tightening in your hair.

‘you’re hurting her,’ the other man says, and you close your eyes so that neither of them can see the tears that bubble beneath your eyelids. you scratch at the hand that twists your hair until the roots begin to burn.

‘fuckin’ drink,’ he hisses into your ear, the sultry tone of his voice sounding very much electric as it shocks down your spine, your body unwillingly slumping against his, weak. you cave, reluctantly swallowing down the metallic liquid that’s begun to thicken inside your mouth. your stomach lurches, but his grip tightens to prevent you from wiggling away. the iron scent taints the air and the more you drink, the warmer your body tingles, sweat trickling down your spine. his blood is hot on her tongue, and you shiver, his chin resting on the top of your head, his chest pressing to your spine.

the door clicking shut is barely registered by either of you, but you soon recognise that the two of you are now alone. the ache is slowly dissipating from your forehead and you shakily exhale from your nostrils. you moan against his wrist, swallowing, goosebumps etched across every inch of your skin. his chest rumbles against your back and you realise that he’s practically purring in your ear, the sound enticing another embarrassing moan that slips, uncontrolled, from your bloodied lips.

a few minutes pass before his blood ceases, his wrist slipping away from your face. to your utter embarrassment, you have to stifle the whine that builds upon the tip of your tongue, with a cough. satisfied that your stomach is now bloated, his fingers retrieve from your hair, and suddenly, the spell is broken, and only then do you feel disgust.

disgusted by him feeding you his blood. appalled that you’d allowed him to do it. mortified that you had actually enjoyed it.

but before you can begin to feel alarmed by what has just transpired, his fingers are curling under your chin, tilting your head towards his. he leans over your shoulder with ease, eyes staring down at the blood staining your lips. up close, curiosity spikes and without thinking, your index finger is tracing the faint, but jagged scar that cuts through his left eyebrow, his eyelid fluttering shut to allow you to ghost over the skin that’s slightly raised. he makes a noise, something a cross between another purr and a growl, electric orbs blinking open to meet yours.

something screams at you to escape from his embrace, that there is something terribly wrong with these shape-shifting people, that you most definitely should not be thinking about kissing a man you met just minutes ago. but there you sit, allowing him to press his nose to your cheek, listening to him inhaling deeply. when he moves his head again, his nose traces yours, his breath hot against the gentle slope of your chin.

he closes the small gap between the two of you, his mouth moulding to yours, and he shudders against you, panting heavily through his nostrils. for an ungodly reason that you don’t understand, you do your best to return his kiss, but he’s frantic, desperate, almost animalistic as his tongue pushes its way past your lips to taste the inside of your mouth. he licks everywhere that he can reach, a low growl hummed against your skin when your fingers dare to tangle in his hair, tugging. his fingers bite into the soft flesh of your thigh and his breath shakes, almost whimpered into the crook of your neck.

the spell is broken by a knock at the door.

there’s a flash of cold air that whips you in the face as he all but rips his body from yours, practically flying to the other side of the room as he straightens his clothing, running his fingers through his hair and clearing his throat. he composes himself in a way that gives no indication towards what just happened, expression now stoic as he glances at you. you’re bewildered, unable to comprehend what the hell you’ve just done.

you’re unable to hide the confusion from your face, even when the door is pushed open to reveal the same pink-haired man as before, along with his brunette companion. but the third figure is the one who gains your attention, the kiss rapidly forgotten.

‘dad?’

he rushes into the room, arms curling around you as he pulls you into a bone-crushing hug. ‘oh god,’ he’s crying, eyes squeezed shut as he pats your matted hair with a heavy hand. ‘they said you’d broken your leg—i thought—!’ he pulls back to look down at your leg, and you follows his gaze with your own. only, when you wiggle your toes, there’s no flinch of pain, not even a twinge nor an ache.

dumbfounded, you twist your leg the other way, leaning forward to pull it towards your groin. you prod at the bandage with a lone finger, confusion doubling. you had definitely broken your leg, for you can still feel the ghost of the nauseating reverberation of the bone snapping, and the searing hot pain that had shot up your entire leg.

‘i—’ you don’t even know what to say. you lean back on both hands, baffled when your sprained wrist doesn’t so much as throb under the pressure. you tug the bandage from your hand, expecting the skin to be swollen underneath. but to your surprise, your wrist appears perfectly fine, even when you proceed to twist it to the left, to the right, and back again, just to make sure.

looking up, you meet the stare of the white-haired man who remains brooding in the corner of the room, only to look away when your father pushes your hair back from your face. he’s frowning down at you, ‘why is your mouth bleeding?’

your hand flies to your lips, wiping at the corners. dark red comes away, staining her fingertips.

‘it’s not mine,’ you say faintly, hand dropping into your lap, limp. the dots start to connect, and when you realise exactly why he’d forced you to drink his blood, you’re both disgusted and relieved at the same time. you also feel a twinge of bitterness. you’d sacrificed the use of your leg in order to escape, but here you are, sat in a room you don’t recognise, with people you don’t even know.

your efforts were in vain, and yet, you are still alive. you could be relieved with that, at least.

‘dad,’ you whisper, hoping that your voice doesn’t break despite how desperately you wish to cry. ‘where’s mum? she—’

your father’s expression is grim, eyes gleaming with exhaustion. he sits before you, his hands curling around yours. ‘i need you to listen to me carefully…’

and then he begins to talk slowly, as if talking to a child. most of what he says goes through in one ear and out of the other, but you process the more important details. your mother, always so strong, so beautiful, is now rendered weak, induced into a coma because she’d worked herself into a state. ‘it’s for her own safety,’ your father explains when he sees the fury burning in your eyes. the very same eyes that you had inherited from the woman he’s adored for the past thirty years. he continues to explain, and he’s rambling, talking about things you don’t —can’t—quite comprehend.

‘did you just say…’ you interrupt him, whispering. your gaze sweeps over every face in the room, before focusing on your father’s once more. you swallow, disbelief plastered into your tone when you utter the word, ‘werewolf?’

the other men immediately bristle at the word, the white-haired one straightening his spine, arms crossed over his chest. he sneers as he spits, correcting you, ‘wild.’

you are unable to help the shrinking of your spine, cheeks enflamed by your mistake. you don’t even know why you feel the urge to apologise, but you’re able to swallow it down as you look to your father once more. your hands shake under his and he sighs, head lowered as he mutters, ‘i know it’s a lot to take in, but—’

‘a lot?’ you scoff, bitter smile smacked across your face. ‘it’s crazy.’ you pull your hands free from his hold. ‘do you even know what the hell you’re saying? werewo—wilds,’ you correct quickly, ‘they’re not… they… they don’t exist.’ your hands shake as you push your knotted hair back from your face. ‘i-i don’t know why you’re saying…’ your words trail off, unshed tears forming in the ducts of your eyes. ‘mum… she told me to run… i tried.’ your bottom lip trembles and the first tear escapes, four pairs of eyes watching it roll down the curve of your cheek. ‘i-i tried to… but then i fell and then he… he—’

your head tilts to look at the dark haired man who remains standing by the closed door. he almost looks sorry for you but all you can recall is him reaching for you in the forest, your body pressed against his naked skin as he carried you out of there, just before you’d passed out. unconsciously, your eyes dart down to his clothed groin, barely registering the way he squirms under your stare.

‘oh my god,’ you croak.

you had watched him transform from beast to man in the blink of an eye.

the reality settles into the pit of your stomach, just before the organ violently lurches inside you. you barely manage to hunch over to the side before you promptly heave, emptying your stomach out onto the carpet. the stench of blood, hot and metallic, fills the room, and you gag, eyes squeezing shut.

‘the carpet, man,’ someone groans, exasperated, and you guess that it’s the pink-haired man.

someone touches your back, stroking soothingly, pulling your hair back from your face.

‘i-is that blood?’ you hear your father ask, suddenly no longer by your side, his voice quiet from the other side of the room.

the hand on your spine stills when they feel you stiffen. you soon realise just who is trying to comfort you and your stomach lurches again. empty bile burns its way up the back of your throat before spitting out past your lips, a dry cough filling the tense silence. when you feel it safe enough to straighten up, you wipe your mouth with the back of your hand, a thin sheet of sweat now coating your entire body, and you shiver, willing away the tears that threaten to spill.

‘this isn’t happening,’ you whisper to no-one in particular, eyes boring up at the ceiling. the presence beside you is domineering, yet somehow comforting, but you hate how your body instinctively leans into his touch, allowing him to hold you upright when a bout of dizziness almost unbalances you.

you flinch from his touch, not noticing how he bristles at your rejection.

‘dad…’ you wince at the sound of your voice cracking, tongue now dry. you try to ignore the lingering scent of your vomit, another ache forming between the crease of your brows. your father is by your side once more, his hands wiping at the blood that is smeared across your cheek.

‘i’m so sorry,’ he sounds pained, guilt-ridden. ‘i should have told you sooner, but your mother… she didn’t take it well and by the time i followed her home…’ he chokes back a sob, ‘she’d already taken you.’

tears well in your eyes despite your attempts to blink them away. you point to your leg, ‘how did…?’ the question is frozen on the tip of your tongue but your father still answers.

‘so… you know the stories of wolves… wilds and their mates, yes?’ you don’t respond, staring at him blankly. he sighs heavily. ‘wolves—wilds are destined to a mate from the day they’re born. someone that they’re bonded to… for life.’

you frown, headache worsening, ‘what? like soulmates?’

‘if you like, yes,’ your father nods. he pauses then, glancing to the white -haired man who you are yet to look at. you would be a fool to not see the apprehension in your father’s gaze, your own flickering to the very man whose blood you’ve just consumed, stomach twisting with nausea once again. ‘you see,’ your father starts, pausing again as if he isn’t sure how to best word his sentence. but he doesn’t need to.

you’re now staring up at the man before you, memory flashing with the sight of the white-furred wild whom had all but ran head-first into the family car, the memory of the taste of the the heat of his blood on your tongue, and you are forced to inhale the overwhelming scent of freshly-cut grass mixing with the very human smell of someone who is entirely, one-hundred percent all male.

‘mine,’ he croons, his large hand curling around the back of your neck to hold you in place. the word alone is enough to cause the heat that pools into the space between your legs, similar to the sensation of pride. taken aback by your own reaction, you attempt to tug back from his touch, but your own body betrays you, quickly relishing in the heat of the palm of his hand. his thumb strokes at the jugular vein on the right side of your neck, and you watch, wide-eyed, as the corner of his mouth lifts as he feels for the rapid pulsing. then, as if he remembers that you’re not alone, he’s leaning back, your neck suddenly cold now that he’s no longer touching you. you blink, dazed.

your father clears his throat, a tad awkwardly.

‘him?’

the lone word that escapes your lips causes a mixed reaction. the dark-haired man, along with his acquaintance, both gawk at you with expressions of disbelief and amusement. the pink-haired man pulls a funny face as if he’s trying not to laugh, the brunette peering down at you, a dark brow raised. your father, however, looks mortified.

‘… gojo-sama is very well respected,’ he sings praises as if he hadn’t just met the other male just a couple of days ago. ‘he owns these forests, and this town, too. he—’

‘do you know what happens when a wild finds his mate?’

the room is silent as he speaks and you dare not to raise your head to meet his gaze. you feel his fingers tapping under your chin, tilting your head up to his own. your eyes zero in on that scar of his, your fingers itching to touch it again, but you settle for curling them into the tattered fabric of what was once your favourite dress. his breath fans across your cheek and you become all too aware of just how close he’s leaning, uncaring of your small audience. his hand seem to scorch your skin, pulse thumping against your neck so rapidly that it’s almost uncomfortable.

‘my blood heals you,’ he murmurs, voice suddenly much deeper. ‘and yours…’ he trails off, your spike of fear suddenly hitting him square in the face as the tips of his fingers brush against your brow in order to calm the throbbing in your neck. the taste of your fear doesn’t sit right with him, and it loiters in the air, thick.

his wild itches to ease your discomfort, but gojo presses down the urge with a deep inhale through his nostrils, willing it away as his hand slips from the side of your face.

‘yours strengthens my very being.’

‘alpha blood,’ itadori chimes in, grinning. ‘s’like liquid platinum.’ geto roughly elbows the younger man in the ribs, and itadori grunts, rubbing the sore spot with a scowl, ‘what was that for?’ geto glares down at him, and even the human male shares the same expression.

you fixate onto the word alpha.

something changes within you. he scents it before your expression shifts, eyes filtering a shade or two darker.

both geto and itadori stiffen by the door, sharing a look as they await the order that they are sure is to come. your father, the human male, nervously shifts on the spot, but gojo isn’t paying attention.

he watches your pupils expand until they are blown wide, unfocused as you peer up at him. a small, pale hand stretches to him and he allows his eyelids to flutter as his wild greedily welcomes your touch. it’s not enough, he needs more, he thinks, his eyes daring to dart down to your lips. your palm flattens against the side of his face, index finger tracing that wretched scar again. you appear entranced by it, and your attentions warm his skin.

and then, you do what none of them expects.

you brace your weight on your left hand as you lean closer, right hand disappearing into the hair at the base of his neck, your fingers twisting into the locks of snow. you lick your lips, and his stare is transfixed to the slant of your neck, his gums itching as he feels his canines elongate. there’s already a heat forming a sweat under the collar of his shirt and his stomach twists, with nerves or anticipation, he’s unsure. he struggles to not announce his desire to the entire room, although he’s sure they can sense it anyway. swallowing hard, his throat bobbing as he does so, he exhales through his nostrils, struggling to hide the shiver that trickles down his spine.

and then you whisper one word, calling out to the wild that quivers under the surface of his skin.

‘alpha.’

#♡ jordy is writing ♡#jujutsu kaisen #jjk #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jjk x reader #jujutsu kaisen smut #jjk smut #gojo #satoru gojo #gojo x reader #satoru gojo x reader #gojo smut #satoru gojo smut #jjk gojo #jjk satoru gojo #jjk gojo smut #jjk gojo x reader #jjk fanfic #werewolf! gojo

345 notes · View notes