#how to write backstories

[leahkentwriter]

Backstories for girls and women in stories that *don't* involve sexual assault.

I beta read a lot, and am involved in writing communities of various kinds, and I briefly taught English way back in the day, and I consume storytelling media in general - and one of my biggest pet peeves is sexual assault backstories. While I think this is improving, it's still annoying to me that a lot of writers (of all genders, but particularly men) fall back on a sexual assault backstory whenever they need to make a girl or woman in a story complicated or haunted or fucked up in some way.

Unless your story is dealing with the topic of sexual assault in some way, please don't use it as a way to give a character depth or angst.

Here are some prompts, just to get you started with some ideas.

Why would a woman be trying to escape her past? Why would she be seeking a fresh start?

She hated her small town; the people there didn't understand her and she never felt like she fit in - she's queer, she has a weird birthmark, she's got unique interests, she has magical powers, etc.

She's a criminal - she robbed banks or stole cars and she wanted a fresh start

She was an addict and hurt people, and she wants a fresh start now that she's sober

Her parent is a criminal or an addict and she's trying to outrun the stigma of being related to them

She didn't get along with a stepparent and skipped town as soon as she turned 18

She had big dreams of being something else, and left to pursue them

Her childhood home was haunted, but no one believed her

She got married young then divorced, and wants to start over somewhere that no one knows her

Heartbreak of any variety - she's leaving a place that reminds her too much of someone she lost or couldn't have

She wants better; maybe more money, or a career, or simply a higher quality of life

Some other violent tragedy occurred - a school shooting, an explosion at the plant, police brutality, her best friend was killed, etc.

Her hometown no longer exists (climate change, the main factory shut down, it was overrun by rabid squirrels, etc.)

What would make a woman distrustful of others?

Heartbreak; being lied to, cheated on, left for her best friend, etc.

A big betrayal - her former best friend told everyone a secret about her, someone weaponized her trauma or her past or a major flaw she's sensitive about, etc.

She witnessed a traumatizing event as a child

Her mother was a grifter and used her as part of her scams

One parent cheated on the other and broke up the family

Her older brother isn't dead after all, he was disowned for being gay and now she's questioning everything her parents ever told her

She has problems with her memory, and is never quite sure what the truth is

She's bad at reading people and has been taken advantage of

She finds out a dark secret about someone she loves and is having trouble processing it

She gradually comes to see that someone she idealized as a child is not at all what they seem

Someone she thought was a good, kind, and genuine person is arrested for a terrible crime

Spiritual abuse - the worldview she was taught was right turns out to be exploitative, represses women, etc., so she leaves

What would cause a woman to have mental health issues?

Any form of abuse - doesn't have to be sexual

Her parents had really high expectations that she couldn't live up to

It simply runs in the family

Survivor's guilt - she survived something that someone else did not

She was bullied and no one protected her

Her parents were very controlling and destroyed her confidence

Her sibling was the golden child and she was the scapegoat

She's had issues since childhood but her parents refused to admit there was anything wrong with her, so she didn't get help

Being a part of any oppressed group of people who experience discrimination - she's a person of color, she's an immigrant, she's got a disability, she's queer, etc.

Any major trauma, either witnessed or being a part of - weather events and natural disasters, infrastructure collapse, crashes and accidents, fires, a shooting or a murder, etc.

You're a writer - get creative. There are lots of ways to traumatize and haunt a girl/woman character without having to resort to a sexual assault backstory. You can even make her the problem! Maybe she's the one who did something bad and is trying to outrun the guilt.

Let's also let go of the idea that it's meeting and falling in love with a man that saves her from her trauma. Let her have a healing arc that doesn't involve a man - a love story can still be there, but it can't be the magic healing balm that fixes her. Make her have to save herself. Give her autonomy to both make her own mistakes, and improve her own situation. Don't let your man go into savior mode - let him get frustrated with her. Let her push him away without him clinging to her in a desperate bid to show her what unconditional love is. Don't let him be a martyr to her trauma.

Women are complicated for many reasons. We have trauma for many reasons. We have mental health issues for many reasons. We may want to escape our past for many reasons. We're angsty and weird for many reasons.

Please pick literally anything other than sexual assault.

[pricetagged]

fool's gold (pyrite)

Got inspired by gougie's executioner asks and cloth's egging hehe 💖 have some pirate au simon breeding kink~

Content: 18+; breeding kink; dubious consent*; mean Simon; pirates; captured-by-the-crown reader; barest implication of potential soap/reader and future ghoap/reader; POV shift

*in a 'get out of jail' way, so take that how you will.

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

It fluttered in your stomach. A nebulous, squirming little thing.

Not the baby, no. The lie.

You felt it, restless and hot. Kicking your ribs from the inside. It made you flushed, it made you sick-

It bought you at least another few weeks to slip the noose, to slide away in borrowed shoes meant to dance a gallows' jig. Maybe it would buy you more, if the stress held back your monthly the way it often did on the ship. Great, long stretches of time with too much work and not enough food.

You wore the lie like you wore your borrowed clothes, a too-tight bodice and heavy skirts. Impractical, sweet. Modest. A poor little dear caught up and brought low. Fallen woman, sunken to the depths before the law fished her out. 

Your thighs stuck together, warm and bare under the skirts. It was sweltering, damp. Clammy in the cell with its stagnant air and earthy, unfinished floors. The wood of your bench –and bedcot–was warped with age, woodlouse burrowed deep into the pulpy grooves. It was enough to make you shudder, sweat dripping down your spine until it soaked into the cotton of your shift.

It did little to cool you.

Nine months aboard The Watcher had spoiled you, coarse rope and sharp, sea air warping you into something new. Something wilder. It was hardtack and hard work, yes. But it was freedom. To toil under a flag of your choosing, to trust the waves and the Captain to take you to new ports and newer treasures–

You'd left your papa's place with little more than ill-fitting breeches and a pocketed purse. You'd passed the scars on your hands and the patches on your shirt as evidence of experience – hardy little stowaway, aren't ye–. The morals didn't bother you the way stolen scraps didn't bother a dog. Street rat or ship rat; at least this way you could put miles between you and your father. Nautical miles, bobbing away with the wood of the ship's log. You watched it often, knots of rope and grains of sand. Hourglass and paper in hand while you stood on the stern.

It was you who first spotted the English Man O'War, sluicing through waves with colours hoisted high. Three gun-decks, at least, and coming into port.

"–plead the belly–it'll spare ye the choppin' block. Might even get lucky and be sent t' the reformatory– ah heard they do that f'r expectant mothers–" you couldn't quite hear him over the ringing of the cannons and the ringing in your ears.  "–plead the belly, and I'll try tae come back for y–"

They echoed now in your sweltering cell, suspended in the humidity. The boatswain's last words before he was violently wrestled away.

You remembered him as you counted the bars of your cage. Iron-wrought and cruel. As cruel as the chain tethering you to the wall, cold metal biting into your bare ankle.

'–I've got the keys, girlie, if you want freein' from it. Don' have to sit against that wall, all shy. C'mere an' I'll make you a deal–'

You stayed silent, stone-faced. Weathered the taunts and jeers of your gaolers like a battered old rock. The guards took it as arrogance, the other prisoners took it as invite.

The priest took it as shame.

You let them all believe it, lips pressed tight lest you let loose sobs–giggles–something– as days passed and your sentencing drew closer.

You'd heard about him before you saw him. The Ghost. The last face you'd see before facing the faceless. The pitch-black eyes that would watch as you jigged to the jeers of the crowd.

It was the last face you'd see and it was only a mask. More macabre than the usual executioner's hood– a skull motif, bleach-white bones and empty sockets. A nasty minikin mockery of the reaper. It was gristly; it was sick.

But so was he.

A butcher, some said. Fingers caked in blood no matter to which job he attended. A pirate, according to others. One pressed into service, earning his freedom by sending others to the pits. 

And now you heard him for real.

The low, resonant whistle. The heavy tread of his boots.

It had you curling your fingers into your palms, nautical superstitions and fishwives' tales nipping at you like fleas.

–quit yer whistlin', you'll anger the winds and summon a storm–

                                                 –it's good luck, don't worry. It'll make the winds blow strong and steady, you'll see–

–I wouldn't do that if I were you. Cap'n'll think it's code between mutineers–

                                                                                                                                    –taboo–

The whistling stopped, a cheery solitary note wavering in the air before silence. Even the gaoler's dog had scarpered off, keys jingling around its neck until you couldn't even hear the echo.

A gravel-rough voice cut through the swirling tempest of your mind.

"Was told 'got a pregnant little birdie caught in the cage."

That pulled you from your reverie, neck-stiff as you turned towards the voice. It was more of a twitch than a conscious motion, a sudden flaring of deadened synapses as his voice rasped over them. Still, you didn't speak. Didn't even look at him fully, the hulking thing in your peripheral.

It was silent, now. Eerily so, like all the air had been sucked from the prison. Sitting in the eye of the storm, too calm and too quiet. You could hear the drag of his boots as he shifted closer. The rolling clank of iron scraping against itself, your cage creaking open.

The shadow in your peripheral became mass, then man as he stepped closer.

You risked a glance up.

He'd still be large, sturdy, even without you curled up on your dank, spongy bedcot. Tall enough to duck as he sauntered into the cell. Broad enough to block out the flickering oil lamps by the warden's desk. In the lambent glow of dusk it was already dim, hazy with sea-spray and the oppressive heat of wet season. But with him in front of you it was pitch-dark. A pall cast by his sheer size, all light swallowed up until you could just about make out his blurry edges.

The ghostly white of the bones bleached onto his mask moved and his voice rumbled out.

"Well, g'nna show me?"

You stretched out weakened muscles, unfurling as slow as a wind-battered sail. Joints creaked alongside the iron of your shackle, tight from where you'd clenched hard. Dug your blunt little fingernails into the pulpy, malleable fibers of the aged ironwood below you.

Standing was like finding yourself unmoored, sliding off the buoyant driftwood keeping you afloat. Your legs got tangled up in your borrowed clothes, damp petticoats and overskirts clinging as your feet finally touched the straw-strewn earth of the cell floor. It was cumbersome, made more difficult by the sliding of the heavy chain against the bench. You felt the weight around your ankle, anchoring you down.

Though you could barely see it, you felt as he studied you from top-to-toe. Flat, dead eyes followed every curve and dip of your body as you stood before him, your traitorous chest rising and falling in a way that made you grit your teeth. You used that force to steel your jaw, to look straight ahead and keep your arms lax and loose by your side.

Let him look his fill. Let him– your judge, jury and executioner.

He hummed. Circled you like a shark in a balmy waters. It was funny– you'd never felt more exposed than now in all your layers. Not even under the punishing sun in your loose, men's clothes. No, his eyes stripped you bare. More than cotton and linens, he peeled the flesh from bone. Flayed you open, eyes slicing through your skittish guise. Through your rabbity gaze hopping around the walls, the way you tried to arch your back and poke out more of your soft belly.

"You a liar, then?" You could hear the low, mocking note in his voice. "Or got a case of wishful thinkin'?"

That had you looking up, meeting him dead in the eye. Your hands hovered above the slight swell of your stomach, fingers twitching in an abortive gesture–

–you wanted to cradle it, the fluttering in your empty belly. Push down the sick, swirling terror and face the ghost you'd summoned, because you had summoned it–

He grabbed by your wrist, meaty paw pulling you close enough to brush against his expansive chest.

–Hadn't you? Bad luck. Malefic omen, having you on the ship. No prophets, no redheads–

There, in the cradle of his arms, you were frozen. Your wrist felt fragile, bird-like under the firm grip of his thick-knuckled fingers. You weren't weak, you'd rigged topsails in tempest winds with those wrists. But that was then. That was weeks ago, when you were part of a crew on the open seas. Here, it was just you and the beast that had sent stronger than you to their graves. The warnings from persnickety old seadogs tolled death knolls in your mind–

–no women. And now the sea had swallowed you up. Sent you down to the belly of the beast. A Jonah, locked behind something stronger than whalebone. Trapped. Unless–

Wishful thinking.

He chucked at your chin, calloused fingertips arching your head further back until your neck strained. Your heartbeat rushed past your ears, sending your head spinning. Dizzy, docile. An artificial calm; buoyant lifeline in the raging currents. He turned you slightly, left then right. Like he was measuring you up, the line of your throat. The fluttering of your pulse. That treacherous throbbing, sending oxygen to your brain that you were too erethic to feel.

He spoke again, rough and coruscating. You noticed that he didn't blink, just stared down at you. Dead-eyed as a fish, blond lashes spiked around dark irises. He kept you arched, unable to escape as every syllable struck you like a storm. You balanced on bare tip-toes, butterfly-soft fingers spread across his hairy forearm.

"The Beak's happy to let ya swing if it means 'e can catch the rest of y'r crewmates. And, 'round here, the only good pirate is a dead pirate," he must have felt how your fingers tightened, a futile brace against his butal strength and harsh words. "So, I tell him y'r a liar, get paid to do my job, and keep the governor happy."

He shrugged, bulky shoulders popping as he rolled them back. He shrugged like it meant nothing to him, just a matter of fact. The fisherman, fingers deep in guts and gristle. The butcher, hands stained copper and hardened on cannon bone. The executioner, calloused from rope neckties and the deadweight of the condemned–

But you catch the way his eyes follow your flinch. The way his lips move under his mask too as your mouth opens and closes. Hesitant. Dry.

You could only look up at him with wide, naïve eyes, dilating in the dark. The jejune jailbird. Doe-eyed. Caught.

The jig was up.

"Please," the words stuck in your throat, cracking and broken. "Please don't–"

He lets you go. Not a gentle action, no. No careful caress; he lowers you abruptly, chuckles as you scramble to face him. Stunned, you rub at your throat. Still there, still unadorned with the necklace of rope you swear he wants to place there. Coarse twine and hessian brown, constricting tighter until– no. You can't think on it, anathema to the lie you've worked hard to maintain. If he doesn't believe the plea of the belly, you'll– you'll–

You'll make it so.

As he settles his massive frame on the thin, wooden slat against the wall you wonder. Why did he come here in cover of night. Why did he need to see for himself what the priest confirmed as a priori truth? The seal of confession melts away, your moribund admittance flakes and crumbles under his heavy hand. He knows.

Solid legs spread wide, he makes himself comfortable. You follow the bulge of his thighs, easily as thick as your skull–more–, as the bench groans and creaks worse than the brig in a storm.

You worry that it can't handle the weight.

Even sitting, he dwarfs you. Stepping up between his thighs is like willingly stepping off the stern into still waters. It's terrifying, thrilling– your belly swoops and head feels light. You know there must be something lurking in the depths, some undulating hydra ready to slide its malignant limbs around your ankle and wrench you down–

He clamps a filthy boot down over the length of chain across the floor. Keeps you tethered to him, unable to pull back even if you wanted to.

"Clever enough t'come up with the scheme, clever enough t'get out of it." It's an offering, albeit a twisted one. Alms tainted by the greedy slap of his palms against his thighs. Rough, scarred hands frame the growing bulge between his legs.

Even in the dark, you see it. Heavy, perverse, Fattening enough to strain against the seam of his trousers. You can't look away, can't escape the muggy heat in the air and the scorching burn of his eyes on you. Incendiary, it sends heat pooling to your own belly. The damp, stickiness between your thighs seems cool now, sweat superseded by the slick gathering in your core. It's filthy, it's wrong–

It's blazing hot, shame seared away by a want that is not entirely born of desperation.

At first you think it's a tit-for-tat, your mouth stuffed full in exchange for his staying closed. Kneeling before him, you're suddenly grateful for your skirts. Matchsticks of dried straw and dusty smithereens dig into your knees, legs bent awkwardly as he keeps his boot on your chain. He's content to let you paw at him, to tug at the drawstrings and fumble with his waistband as he offers no help.

Eventually, he must grow bored.

"Don' need me to tell ya that's not how it works."

"What–?" He has you frozen, tableau vivant of a wanton grisette. Pupils-blown and lips-parted, you tremble up at him. Try to read the desire that he hides beneath harsh words and heavy breaths.

"Tryin' t'make me a liar, too?" He grunts, brushing aside your confused, hurried protestations. "Gonna make me a liar when I go out'nd tell them there really is a pregnant little birdie caught in the cage?"

He pats at his lap, palming at himself and hissing through his teeth. Sound is muffled by that grotesque mask, but you catch it all the same. Every flash of the man beneath– of the desire wrought by your artless, ingenue fumblings– sends you reeling. You are not a creature of flesh and blood, not when both are fever-hot and itching. You can't breathe in your body under sweltering layers and sultry air. And he can sense it, too. The beast you let into your cage, bars bending as easily as your will to his.

And, through messily-tugged drawstrings, you see it. Tugged through the opening you'd hastily torn open. The thick, ruddy head of his cock is already leaking.

And as you slide into his lap, it all slides into place.

You think of– no, not now. You can't think of him now. When he comes back for you, if it takes, you could pass the baby off as his. He was sweet on you, you know it. A breezy, comfortable kind of affection. Small, just barely burgeoning but still there. He's a good man– You'll claim that you were telling the truth at your capture– that you and he already– He's a decent man– maybe you wouldn't even have to lie. He'd take you in, little stray and the seed that kept her off the scaffold–

Thoughts slip away, sea spray in the wind, as you work yourself open in his lap. You're drenched beneath your skirts, slick running down your thighs and into his. You're spread so wide across him that it burns, pinned open by his bulk. You can feel the power of his frame, coiled muscle holding you up from the worn wooden bench. The soft pudge of his belly presses into yours as you lean forward, shakily lining up with the swollen head of his cock.

It's already weeping, thick globs of his slick mingle with yours as he slides between your folds. Like he can't wait to be inside you, leaking his spend at the barest touch of your cunt. Like he can't wait to put it inside you, to make good on his word and yours and put a baby there.

You shiver, biting back a gasp as he nudges the aching pearl at the apex of your thighs. His chuckle rumbles through his hulking chest into yours. It jostles you, hitching you just right over his length until it notches against you. You press down, hole clenching against the initial pain, until you feel the throb of his slit inside. It's deep, sending your back arching as you grip his shoulders with white knuckles. And there's still more–

"Tha's it, tha's it, birdie," his voice is impossibly thicker, desire dragging it down until he growls at you. "Gonna have t'take more, gotta make it all fit if you want this baby–"

"Yes, yes, please," you babble at him. Voice high, whines catching on every breath you work yourself lower. You can feel him in your stomach, every inch sending sparks dancing along your spine until they're all you can see when you close your eyes. The sparks, and the spectral imprint of his ghostly mask.

He grunts below you, swallowing back groans behind a jaw that you know is clenched tight. Avaricious brute, he needs you closer. Hands that were meant to measure you for the drop dig into your hips, working you lower and lower. He forces you down to the root, bare thighs on hessian cloth, until you cry out. Shaking at the spread– the stretch– you pant in his ear. Hot little breaths, heady against the crook of his neck.

You can hear it, the obscene squelch of your greedy cunt. The creaking of the bench beneath you as you ride him with shaking legs, chasing pleasure that's already beginning to pool in your belly. You feel heavy with it, moaning behind your clenched fist. Through bleary eyes you catch his, cimmerian and heavy-lidded. His head is thrown back against the wall, guttural filth spilling as he waits for you to come undone.

"Want it, don't ya? Want my baby so fuckin' bad, just look at ya," he growls it, frothing with a hunger so biting it reads as rage. "I'll put one in ya, keep you stuffed full. Keep this chain around y'r ankle, too, keep you shackled to me–"

Eyes-watering as you lose yourself in it. In the sounds that that send blood rushing to your head, the deep ache in your core, the desperation– make him come, make him come, want to come, need to come–

---------

At first, he was happy to watch you. To sit back and watch you work yourself up, to perform for him until he sees you drop the mask. You wear the mantle of captive soubrette so well, sweat-damp petticoats clinging to curves that he wants to trace with his tongue. With his teeth. He saw the craft in your sweet, open face. You're a flighty thing, aren't you? Trying to slip the noose and slip past him. Luckily his grasp is strong.

He saw the scheme slip away as he got you speared open on his length. He can see it in your eyes, feels the way you suck him in–. You're dripping down into his breeches, sloppy and squeezing him so tight. Desperate, wanton little naiad. Riding hard like your life depends on it. He huffs out a laugh as he squeezes you tight, rough fingers digging into peach-soft flesh.

He doesn't tell you that you're already free, that the Royal Navy is already in hot pursuit of The Watcher and the pregnant, little skivvy is of as much importance to them as the ship's rats. No, you're a nuisance they're willing to hand off to him. Too big, too blunt, too bloody to find a respectable wife.

(There was a time, once, when he had no need of such comforts. Lieutenant aboard The Larimar's Revenge, he'd docked in many-a-port. But he'd always come back to those blue eyes. The haircut that had even the natives of Port Royal looking twice– Cheeky, cocksure pirate.

He'd thought about him, sometimes. On that godforsaken island with just a pistol and one shot for company. 'Mutineer', he was branded. Traitor to King and Crown. Lower than scum, not worth even a keelhaul. But not even grapeshot can kill a ghost–) 

He feels you reaching your end, thighs trembling from more than just exertion. His mask is damp, sultry air mixing with your musk into something that scatters his desultory thoughts. His belly tightens as he feels you clamping down, whining behind the knuckles you’ve got stuffed between your teeth.

When you're home, together in his bed, he'll bite down on those knuckles. Show you what real toothprints look like. Or maybe he'll let you slip his hand into your mouth instead. Let you whet your blunt little teeth on something with more gristle. His appetite for you cannot be satiated on mere flesh. He's got to pierce you, taste you, feel you from the inside and leave a part of himself there–

For now, he holds you down. Forces you to ride out the wave of pleasure-pain as he sets his own pace. Your thighs tremble, whole body seizing around him. He can feel the fluttering in your cunt, the way you shudder and drip until his cock is soaked and his coarse hair turns sticky with your release.

He ignores your whisper of another man's name– John, or Johnny, it's hard to catch with the way you swallow your whimper–it doesn’t matter. Not when he's the one pumping you full of his spend. His belly clenches hard, balls tight and heavy with the come he's going to give you. Going to force it in, plant his baby in you and still leave thick, white, globs leaking out of your poor, abused hole.

He's filled you up, is going to fill you up again. He'll take you back to his house and do it as many times as he wants. Make you grateful for it, for saving your life and giving you the baby you’ve been begging for. Keep you stuffed so full of him that the only name he'll hear from you is 'Simon'.

(And if you help lure Johnny back, well. It's been a long time, but good dogs come home when called.)

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

Well, there is it. Shoutout to my beloved stelle and woolie for listening to me whine about pirate ship names 💖💖💖

[atoltia]

imagine how traumatizing it is to suddenly be intelligent enough to process and verbalize that you don't like that the woman that raised you calls you her bodyguard rather than her child. you confront her about it, and you yourself are confronted by an onslaught of painful emotions that might not have been as painful back when you still had an INT of 6. you're not used to these emotions, to this articulation, because all your life all you needed to do was to follow, to listen to your boss, to protect. it was easy back then, you know that.

but right now you know better and it hurts so fucking much because you just want a mom. you just want your mom. you deserve your mom and yet you got a boss. you love her so much and you know she loves you so, so much. but still it wasn't enough because she never really made it known, not in the ways you needed.

you tell her. in the middle of a street where tensions are high because the gods a lot of these people worship are going away one by one and they don't know how to handle themselves, how to process it. the war is still ongoing. you're hunting some fucking asshole that stabbed the hand of his own child. a child that has your mother so worked up and want to save. and why? why that kid but never you? she's had you for years. she hatched you. did she ever do the same for you? was there urgency in her voice, fear in her eyes, when you got hurt? or were you just incapable of seeing it?

(or maybe, you thought bitterly to yourself, maybe it was never there in the first place)

so you leave. you walk away. turn your back on the woman who raised you, on the woman whose eyes were blown so wide as if you just slapped her with a hand rather than a simple truth of what you truly felt. it should be better this way, shouldn't it? you're strong. you're capable. you've been taught how to survive in the wilderness and you know your ways in the city. you'll be fine. you don't need her. you don't need your mother.

but you do. you really do. you need your mom because you love her so much that the thought of fighting with her makes you sick. you just want to be held by her, to feel the things you should have felt when you were a child. you need your mom. you want your mom.

so you turn back but she's not there. she's not there and you can't find her. you look and look and look but you can't fucking find her. something deep is burning inside of you, burning so hard and yet it's ice that coats your veins as you tear through the streets to find her. but you can't find her goddammit mama where the fuck are you?

you see an open window and there's something in your gut that tells you to look. so you look. because you can't find her and you need to find her.

she's dying.

bleeding out on the floor as that bastard stands over her with her own goddamned knife. you confronted her and left her. you left her. she now she lies, bleeding and dying on the floor minutes after you walked away because you weren't there to protect her. you left her you left her you left her.

(was the floor cold? or was it getting warmed up by the blood that's flowing out of her body?)

you want to kill him. rip out his fucking throat and tear him limb from limb because he fucking dared to hurt your mother. you'll kill him, you'll kill him, you'll fucking kill him.

he waves his hands and mutters a few words and suddenly- wait, why do you want to kill him? he raises his hands, takes the child, and you let him go.

he tried to kill your mom and you let him go.

you snap out of it, the ice that froze your veins is now at the deepest pit in your stomach, dragging your heart down to the depths of hell as you tried to stabilize her. your boss. your mom. your mom whose blood is now smeared all over your hands, her eyes fluttering against her frighteningly cold cheeks, because you left her alone. minutes. you left her alone for mere minutes and she almost ended up dead in a random room and on the cold fucking floor.

you're her bodyguard and you left her alone.

now how fucked up is that?

[oh-no-its-bird]

Raise your hand if you want elaborate Hatake warring states drama set maybe 40-50 years before Konoha was founded to help explain/elaborate on the start of the Hatake's downfall + provide cultural context for why they value their children so much !!!

Just kidding !! You're getting it anyways !!

Ok, so.

The Hatake's used to be made up of several small packs, ranging in sizes from 20-40 people, with a couple especially large or small packs here and there, as well as a few individual wanderers. But there were a good number of packs all together, so their overall numbers were like, a good few hundred.

Each pack was nicknamed after a part of a wolf + a direction. "The western fang", "the southern tail" (not to be confused with the eastern tail) "the northern paw", etc. The joke there was that together, they all make one wolf

Packs also had individual heads— there was no one overall singular clan head of all the Hatake, and they mostly operated independently of each other, but (most) would try and keep in contact to sure they at least remained on the same general page (they did have a few outliers, and honestly a lot of packs were just kind of... bad at keeping in contact. Some packs were much closer than others, while others were much more distant)

Whenever they needed to do any sort of political maneuvering, they'd converge, and the individual pack heads would choose a spokesman to represent them for the specific matter.

But about 40 years ago, just around when Hatake Haruka was born, there was a very sharp decline in numbers. The problem? Well, there were a few of them, but one very big specific one: They were being targeted by bloodline hunters. Hard.

So basically, fun story, there was this group of bloodline hunters specifically invested in wild clans. They'd try to kill as many as they can (to drive up scarcity) and capture any they deemed as 'tamable' that they'd then lock up and try and beat into submission in a facility nicknamed by those trapped there as the dog pound.

( This also relates to my previous talk about like. The fetishization of shinobi, particularly wild clans, and how they're often viewed as a status symbol. The wilder/more dangerous of a reputation they/their clan has, the more impressive it is for someone to have control over them )

So anyways like. The Hatake were very much on the list of targeted shinobi clans.

Also on the list were the Orochi, actually, which is also part of why, by the time konoha came around, there were only 3 left willing to step out into the sun. (There may have been more somewhere out there, but they'd refused to leave their hiding places)

Other targeted clans included the Hoshigaki, Inuzuka, and a couple other unnamed more "animalistic" clans that would be virtually extinct by the time of modern Naruto (in large part because of this entire mess, actually)

The Hatake's were the hunters primary target though and made up the majority of those they'd captured / killed.

The Hatake's nature to wander was used against them, as packs were systematically picked off— the bloodline hunters already had several stolen shinobi among them, as well as very powerful backing from some political powers which helped to feed and arm them well.

The packs would only communicate with each other so often, with some packs being more isolated than others, so it actually took a little while for some of them to actually realize what was happening— which meant even that more of them were taken by surprise

By the time Haruka was around 10, her pack (the western fang) had been very thoroughly picked through, and were down most of their shinobi.

They ended up making the very dangerous treck across Iron, continuing to be picked at every step of the way, in an effort to unite with the southern fang, which had already picked up several other stragglers, and merge into one pack

(At the time, most of the remaining packs were doing something similar— scrambling to try and merge, to try and gain some sort of power in numbers. Very few managed to make it)

At some point in all this mess, young Haruka herself actually ended up falling victim to the bloodline hunters, getting tossed into the pound. She'd be stuck there for some years, and ultimately her position inside of it would help the Hatake's destroy the dog pound once and for all.

The battle that did it in for the pound was a big one. Lots of blood, lots of fire, lots of death and destruction, all that good stuff. Everyone involved in the attack (and the Hatake were not alone in the battle, there were multiple other clans invested in seeing these bastards put down for good) was out to turn the entire place into a crater of dust.

In the end, there were no survivors on the bloodline hunters side. The pound was absolutely demolished, and it's safe to say that any remaining bloodline hunters in the area got the message loud and clear: "Don't fucking steal blood from the Hatake."

—but it also killed... a lot of Hatake. A lot, a lot. The entire events of the past couple decades did.

Afterwords, a lot of effort was put into keeping quiet on exactly what had gone down within the pound and how bad things had become for multiple clans involved in the whole debacle. In general, unless the clan was directly involved in the matter, few people— shinobi or otherwise —knew all he details of their little war.

After all, no clan wanted to be perceived as weak or vulnerable

So then Haruka becomes head of her pack somewhere in her 20s. But by that point there's like. 2 actual "packs" left, and maybe a sparce handful of individual Hatake's. And their numbers are just really low and they're having a hard time with birthing in general, so their numbers continue to be whittled down with each passing year.

It's also very important to note that this whole mess is also part why the Hatake's are so violently private.

While it was a known fact that the clan had taken a hit, no one actually knows how great of a blow they'd taken, or how many Hatake are left.

And no Hatake is willing to give that game up, because the number? Well, it's lower than any of the estimates other clans have made. They are actively dying and terrified that anyone will find out and try to once again use their isolation and numbers against them

They're trying very, very hard to hide it, and the big show of strength they flexed in that big final battle totally helped to cover their asses

By the time Konoha is founded, there are only 2 Hatake packs left— Haruka's pack, which was left with only 21 Hatake; And another unnamed one, somewhere way out west, who they lost contact with years ago.

So then skipping forward some decades, to only some years before Konoha's founding.

In Here Before and After Me there's a moment where Hashirama says,

The rare few times a child had been taken, the Hatake's had kicked up such a fuss that they'd heard of the blood baths even in Fire Country. The stories reached as far as Wind country, if you asked in the right places.

^ This is actually directly referencing an event where, sometime recently (within the last 10 years of the fic, so within ~13ish years of Konoha being founded) some idiots tried to take a Hatake child.

And the Hatake, being VERY thoroughly traumatized as a collective by the events of. Everything I said above. Went absolutely scorched earth "tear their fucking hearts out and put their heads on a pike" batshit insane on them.

Just, pulling out all the stops, total slaughter. They honestly went more than a bit overboard (but also not really, all things considering)

They were NOT about to risk another dog pound situation. They did not want to risk anyone even THINKING it was safe to so much as LOOK at them wrong. They wanted to send a message to any bloodline thief who thought they were "weak" enough to pick off (again)

And, you know, I mean, it did work. So.

Anyways this entire event lasted like, a couple decades actually. Anywhere from 20 to 30 years, with a couple lulls here and there. (the hunting technically began a decade before Haruka was born, it just hit its height around her birth)

It was a very traumatic couple of decades, and left a strong lasting impact on the Hatke's as a whole, culturally.

It's a very big part of why the Hatake are so insanely protective of their young. A good few decades of being actively hunted and preyed upon, having their kids stolen, watching other clans also lose their own children— it instilled a very healthy dose of ✨ child shaped generational trauma ✨

(It also came with a few other lasting impacts and hang ups, especially within the few still living Hatake who escaped the dog pound. Of which there are (as of writing this) three)

Fun fact! The best way to get adopted by a Hatake (particularly the older ones) is to actually specifically have them rescue you from bloodline hunters, bc it activates a primal protective rage in them instilled by years of war against those bastards

The Hatake's biggest secret being their totally shitty position also makes for some fun scenes when they finally join Konoha and sort of have to expose themselves along the way. They are making the long journey across Iron and into Fire country, and because they're taking the whole clan + all of their things in proper caravan, they have to stop at every other territory to explain themselves and where they're going and why

They are getting SO many stares from just about everyone they run into

(This is the most Hatake's anyone has ever seen, but also... Doesn't it feel like there's barely any of them...? Didn't they say that they're moving the whole clan to the new ninja village? Where's the rest of them? Is there a second caravan coming soon, or...?)

Then they finally get to Konoha and its like, !!! Welcome !!! We're so excited you're here! Where... are the rest of you?

It also makes them choose to come to Konoha so much more of a Thing™ for them, because this is genuinely a hail mary "fuck it we ball" show of trust for them. They are being forced to show their full hand and reveal the secret that they've kept so carefully guarded for the past few decades— that they're dying.

(Meanwhile, Tobirama, who is one of like THE only people ever to visit the Hatake's while still being aligned to another clan is conspicuously avoiding eye contact w Hashirama, who is sending him a very alarmed ??????)

Anyways, few individual character notes:

Haruka would actually meet and become close to Hatake Maru and the Hoshigaki girl who'd one day be Tetsuo's mother in the pound. The three became friends and in the end, managed to escape only because of each other

Maru was from one of the smaller, individual 3/2 person packs, and had been training to become a samurai before captured. Being in the pound actually only strengthened his resolve to be a swordsman, and he'd often chant the core tenants of the samurai's way to try and calm/center himself

Haruka was also captured with her brother, but he would not survive the pound and died fairly early on into their residency there. Their sister, Tobirama and Hashirama's mother, was never captured and managed to escape relatively unscathed.

While all Hatake's have the chance to earn their clan stripes via leading their first hunt when around 14/15, Haruka was trapped in the dog pound at 14/15. As such, that 'first hunt' she led as an adult ended up invertedly being the attack on the pound which she helped to lead. The stripes it earned her are known as 'mountain stripes,' and are meant to symbolize an unshakable, unstoppable iron will. Deeming her an immovable force of nature, all on her own

By the time of Konoha, Haruka is actually all that remains of what was once the western fang pack. The last other member from that pack (the twins' father, actually) died to sickness the winter before Konoha was founded. She's actually decently fucked up about it but hides it incredibly well.

Uhh final thoughts:

Hatake Haruka, age 18— she got a hundred problems and bloodline hunters are 90 of em

[myfandomtopia]

Tracy really subverting tropes cause Nick the “golden boy” is canonically the rebel and Sel the “dark, brooding” character is canonically the rule follower.

[poorly-drawn-mdzs]

Gaslight, Gatekeep, Girl found dead in a hidden room.

[First] Prev <–-> Next

[oleafia-art]

some golden guards + caleb

i wanted to take a break and do some character design of a few golden guards based off of some of the ones seen briefly in canon. i also drew hunter and caleb as references for faces and stuff. i tried to make them as similar as possible, but also looking very individual to one another. since belos claimed that hunter looks the most like caleb, i tried to stay true to that while keeping the other three looking similar but not quite as identical. anyways i love them <3 they’re like the most mentally ill family ever to me

these weren’t supposed to be real ocs or anything but then i ended up giving them names and backstories and so i wrote a little about them aaaand now im obsessed. i will try to make a full body ref for them, especially alistair and/or constance, if i have time

i apologize for my godawful handwriting 💔

[aeroplaneblues]

Pillow 💤😴

Drawing things only 3 people like😌 thats very on brand of me lmao. These two actually interact on and off screen so why not smooch? 🤷‍♀️ Anyway after playing both of their story quests they quickly became my favorites alongside miyabi🥰

[shywhumpauthor]

A Whumper with fire powers branding their Whumpee not just with their name or initials, but their handprints.

Two palms scarred against either side of Whumpee’s neck, fingers wrapping around their throat in a collar that can never be removed. Hands on their sides, just below their broken ribs, a touch that will never relent. Fingers wrapped around their wrists in shackles that won’t be unlocked. A handprint against their face, cupping their cheek that had already suffered so many punches. The small of their back. A single hand just between their shoulder blades. Dragging down their thighs.

Just. Branded handprints.

[v-poreons]

OCposting..... This is Coven :3 she's a witch who specializes in luck magic! I need to post her so I can yap about her more, she's rotating in my brain at top speed

(Also her bf belongs to @oodliedoodlies hiiii hiiiiiiii hi hi hi)

[liquidatorbruntfca]

while glaringly obvious plot holes, chasms in logic and painfully missed opportunities are inevitable in any long-running series/franchise, the one star trek plot hole that has kept me up at night more than any other, the one that with each episode, twists the knife further and further, is the fact that Captain Kathryn Janeway did not come up through engineering. like HUH???

i’m only halfway through season 2 and very rarely does an episode go by where Janeway doesn’t find an excuse to make her way to engineering. the second something goes wrong with the ship that woman is SPRINTING to see what’s going on with her own two eyes (and usually her hands too). like in S1 E1 of Voyager, they get flung 70,000 light years from home, and one of the first things she does is run to engineering.

i know i know, she was a science officer, something something captains need to be proficient in all domains aboard a starship, yada yada - yes, Janeway has a reputation for going above and beyond when it comes to knowing her shit, but her level of comfort and familiarity with engineering, her ability (and desire) to run around, ask questions, complete tasks and essentially function as a regular member of the engineering crew indicates to me more than just ‘she’s smart’ (see: “Warp Particles!”)

TLDR: Kathryn Janeway was, is, and always will be an engineering girlie to me and i will die on this hill

[necrotic-nephilim]

i personally have very complicated feelings on the Gotham Knights video game and the routes it takes with characterization. i think it has a charm to it and it goes in an interesting direction with everyone (especially within the confides of the plot of the game) but it does have certain moments that veer painfully fanon for me. (such as: the dialogue where Tim drinks too much coffee) it's an interesting story for what it is but i don't view it comics-based for characterization and therefore don't care to interact with it much for like. fanfic purposes.

that *said* though. i do have to give the game some kind of credit for giving one of the top five JayTim moments that lives rent free in my mind. every since i played the game, the cutscene lives in my mind daily. it's the specific cutscene where Jason and Tim are arguing about whether or not Jason's non-lethal bullets are too dangerous for the field, and the argument leads to TIm *standing in front of the target* Jason is shooting and telling Jason to shoot him. it lives rent free for me. i never stop thinking about this.

the absolute certainty Tim has that he is in no danger standing in front of Jason, who has a loaded gun pointed at his face. the way Jason *hesitates* for just a moment before lowering the gun. he thinks about it for just a second. Gotham Knights JayTim seem to get along very well and can rely on each other, but Jason still clearly holds a bitterness about his death and Tim that flickers through in some lines of dialogue under the guise of jokes. especially since this game deals *heavily* with concepts of Pit Madness causing an altered state of consciousness, i think it's believable that occasionally, Jason fights the urge to fight and hurt Tim for the feeling of being replaced.

i like their tension so much in this canon. they get along but you can *tell* Tim is afraid of addressing Jason's trauma or even addressing Jason head-on, and Jason leans into spooking Tim about it. which isn't very comics feeling in their dynamic, but it is an interesting way to place their dynamic if you're playing with a more timid Tim who's newer to the role of Robin. (which he seems to be in-game) he really doesn't want to offend Jason, or worse, piss him off. but he'll still face Jason head on for things like this, while completely aware of what Jason could be capable of.

and Jason seems very protective of Tim and respecting Tim as a Robin in typical Jason fashion. if Tim pushes, Jason *will* relent. he knows this is a kid who's proved himself and should be treated with equal respect, sometimes even more than Dick and Babs do in-game.

so for all that to culminate in Tim stepping in front of Jason's loaded gun that he *knows* is on the edge of being too dangerous, just to force Jason to listen? it's the most unhinged way Tim could've gotten his point across in this scene. he was literally daring Jason to hurt him and playing with a very dangerous fire. but he did it anyway bc he believed he could make Jason heel just at the thought of hurting Tim. and he was *right*. they're gay and i'm feral ty.

[reds-skull]

Been thinking about Farah a lot lately...

[beanghostprincess]

A bit tired of people complaining about Sanji's principle of "not hitting women" being misogynistic when it has been clearly stated multiple times that he does not choose it and it's heavily tied to his trauma and admiration for his dad and respect for women and definitely not from seeing women as somehow weaker than him

[thingsmaygetalittlecrazy]

Sweet n spicy Eloise Babbit x Sebastian Sallow doodle 🤤💖

Between rereading Clumsy, starting to reread Before It Felt Like A Sin, and feeling generally feral when I saw this base pose on pinterest a month or two ago, I immediately ran to my drawing app to turn it into Eloise and Seb 🏃‍♀️🏃‍♀️🏃‍♀️🏃‍♀️🏃‍♀️ but I changed pretty much NOTHING from the base pose so I felt guilty for posting it, BUT I think the world (and especially Maddy) deserve more Eloise content....so here is my very humble doodle ❤️❤️❤️❤️🫶🫶🫶🫶

@myokk not only are you an awesome, passionate, talented artist but SUCH bright light and kind soul in this space, it's been such a pleasure interacting and yapping and I hope you know how appreciated your loving, kind presence is on here!!!!!!!! 🥰🥰🥰

[couch-house]

Okay I finally figured out Comet's origin story. Long version under the cut but short version is: knuckles finally got to reunite with the surviving echidnas but they didnt want to leave their homes to live on the floating island, so an alien felt bad for him and gave him a fankid <3

Okay so to recap stc canon: Knuckles has spent his entire time on the floating island believing he is protecting it until his people return. he doesnt remember, but he used to live in the ancient echidna city with Tikal and Pachacamac, but somehow was transported 8000 years into the future (present day). This happens after Tikal briefly brings Sonic back in time to help the echidnas fight off the Drakon empire--fish-shaped aliens that discovered chaos energy (the emeralds were made by the Drakons with the echidnas' sacred emeralds, then the echidnas "stole" them back and the drakons declared war). They succeed in beating them back for this battle, but my headcanon (which ended up being p close to what Kitching supposedly planned out) is that after this battle, the drakons come back and end up wiping the echidnas out--those that arent killed are taken off mobius as prisoners/slaves. At some point, some of them are able to escape and form a sanctuary away from the drakons.

Okay now we gotta talk about the Kaamdaarns. The Kaamdaarns are alternate dimension aliens that appear in 113, 119, and 120. They are peaceful aliens with "highly advanced science" indistinguishable from magic, which they use to disable any weapons on their planet and then also to free Shorty from his cybernik suit.

so the STORY WITH COMET GOES... Kintobor helps Knuckles to identify some kind of beacon signal that appears to be coming from other echidnas. Knuckles and Sonic hop into a spaceship (tekno and porker collab) and through a dimensional portal (tekno and kintobor collab) to find the source. they find a colony of echidnas long-established on a sanctuary planet under the protection of the kaamdaarns. the reunion is pretty bittersweet for knuckles bc like. these are people 8000 years removed from his culture. there are maybe some things still in common but otherwise their lives are completely distinct from how he grew up. and after 8000 years, very few if any of them consider the floating island home more than the place they are now. even those that might be interested in going back with knuckles are wary of the risk of leaving the safety of the kaamdaarn planet and being captured by drakons. and for a bunch of ruins... it's not really worth it

so knuckles has once again lost the whole Purpose of Everything He's Done and ummm well it goes about as well as the first time that happened

so he's hanging on by a Thread but the kaamdaarn that brought him and sonic to the village--her name's haven here she is--

says "you know what will fix that? a child." and see above: her making comet. GREAT idea, i agree. i mean the thought was more like "surely there is a way for you to both stay with your friends AND with other echidnas." but same difference. anyway sonic doesnt know what kind of egg that is.

thanks for listening. here's porker lewis as a reward :)