If there is one thing I despise as much as a Nazi, it’s those hand-wringing, pearl-clutching Nazi enablers who get all upset about Nazis being punched. Yeah, fifty million people died in the 1940s because pathetic fucking wastes of flesh didn’t want to get their pwecious widdle hands dirty, and somehow deluded themselves into believing actual evil could be reasoned with.

Nazis’ goal is the extermination of all “races” other than their own. They don’t deserve to speak. They don’t deserve safety. And anyone who defends their “right” to spread their doctrine of genocide doesn’t deserve those things either.

Elorcan Werewolf AU part 6

It was so damn hard to not write Lorcan instead of Lory and vice versa. You know you’re tired when you write cock instead of cook.

“Just like our eyes, our hearts have a way of adjusting to the dark”

Elorcan Werewolf Part 6

Lory didn’t come back. No matter how many times she left raw meat out in the woods or called his name. No one responded to the have-you-seen-this-dog posters she dutifully taped on tree trunks, listing rewards she’d scour from her trust funds. The animal control couldn’t find him, and found no traces of a large-sized dog or wolf in the woods. There was no sighting in the inner cities either.

Lory was gone without a trace, as if he were a ghostly whisper whose secret existence only Elide knew.

Elide mourned him, and even held a funeral for him, placing all his collars in formation around a patch of grass he often frequented, moodily staring into the forest as if cursing the restraints on his body.

Only the pink collar was gone, leaving a foul aftertaste in her mouth: never had before Elain so despised a color, and demonstrated her pettiness by refusing to wear anything of that hue.

On her third night of eating rocky road ice cream and staring blearily at her papers, Manon and Aelin burst through her door without warning. Elide popped off the the chair, hand snaking out to reach for a spare dagger. Seeing it was only her Alpha and Beta, she placed a hand over her heart and managed a glare at them.

The frown had easily been swept away as she took in her friends’ appearances. In Manon’s arms, a grocery bag of chocolate covered strawberries winked at her. In Aelin’s own hands, shopping bags of dresses and short skirts filled the very top to bottom.

“I can’t have my favorite healer down.” Aelin breezed through her living room, pulling aside her curtains and tossing all her tissues into the waste bin. After a heartbeat and cocking her head, she amended, “Well maybe Sorscha as well.”

“We have this day all to ourselves,” added Manon. “The Thirteen are in command for twenty four hours.” She stalked through the threshold, inspecting her cottage, and noting the lack of pictures adorning her tables and walls.

Elide reached for a strawberry, but Manon slapped her wrist and ushered her to her bedroom. Her friends tutted in distaste at the simple designs; Aelin nearly threw a fit when she saw her gray-lined bedroom.

“How can you live like this?” Aelin tugged her fire-gold strands of hair, surveying Elide’s simplistic room. Elide watched as Aelin tear through her dresser, clucking her tongue with an almost revulsion reserved for her utmost disappointment. Manon, however, sniffed the air, and flocked to the window, her spine stiff.

Elide played with the hem of her shirt. She’d also stared out that window, wondering where Lory had gone, and why he decided to not return, to abandon her. She had offered him a steady hearth and affection, pieces of her heart, and glimpses into her past.

Emptiness tugged at the corner of her heart. She didn’t need glamour when she had Lory’s presence. There was a soothing quality to his presence that didn’t need to speak volumes from the human tongue. The mere steady and silent exposure to an animal with no ill intent towards her, in which he’d lick her palm and twitch those ears, stare at her, as if she were the only human in the world—

Aelin flopped onto Elide’s bed in defeat. “The only option I see is getting laid.” She tapped her chin in thought. “Shopping and eating won’t cut it. You need physical contact.”

Elide shook her head, and stood next to Manon. The Beta’s eyes fixed on the path of grass where the collars sat in heart formation, mocking Lory’s absence. She imagined Lory curled up on the grassy plains, his hind legs bent in restlessness, and those dark, dark eyes following her shape as she did her yoga exercises, watching the Sun gallantly spiral into the vast sky.

Her heart warmed as she studied the two females in her room. One herself blazed with fierce mortality and sheer determination, the other a honed icicle and ironstone. They were two sides of the same coin, and if Elide wished, she could flip them into the air at her command.

Manon surreptitiously sniffed the air again. “Dog,” she hissed.

Elide nodded in confirmation. She’d always thought herself a cat lady, but there was something different about Lory other than his moodiness and his steely demeanor that seemed to simply see more than she did. The way his eyes would flicker with deeper intellect, and the powerful muscles rippling across his back as he stalked around her house as if he owned every inch. The way that nose would twitch in aversion when another male neared her, and a deep growl would thunder from the base of his throat—

It was almost as if her were her guardian angel. Her watchdog.

Elide pinched her arm. Dear Hellas, she really was hung over a dog, an animal that most likely found another warm home with another owner who would treat him with care every second—

Why was she so damned jealous?

Aelin joined them at the windowpane, and laid a hand against Manon. “Speak,” she ordered, and Elide recognized the Alpha command, one she rarely used.

“If my senses aren’t deceiving me, just a mere dog wasn’t here.”

“Your senses don’t lie.” Aelin crossed her arms. “What is it?”

“I detect a Lycan. Not a full-blooded one, mind you, but a wisp of a male that has Lycan blood running through his veins.”

Elide’s veins turned to ash. “No,” she said.

Wolf, Nox had said, and she’d dismissed him. What did a human know about dogs and wolves?

“Lory’s just a wolf. Or a large dog,” she blurted, and leaned back as Manon towered over her.

Aelin dragged Elide to her bed as Manon flipped her white-ash hair over a shoulder. “Tell us about this Lory,” she hummed.

Elide decided she did not like the glint in Manon’s eyes.

Lorcan was in deep shit. Deep, unrelenting shit. He had returned to the cadre, his bones cracking in protest, hair tousled and grim coating the exposed inches of skin, and sweat running down his neck in rivulets. He could feel his wolf thrashing inside of him, craving any type of release that didn’t involve a dead body, but utter dominance.

His wolf needed to claim his lovely, sweet, vixen of a mate, and Lorcan had forbade that.

His wolf needed to at least dominate a female, a poor attempt to loosen the edge of feralness that chipped away at him. Only his mate could fully quell him, but his mate did not want anything to do with him. A part of him disagreed, that the rules of nature and raw hand of fate had paired them together, but if his pure mate did not want him, then he would not object.

Because he was bound by blood and the fallen. Could his mate look past the hands that had snapped the necks of even the children? Could his mate accept his dark-woven future and calling for bleak death? Could his mate tolerate his penchant for starkness, the life of a spartan?

Fenrhys let out a low chuckle as Lorcan stalked through the entrance, his body shuddering in pain. His wolf was a monster inside of him, and it took his entire willpower to turn away the demands of intimacy. He would not touch another female unless his mate permitted him.

His wolf cursed Lorcan’s decision, roaring in protest. Both savage and pathetic, every Lycan’s wolf side needed a gentle hand in their life, and over the years, that softness expressed itself in watching submission, and Lycans resorting to casual sex.

It was another reason for his mate to hate him, he supposed. He could sense the innocence radiating from his mate, and while that made him and his wolf beyond ecstatic, a small part of him had wished that mate wouldn’t be so pure—so that he could also have a reason to hate her.

And in the hatred, they could find themselves back to each other, easier. Pain was the easiest emotion to deal with, the easiest feeling to manipulate. Words and the heart intertwined so deeply, all he could do is lie and break a strong psychological mindset.

But disgust had to be earned. Something had to go a little wrong, a little awry. A stone had to be overturned to reveal the dirt underneath rather than the smooth, cool surface. His history was no secret, his path as a warrior, as the cadre’s gamma, or first general. The tales of his executions and interrogations were no sight for his mate, a young girl who delighted in clean, savory truths. His rock had been tossed into the swamps to rot and he had emerged as the victor. Unscathed, but internally scarred.

He was not the male for her, and he cursed the Moon Goddess for this pairing. He had waited eons for the notion of love, and had waited for another broken soul who had wrecked havoc upon others—so they could share this pain in empathy. But the hand of nature had given him someone who could mend him, and that was something Lorcan knew he didn’t deserve. He could break his mate’s neck without so much as a blink, and ruin that soft skin and fill it with scars and blemishes. He could crush her with a single blow, and this precious, delicate creature that was Elide Lochan deserved more in life than a murderer.

Fenrhys laughed under his breath, watching Lorcan make way to his room. “She’s got you more whipped than Maeve.”

Maeve, their past Alpha Queen who had haunted his nightmares still. 

Now the only nightmare consisted of his mate’s rejection.

He could feel the ebbing of his darkness receding with his wolf’s ferality. Soon his own body would fade away into a weak waste of flesh if he and his wolf did not see eye to eye. If a Lycan’s human and wolf side did not live in harmony, the body would fail, and Lorcan had never once imagined himself in this scenario. The things his mate caused him without knowing—Elide Lochan would be his downfall.

He could only snap his teeth at Fenrhys and stagger towards his room, promising to wring the Fenrhy’s neck later.

His wolf called for Elide; to be simply near her would be enough to quell him for a week—months even.

But Lorcan refused to run the risk of claiming her outright. It was the rare case that his wolf overtook his body completely, pouring his intentions and will into every muscle and tendon. And the mere mention of his mate was enough for him cross the line into where the true feral lurked.

It was dangerous. He was dangerous. His mate made him more dangerous. He had no control of these matters of pure emotion coursing down him, making each step unbearable. His wolf demanded release and claiming and binding, and Lorcan slammed down on his will just as hard.

He had slaughtered armies. He would not allow the picture of his mate be his undoing. But that was her purpose, perhaps. To bring a Lycan to his knees. It would not be the first time in history such scheme had been done, and with all the misery Lorcan had caused, he wouldn’t expect anything less.

But sweet, sweet Elide—he didn’t believe she could harm a fly. She’d guide the insects that dared to breach her house out. She cooed and soothed. She was his angel. She was soft and gentle. She was everything he wasn’t.

“Lorcan,” Gavriel said.

He realized that he’d been leaning against a marble column, his entire posture tense.

“I’ll call Essar,” was all Gavriel said, before he disappeared down the hallway. A tang of gratitude swept down Lorcan that his friend did not help him limp back towards his room full of darkness.

Even Essar, the doe-eyed female, would not bother him there.

No one would bother a killer in his natural habitat.

His wolf was angered, and Lorcan did not bother to acknowledge the walls that were crumbling around him. He did not want Essar. He did not want a female who believed to see more in him, and wanted to change him. He did not want a casual fuck.

He wanted Elide Lochan.

And he would endure this pain of his body wasting away if it meant he could finally stay true to her. It was his penance, and he supposed he should thank the Moon Goddess for this chance.

“Bullshit.” Manon had walked back to the window, staring at the collars. “Although the scent is there, I refuse to believe that a male who is older than me and has killed more than me and seen more betrayals than me—will wear those pieces willing. And pink, much less.”

Aelin flung a hand over her heart. “You know, the names Lory and Lorcan are too similar too ignore. But the fact that a Lycan would willingly degrade himself for his mate—” Her Alpha let out a bitter, low chuckle.

Elide trembled, wrapping a blanket around herself. “Lory’s not Lorcan, Manon. Aelin, please.” She pleaded with them. “My mate doesn’t love me anymore than those girls he’s touched.”

She refused to believe this. Yet it explained so much, of why she was pining over a creature of the forest. It explained the comfort a four-legged creature could provide more than Aelin and Manon combined could bring her. It explained why she could trust him with stories of Morath, and why she needed to be around him constantly, checking up on him as much as he checked up on her. The way Lory looked at her—no animal would carry such tenderness in those eyes that had usually stared at everything in such solemn misery.

“You know, Rowan really has to pick up his game.” Aelin shook her head. “I’ve never seen him in wolf form, much less having a collar wrapped around that pretty neck. And we’re talking about a male who has probably has Death bowing to him. Pink, Elide? What were you thinking? That’s probably what scared him off.”

Elide bit her lip. “Did I mention that he ran off on a full moon?”

Manon’s head whipped around. She cocked her head in a way that was surely predatory, those eyes calculating. “You did not feel him cheating in anyway?”

She shook her head. “None. The mate bond doesn’t lie, and he’s actually kept…it…to himself.”

Aelin nodded to herself with grim certainty. “I really need to find a new mate.”

Manon clapped her hands. “Great. We have a female who doesn’t trust her male, and a male who’s pining after his female with one foot in the grave.” Her head swiveled towards Aelin. “Would Rowan tell you if Lorcan decided to visit Elide on a whim?”

The Alpha tossed her hands up in the air. “I think males blame females for bipolar syndrome because they displayed the traits in the first place. Who knows? One moment he’s sucking up to me, the next he’s the coldest floating piece of ice in Antarctica.”

Manon crossed over the room, her eyes dark. “Enough. I’ve done with you both fawning over your mates—” she dismissed Aelin with a bold flick of her nails, and turned towards Elide “—another reason we have come here is because we are holding a ball, and I think it would do you well to come. Leave your studies and moping for another day. Live one night, and see who you were before you met your mate.” She briefly glanced at Aelin. “And you as well.”

Aelin let out a harsh laugh and fell onto the bed. “Stars above. What have we come to, Elide?”

Elide cradled her pillow, imagining it as Lory. “Love. It does the worst to us. Doesn’t it?”

Aelin chose to move up the ball’s date by a week, so the Pack House was a flurry of commotion, silk and lace flying through the hallways. Perfumes and delicacies crammed in every corner, bouquets of every kind of flower floating in the breeze and fluttering around the curtains, which had been elegantly thrown open to allow the rays of sun and night pour into the sweeping ballroom. The crystal chandelier had been polished, with gold ornaments and statues gleaming at every facet. Soft streams of music swept away the blinding lights, the pleasantries of kisses and hugs exchanged as servants poured in, arms full of arrays of all kinds.

Aelin had called in every favor, demanding an all-out production. Ancient wine and bottles of drinks beyond Elide’s knowledge were brought out and displayed. Trinkling windpipes and glistening harps of all sizes were situated on pedestals, a grand piano arcing the center. Layers of cakes were seized into the kitchen, and a flurry of cooks flooded the hallways, arms full of batter and butter.

Elide watched, captivated by all the commotion. Until she saw a flower girl and a servant boy exchanging a sloppy, but passionate kiss in the gardens. When they pulled away, still in each other’s embraces, their faces were flushed red, but happy nonetheless.

Elide turned away.

The cadre had been invited. To not would have been a public insult and as good as a declaration of war. Aelin had flourished her arms out, declaring that shit was mostly to go down, and ordered an extra shift of guards to loiter in the hallways, and blend among the shadows. Elide had fled to her old room in anticipation, wondering how she’d confront Lorcan.

Thank you for protecting me as a wolf? Not putting up a fuss for wearing the collars? Watching me dress and shower? Did you get tired of my body—is that why you left?

As the sun set, and the moon rose, Elide couldn’t help the trepidation that pumped through every vein. It didn’t matter if Lorcan showed up with another girl or two notched up in his arms. She just had to see him.

The first trickle of guests streamed in, Aelin and Manon greeting each arrival with a curt nod and quick smile in customary tradition. Elide had smoothed the soft fabric of her skirts down, twirling a strand string of black around her finger.

She wanted Lorcan to know that she wasn’t afraid of death. She was a werewolf, and she also had bled from silver, had been held hostage in the Morath pack. She knew death and death knew her. Elide had often found herself on the brink of death, poison and morphine pumping through every vein of her scrawny body. The scars on her ankle was a reminder of the memories, locked up. The lashes of the whip were no stranger to her, and the stinging had always been her silent friend. The cold loneliness that had swept through her as she had crawled because her ankle had failed her, her Uncle—Alpha—Vernon failing her in worse ways. Morath had taught her that family was not blood. Family was trust, and trust was earned. She had learned that the world was not her oyster.

The world was clever and cruel, but it was also colorful, and if she could chose to live it so that she could be content not any seeking revenge, then she could rise above the pain. She would not Morath break her.

Because one day she would bring Morath down.

Elide didn’t believe that monsters were born. Monsters were cultivated and grown from the vices of humanity, something the Were were not exempt from either. And as Elide looked down at the crowds of entering people, she had an inkling of a feeling that Lorcan would not come. And as the clock chimed away minutes that transformed to hours, she knew her suspicions were right.

She didn’t think one individual, much less a male, could affect her this way. Manon had been wrong when she’d said that mates were a bedtime story. A mate was a thorn in her side, and she cursed the mate bond as a shrapnel of pain digging into her mind, a throbbing that beat louder with each breath. Something was off, and the mate bond flared between her, pulsing in her head. She could feel a gentle caressing down her side, and an almost frenzied despair flashing down.

Aelin was instantly at her side, half-carrying and half-guiding her to the infirmary. She pressed a palm against her forehead, and Elide moaned in pain.

“She’s burning up,” Aelin whispered to someone, who slammed a dagger into the table in frustration. Manon.

“Is he cheating on you?” Manon demanded, her voice near guttural. Her tapping of her nails against the steel table drove Elide further to an edge. There was something wrong—not by fault, but by nature. There was a wedge cleaving between her mate, but not between them. A struggle between man and wolf, a fight that always ended in bloodshed.

The Prince Rowan Whitethorn burst through the door, his face ashen. He further paled as Manon whipped out her favorite blade, Wind Cleaver, that promised death. Aelin merely sat at the foot of the bed in which Elide laid, sweat pouring down her forehead. She tried to bow, but Aelin was having none of it, using her Alpha command to order Elide to sit and rest.

“How dare you,” Aelin snarled, turning to her mate with livid anger. “Have the audacity to not show up, and flaunt yourself in now?”

Rowan shook his head, and slowly lifted his palms into the air. Elide could have sworn his Adam’s apple bobbed. “This is beyond me.” His eyes cut to Elide, and Manon loose a low growl. “Your mate is dying. Fading away.”

Elide managed to leap off the bed before her ankle collapsed and gave out on her. Aelin wrapped an arm around her shoulder, Manon pacing around Rowan, shielding her from the first threat that was the Prince of Lycans.

“Explain,” Manon commanded, her voice a thin blade of viciousness.

Rowan sighed, a sound that spoke ancient volumes. “Lorcan’s wolf is not taking Elide’s absence well…and believes she’s rejecting him. The fact that Lorcan refuses to lay with a female even for—” Rowan’s face turned to stare at the wall with shame stitched across his eyes “—a means to satiate his wolf’s side—it’s causing his own wolf to reject him. He won’t survive the night if this keeps up.”

Aelin tucked Elide closer to her chest. “I won’t allow her to go near that monster,” she nearly spat out, and glared daggers at her mate, who lifted a brow. “I won’t put one of my pack members in danger.”

Rowan stared at Aelin, an unfathomable look sketched across his face. Something like cold fury spun in those eyes. “Lycans would rather die than hurt their mate.”

The Alpha of the Fireheart pack looked like she wanted to very much disagree, but surprisingly, it was Manon who said, “I think it’s Elide’s decision.”

Elide thought back to her time with Lory, and how he’d so easily seeped happiness into her life. How he’d press his wet nose against her knees and stare up at her, resting his snout on her lap. The way he had made her laugh and made sure she’d eaten every last bite, and encouraged her to go for runs in the woods. He had made her smile. Made her appreciate life. Made her experience joy.

She thought back to the nights when he’d lick away her tears, and lay closer to her side, snuggling against her.

Elide lifted her head, even as she felt searing pain in her neck, and said, “Take me to my mate.”

“I’m going to hold another ball,” Aelin announced to no one in particular as they piled into a black SUV that screamed wealth. “Maybe a masquerade.”

Manon filled the silence by sharpening her nails.

Rowan pulled the car up to a sprawling mansion with silver gates. As they walked across the pristine, cut lawn, Elide marvelled at the honey droplets of morning dew that still drooped from the leaves, the moonlight illuminating the beauty of the greenery that was contained just in the lawn.

The entrance had no door, and Elide supposed it was fitting when it would be suicide to enter the home of the Lycans. Marbled pillars and glass panels filled her vision.

Rowan stalked down the hallways until he faced a door that was halfway open. The last door in the hallway.

Rowan frowned, slightly sniffing the air. “I think—”

Elide willed herself to hold her head high as she slipped through the door.

She didn’t expect to be engulfed in darkness, save for a burning candle lighting the room into a soft, orange glow. She didn’t think that the room would be immaculate, and no dust nor blood would stain the floor. She somewhat expected the lines of swords and daggers hooked onto the walls.

She didn’t expect the outline of women on top of the large male, sprawled across dark sheets. She didn’t expect the guilt written in the eyes of her mate as his head snapped towards her, and his arm to be wrapped around the other female’s hips. She expected the flicker of surprise in that granite-hewn face. She didn’t expect the tang of arousal that permeated the too-clean room, and the beautiful doe-eyed female on Lorcan’s lap to seem strangely sad, her hair cascading down across Lorcan’s bare chest.

Elide took one look at the embrace of her mate and the other female before she fled the room, her own wolf also turning cold and slamming down a wall not even Aelin or Manon could penetrate.

She ignored the howl that shattered the air as she felt her bones shift and crack. She ignored the image of the other female’s legs locked around her mate’s waist. She ignored the voice telling her to go back, to return to her mate.

She embraced the other voice that told her to seek rejection, revenge. The one that saw that doe-eyed female with soft curves with hands around the corded muscle of the Lycan that should have been hers. 

When white paws hit the ground, Elide Lochan felt herself bolt forward, away from her mate. And she did not look back as a series of howls and tearing pierced the dark night.

  • V: *breathes*
  • Yoosung: You're swine. You're a vulgar little maggot. Don't you even have the slightest clue as to how pathetic you are? You worthless bag of filth. As they say in Texas, I'll bet you couldn't pour piss out of a boot with instructions on the heel. You are a canker. A sore that won't go away. A cock-wart. I would rather kiss a Persian than be seen with you. You are a fiend and a coward, and you have horrible breath. You are degenerate, noxious; basically, an ideal fuking moron. I feel debased just for knowing you exist. I despise everything about you. You are a bloody nardless newbie twit protohominid chromosomally aberrant caricature of a coprophagic local parasitic pond scum and I wish you would just go away. If this were Sparta, you would have been cast to death at birth. You're a putrescence mass, a walking vomit. You are a spineless little worm deserving nothing but the profoundest contempt. You are a jerk, a cad, a weasel, a waste of MY oxygen. Your life is a monument to stupidity. You are a stench, a revulsion, a big suck on a sour lemon. You are a bleating fool, a curdled staggering mutant dwarf smeared richly with the effluvia and offal accompanying your alleged birth into this world. An insensate, blinking calf, meaningful to nobody, abandoned by the puke-drooling, giggling beasts who sired you and then killed themselves in recognition of what they had done. I will never get over the embarrassment of belonging to the same species as you. You are a monster, an ogre, a malformity. I barf at the very thought of you. You have all the appeal of a paper cut. Lepers avoid you. You are vile, worthless, less than nothing. You are a weed, a fungus, the dregs of this earth. And did I mention that you smell? If you aren't an idiot, you made a world-class effort at simulating one. Try to edit your writing of unnecessary material before attempting to impress us with your insight. The evidence that you are a nincompoop will still be available to readers, but they will be able to access it more rapidly. You snail-skulled little rabbit. Would that a hawk pick you up, drive its beak into your brain, and upon finding it rancid set you loose to fly briefly before spattering the ocean rocks with the frothy pink shame of your ignoble blood. May you choke on the queasy, convulsing nausea of your own trite, foolish beliefs. You are weary, stale, flat and unprofitable. You are grimy, squalid, nasty and profane. You are foul and disgusting. You're a fool, an ignoramus. Monkeys look down on you. Even sheep won't have sex with you. You are unreservedly pathetic, starved for attention, and lost in a land that reality forgot. And what meaning do you expect your delusionally self-important statements of unknowing, inexperienced opinion to have with us? What fantasy do you hold that you would believe that your tiny-fisted tantrums would have more weight than that of a leprous desert rat, spinning rabidly in a circle, waiting for the bite of the snake? You are a waste of flesh. You have no rhythm. You are ridiculous and obnoxious. You are the moral equivalent of a leech. You are a living emptiness, a meaningless void. You are sour and senile. You are a disease, you puerile one-handed slack-jawed drooling meatslapper. On a good day you're a half-wit. You remind me of drool. You are deficient in all that lends character. You have the personality of wallpaper. You are dank and filthy. You are asinine and benighted. You are the source of all unpleasantness. You spread misery and sorrow wherever you go. I cannot believe how incredibly stupid you are. I mean rock-hard stupid. Dehydrated-rock-hard stupid. Stupid so stupid that it goes way beyond the stupid we know into a whole different dimension of stupid. You are trans-stupid stupid. Meta-stupid. Stupid collapsed on itself so far that even the neutrons have collapsed. Stupid gotten so dense that no intellect can escape. Singularity stupid. Blazing hot mid-day sun on Mercury stupid. You emit more stupid in one second than our entire galaxy emits in a year. Quasar stupid. Your writing has to be a troll. Nothing in our universe can really be this stupid. Perhaps this is some primordial fragment from the original big bang of stupid. Some pure essence of a stupid so uncontaminated by anything else as to be beyond the laws of physics that we know. I'm sorry. I can't go on. This is an epiphany of stupid for me. After this, you may not hear from me again for a while. I don't have enough strength left to deride your ignorant questions and half baked comments about unimportant trivia, or any of the rest of this drivel. Duh. The only thing worse than your logic is your manners. I have snipped away most of what you wrote, because, well? it didn't really say anything. Your attempt at constructing a creative flame was pitiful. I mean, really, stringing together a bunch of insults among a load of babbling was hardly effective? Maybe later in life, after you have learned to read, write, spell, and count, you will have more success. True, these are rudimentary skills that many of us normal people take for granted that everyone has an easy time of mastering. But we sometimes forget that there are challenged persons in this world who find these things more difficult. If I had known, that this was your case then I would have never read your post. It just wouldn't have been 'right'. Sort of like parking in a handicap space. I wish you the best of luck in the emotional, and social struggles that seem to be placing such a demand on you, especially in your pursuit of fictitious girls that you like to post here.
  • P.S.~ You are hypocritical, greedy, violent, malevolent, vengeful, cowardly, deadly, mendacious, meretricious, loathsome, despicable, belligerent, opportunistic, barratrous, contemptible, criminal, fascistic, bigoted, racist, sexist, avaricious, tasteless, idiotic, brain-damaged, imbecilic, insane, arrogant, deceitful, demented, lame, self-righteous, byzantine, conspiratorial, satanic, fraudulent, libellous, bilious, splenetic, spastic, ignorant, clueless, illegitimate, harmful, destructive, dumb, evasive, double-talking, devious, revisionist, narrow, manipulative, paternalistic, fundamentalist, dogmatic, idolatrous, unethical, cultic, diseased, suppressive, controlling, restrictive, malignant, deceptive, dim, crazy, weird, dystopic, stifling, uncaring, plantigrade, grim, unsympathetic, jargon-spouting, censorious, secretive, aggressive, mind-numbing, arassive, poisonous, flagrant, self-destructive, abusive, socially-retarded, puerile, clueless, and generally Not Good.

anonymous asked:

I'm really just trying to understand why you would reblog the obituary of the Charleston Nine and a couple posts later talk about how much you want to help him. Are you fucking serious? Why don't you just go and dance on their graves? Have you no conscious? You and your little boyfriend are wastes of human flesh, wish they would inject you too. You're vile.

Im just going to reply to your arrogant ass to make everyone else that sends me shit like this understand something….

I have met and talked to most of the victims families along with one survivor, my friend and I were even invited to last weeks bible study by Rev. Manning. Im not sure what obituary you’re talking about but if its this picture…

Im going to have to say that this was given to me by someone at Emanuel, last Wednesday after Bible Study. 

I also want to add that I have never said I wanted to “help my little boyfriend” which makes me think you read the fake jail manifesto and thought it was real, so you come here to attack me for something that is false. I have never showed an attraction for Dylann. I have this blog because I’m following the case and I simply like updating others, aside from the fact that I am very interested in True Crime.

I do not believe in the death penalty and I do not want Dylann Roof to die, but that doesn’t mean I want them to set him free. 

Lastly I want to say some of the things victims family members have said to Dylann… Cynthia Hurd’s sister in law offered to go visit him in jail and pray for and with him, many have told him they pray for him daily including Felicia Sander’s one of the victims, and lastly a few did say they did not want him to get the death penalty one being Susie Jackson’s grand daughter. 

So to sum everything up, at the end of the day you are worse than all of us, because you just wished death upon someone who has done nothing to you. I have respect for those who were killed that night, and trust me when I say anyone who attends Emanuel would be horrified if they saw the things you said about us.

You are the only vile one here. 

ana-kagetsu  asked:

"Wait a minute. Are you jealous?!" For Gawain/Chris (I pondered "If you die I'm gonna kill you" but that seemed a little too obvious lol)

(okay sorry but for the idea i had to work needed to change the line a little)

There were ½ a dozen people in the Kingsman gym. Gawain and Eggsy were in the ring blowing off some of the steam that had built up on their joint mission to America. They had gotten back two nights ago but were still a little restless. The figured a good way to deal with everything was to beat each other up.

They were grappling on the ground and the others in the gym had all stopped their work outs to watch. Everyone was so engaged in the fight they didn’t notice the door open.

They all absolutely heard though, “You fucking tosser.” Chris had really good projection for yelling.

Chris stormed across the gym and they were all surprised when he easily rolled himself into the boxing ring. “Fucking wanker, I can’t believe you fucking fucked up like this. What the fuck, you giant useless dildo? How could you?” He roared. He was holding something in his hand. “The only thing going up yer ass anytime soon is my foot or a rusty mic stand!” He roared and threw a pair of trousers and pants at Gawain clearly way too slim for the man.

Just about the perfect size for Eggsy.

Eggsy tried to grab them off of Gawain who was still on the ground. He looked at Merlin who just shrugged. No one was quite sure what to do. Chris was beyond furious, and they all thought that maybe he had a right to be.

“I can explain -” Gawain said slowly, standing up. He handed the clothes to Eggsy. “The mission parameters changed, and darling, you and I aren’t exclusive, we’ve always agreed to that.” Gawain was speaking slowly, like to a trapped animal. “If that’s changed, shouldn’t we talk about it first?”

Chris rolled his eyes. “Like I give a fuck if you shagged The Wool Man!” he yelled. “He’s got a pert arse and if it kept ya alive to come home, let him suck yer pathetic cock as much as he needs to.”

“But, sweet one, you sound…are you jealous?” Gawain asked confused.

“Why does he think Chris is all fluff and rainbows?” Sean asked Sin who was recording the whole thing.

“Hell if I know, Chris is a grumpy bastard,” Sin whispered back.

Chris was pacing in the ring. “Turned out the pockets didn’t I, to see if there were a person to return them to. Which was stupid because if it were a mission shag, they were a one off in a different country. Only realized they were Kingsman pants -”

“How?” Gawain wondered.

“Hamish has an idiosyncratic stitch,” Chris waved it away.

“Interesting observation,” Merlin said to himself. He’d have to talk to Hamish about that.

“Anyways, then it fell out,” Chris said. He looked furious. “DID YOU, YOU FUCKING WASTE OF HUMAN FLESH DEVOID OF A SOUL SEE THE DARK TOWER WITHOUT ME?”

“Oh shit,” Eggsy said. Merlin gestured for Eggsy to get out of the ring, fast.

“Well, sure,” Gawain answered. Every man in the room was backing up slowly. Merlin began planning Gawain’s funeral. “Just a movie right?”

“Well, he’s dead,” Sin whispered. He kept recording as he backed away.

“Just a movie?” Chris’s voice went from yelling to a whisper. “I have first editions, all signed. I have Roland’s gun tattooed on my shoulder. I wrote a song called keeping Ka-tet. Stephen King tweeted that the youtube video was awesome. I printed that tweet and have it framed.” Chris was advancing on Gawain who was truly cluing in that he was in more danger now that he had ever been on the mission. “I have had the tickets to it ordered for a month at that theatre Baldy McResting BitchFace owns. I had t-shirts made up for us. And you went to see it with The Wool Man to kill time on the mission.” Chris went over to the corner and grabbed the tape and wrapped his fingers before putting on the gloves. 

All the agents who were fleeing, stopped in their tracks. Gawain was rather good at boxing. This couldn’t go well.

“Baby, I’m so sorry. We can still go see it, it was really good!”

“Not helping yourself,” Sin coughed.

“If you spoil even one thing in it, I’ll put a drum stick down your throat,” Chris warned. He took up a boxing stance.

“Darling, my heart, I can’t fight you, I’ll -”

Chris threw a left hook that took Gawain down. “My drum kit is named Deschain, you fucking tosser. And my dad won three golden gloves and a goddamn silver medal at the olympics.” 

“I love you,” Gawain said in awe. “My sweet drummer.”

“I’m kicking yer arse and taking someone else to the movie. Any takers?” He asked the crowd.

Tristan who had been silent the whole time. “I’ll go with you,” He glared at Gawain. “You never fuck with a man’s thing.” Everyone in the room nodded in agreement.

Gawain grinned at Chris and raised his gloves.

Chris’s grin was much sharper, “You are so dead, Secret Agent Man.”

anonymous asked:

So the tumblr Overwatch fandom is getting mad over the policewoman skin for D.Va, because police brutality or something. Nothing is ever good enough for them and this is what I was worried about when Blizzard kept pandering to these cunts constantly. I'm sick of these wastes of flesh ruining games for actual gamers. There is no such thing as creative freedom in the gaming industry anymore. At least not with these SJAs getting 'triggered' by every little thing.

Aren’t these skins optional? What’s the big deal? Just don’t use it!


Having the time to do these is always a pleasure, so without further ado:

-Boris: The life of a lab rat is a tough one isn’t it? Tested and experimented to see what does and doesn’t kill the average commoner and being a stepping stone towards progress ain’t pretty as Boris here can attest.

Details about this rodent’s origins are up in the air, but what’s certain is that it’s a walking, decomposing, grown in size, runaway beast that has had one too many syringes, amputations and modifications to take it anymore. With its original eyes gone and his eyelids sewn shut, its ears now house its new ghoulish vision giving it a degree of enhanced senses on wherever it may go. Carrying a drum of waste stuck in its flesh and a plethora of wires and metal plaques, it roams into civilized areas in the dark and slowly brings upon a drought of pestilence and decay towards the very people that thought that it was no more than just an expendable test subject for their own good.

-Schultz: Created out of a completely unforeseen result, this airheaded flygor serves as a mostly compliant assistant, tending the needs and whatisits of his creator Fritz for the most part.

Seemingly erratic, the four-armed flyman is in reality a somewhat cynical being that even on a good mood is not above making bouts of black humor complete with several bzzzzzzzzz’s thrown into his speech. Part of this stems from his rough beginning as a mutant degenerate away from his simpleminded life as an ordinary fly and into a life of endeavors and troubles at the hands of his creator.

The long work hours at Fritz’s lab and the many chemical successes and disasters made Schultz develop an addiction to noxious fumes of which got him the idea of crafting a makeshift spray gun to defend himself. Humorously, in spite of what the others joke about it, Schultz has yet to realize the irony behind his choice of weapon.     

-Barry & Carry: In the faraway corners of where the odd folk lived and roamed, there was an strange mind in the form of Barry Mugworth who since his youth was obsessed in building mechanical knickknacks and all sorts of things that involved gears, wheels and tubes. Having learned from the great minds that came before him, Barry progressed to the point his constructs were near-alive but not quite there yet. Feeling stuck in this conundrum and quite low on materials, Barry decided to take ventriloquism as a profession to not only profit from his craft but also see what was the missing element to his designs.

Ridiculed and mocked, Barry’s performance acts were seen as balderdash and he grew to resent those that surrounded him. It was then that this out-of-the-norm genius decided to enact an act of retribution by unveiling a whole new type of dummy in the form of “Carry.” In the spotlight, Barry proceeded to perform a scathing satirical act against his public with his newest creation, only for the mechanical dummy to suddenly become too sentient to the point it started to act by its own accord and took over the whole act for itself. Dazzled at what happened, Barry saw that Carry ended up winning the applause of the public who were now enamored with the lanky bolted gentleman with the strong words and achieved a level of success that he hadn’t seen before.

Not wanting to leave this result behind, Barry promptly reorganized his whole act into a two-man routine with him and Carry performing an array of skits and odd wordplay humor that ended up making a name of him in the show biz. Although pleased at this turn of events, Barry expressed annoyance over the fact that his own dummy was overshadowing him, but untimely relented given that this man-made existence and identity were more or less what he was aiming for his creations to begin with. Rumor has it that he plans to extend his performance to a whole entourage of larger-than-life dummies.

-Walt Ceramann: Fables tell of a secluded wizard that was rumored to have turned himself into a being of the elements. The truth is….it’s slightly off unless wax is considered a lost element among the big ones like fire and wind.

Walter Ambrosious Ceramannicus was, in his ordinary human life, a somewhat unremarkable practitioner of the supernatural and seemed to have a not-so-promising future ahead of him. But one day, wanting to go beyond his limits, Walt attempted to perform a ritual to empower himself into bold new heights, but thanks to his chronic bouts of incompetence he ended up becoming something else entirely. Due to a few misspellings in the ritual’s incantation, his body became completely made of candle wax and disfigured his appearance into a wobbly distorted visage.

Shunned and cast away for this, Walt became a hermit and secluded himself into where he wouldn’t be disturbed as he came to slowly realize the advantages that his newfound form possessed. Little by little he mastered his wax powers and uncovered a multitude of uses including the likes of pyrokinesis and the ability to generate a near-endless variety of sentient wax creatures infused with a fraction of his own inner  being.

In this state, the previously discreet Walt has now become a confident person, even while prone to stumble upon his own words, he now feels enlightened and bold enough to stand out in the world as someone to be reckoned with. 

Feel like Shit

I’ll never know what it’s like to not be a waste of cells and flesh. I’m a terrible person. I don’t deserve to live. Fuck this life

Back In Your Arms


Pairing: Isaac x Reader

Summary: Hello, could I request an imagine where the reader is kinda down and feeling alone a while after Isaac left for France and she can’t sleep well at night because she was so used to Isaac holding her while she slept and the pack call him and he feels he’s had enough of being away so he comes back and assures her he’s back for good. Thank you! x

You were miserable, ever since Isaac left you felt so empty. Sure you had the rest of the pack that occasionally came to visit, but it just wasn’t the same thing as having Isaac physically here. Sleep less nights that’s what it had come down too, tossing and turning to any position that felt comfortable, hugging the pillow that Isaac would always sleep on just to catch the scent of his aftershave that still lingered.

Staring up at the ceiling it was officially going to be one of those nights again, and the clock hadn’t even reached midnight yet. You grabbed the pillow next to you and screamed into it, throwing it beside you this was one of the worst feelings someone ever had to experience….missing someone and wishing, praying, hoping that you could hold them. Seeing no point in staying in bed, you got up and went downstairs.

Before you go to the kitchen the doorbell rang, thinking it was a mistake you took another step, the doorbell rang again. Who on earth would come visit someone this late at night? Turning on the porch light, you peeked through the window. Sure enough it was Stiles standing on the other side. Opening the door you gave him a strange look.

“Hey Y/N what’s going on?” he asked, suspiciously chippy for someone who’s awake so close to midnight.

“Stiles there better be a very good explanation as to why you’re standing on my porch at midnight?” you told the boy.

“I was in the neighborhood, thought I would just drop by” he explained.

Staring at him this was odd behaviour even for Stiles, “Well you dropped by so goodnight”. Attempting to close the door, Stiles jammed his foot before it had the chance to close.

“Okay fine I’ll tell you the real reason I came. Scott sent me to make sure that you were okay, he saw how down you were at school so Stiles is here to cheer you up!” He opened his arms wide, and you couldn’t help but be amused at his attempt to get you to smile.

“Well tell Scott hat his very sweet, but I’m fine and I appreciate you coming all the way over here but it really wasn’t necessary. Goodnight Stiles” you said one last time, before successfully closing the door.

Stiles POV

Reaching into my jean pocket I dialed Scott’s number, after the second ring I heard his voice on the other line.

“Dude, she isn’t fine. I think it’s time we go to plan B”


It was about a minute or so before you heard Stiles jeep being roared to life, and taking off down the driveway. Whatever you were heading to the kitchen for you completely forgot about, due to the unexpected visit from Stiles. So instead you headed on upstairs to see if sleep would be kind enough to take over.

Nothing, in the space of an hour sleep once again had not taken over. This was getting beyond ridiculous and it physically hurt to not be able to have Isaac here by your side. The sound of your ringtone filled your ears, groaning at how loud it sounded you covered your ears with the pillow before rolling over to see the caller ID.

“Great” you mumbled under your breath.

“Didn’t I already tell you I was fine Stiles?” you stated to the ever so persistent teenage, that was calling you at 1 in the morning.

“I know and I totally heard you, but I figured you lied so I knew you could do with some cheering up”. he explained.

“Alright Stilinski, what’s going on?”

“It will all make sense in about 5 minutes, you can thank me and the pack later. Oh and go downstairs and open the front door”. With that you heard him hang up.

Seeing as though you probably had no choice, you heeded Stiles instructions and opened the front door. Not sure what you were hoping to find on the other side, but it certainly wasn’t a single red rose laying on the welcome mat. Picking it up, you brought it to your nose and smiled at how good it smelled.

Walking back inside, you wanted to call Stiles and ask him what the hell was going on. But as soon as you walked back in your warm room, everything begun making sense.


The tall boy turned around and it was really him, he was here in the flesh. Wasting no time just in case this was some kind of messed up joke or hallucination from the lack of sleep, you ran up and hugged him.

“I see that you’ve missed me as much as I’ve missed you” he spoke.

He was real, he was standing in the middle of your room and you were physically able to touch him. “Aren’t you suppose to be in France?” you asked as you slowly let go. Isaac not wanting you to step back, he held onto your waist keeping you close to him.

“I got a call from the pack telling me that you haven’t been sleeping, and basically been miserable. And I can’t have my girl feeling down, so I rushed right back so I could see you” he explained.

“When is your flight back? I want to make sure I can spend as much time with you before you have to leave again”.

He smiled wide and it really did light up your mood, “What if I told you that you’re stuck with me? Because baby I’m not going anywhere”.

Grinning, you pulled him down and smashed your lips on his. It felt like the world had been lifted off your shoulders. You felt safe, content and beyond happy that the one person you needed to have right beside you was going to be right beside you.

“I’ve missed you so damn much” he added after the kiss.

“You have no idea how much I’ve missed you too” replying back.

He took off his jacket and you saw his bags were sitting nicely in the corner of the room. He gabbed both of your hands before saying, “There is going to be all the time in the world for us to catch up, but right now you need to get some sleep Y/N”.

Shaking your head furiously, you didn’t want to close your eyes in case this was all just a dream. “I don’t want too, I’m fine now that your here” you stated stubbornly.

He chuckled at your response and caressed your check, “I promise you that I’m going to be right beside you once you wake up. But love you look tired as hell, so rest and I’ll see you in the morning”.

Isaac made sure you got underneath the covers and when you were comfortable, he quickly changed his jeans to sweats before climbing in to join you. Isaac was playing with your hair and you were safely nested in his arms.

Everything was the way it should be, and the thought of that was enough for you to close your eyes and allow your exhausted body to finally get some rest.

Show Me Your Teeth || realdarkiplier

continued from here with @realdarkiplier

Anti his tongue over razor sharp teeth as he looked at the other being lounging back as if the demon was no threat to him. To be frank, it pissed him off how at ease Dark was acting. 

“If I wanted Mark, you think I would be talking to you right now?” Anti picked at something beneath one of his sharp claws, his bright green eyes glowing, the only sign that the fucker in front of him was getting under his skin. 

“Besides, what would I want that pathetic waste of human flesh for?” His tone was acidic as he nonchalantly flicked a flake of dried blood out from beneath the nail. 


Title: Jealousy
Pairing: Thomas Sangster x Reader
Warnings: N/A
Just a fluffy drabble. Feel free to leave requests in my ask box. Smut, Dylan O’Brien, Thomas Sangster, Newt, Thomas, The Maze Runner, ect.


I stretched out like a cat across the cushions of the couch, my hands on the keyboard as I tabbed down the screen. My eyes flicked up to the lanky blonde that was neatly folding clothes into a suitcase. I grinned, clicking the search bar and quickly typed his name in before hitting enter. “Oh, you should really look at this site. You might be flattered by the things people post about you.” I grimaced, my brow furrowing as I tabbed down quickly. “Or horrified.”

I could have went my whole life without seeing that.

“What website are you on about now, [y/n]?” The Brit glanced over his shoulder before making his way towards the couch to look at the screen. “Tumblr, huh? I’m telling you, the people who use this site are either completely witty, completely obsessed or completely bored. Which one are you?”

I turned my cheek to look up at him, giving him a grin. “All of the above. Especially since my best friend is running off to star in a major movie production and won’t take me with him so I can meet Dylan O'Brien.”

“I might get fired if I bring fangirls on set.” He joked, sitting on the edge of the couch. “Besides, you get to spend the next week with me, isn’t that better then spending time with other famous actors?”

I couldn’t help the small giggle. “Is that jealousy, Thomas? I’m not a fangirl, I just find Dylan O'Brien insanely funny and incredibly attractive.”

The gawky brit shoved my laptop closed and pretended to glare up at me before his hands rested just under my armpits. He raised a slender brow and gave me a mischievous grin. I squealed instantly and tried to move out of his grip. “Don’t you dare!”

“Take it back.” He said calmly before moving his fingers to tickle me.

“Okay!” I didn’t need to be told twice, I gave in immedietly, giggling uncontrollably. “I take it back, you’re not jealous!”

He didn’t stop, watching me closely as his eyes narrowed. “Not that…The other thing.”

I couldn’t look surprised, as much as I had wanted too, but all my strength was currently invested in trying to get the lanky blonde to stop his assault. “W-What? I take it back, I take it back!”

“Take what back, [y/n]?”

“That Dylan is funny and attractive?”

The tickling stopped and Thomas smirked lightly. “Good girl.” He laughed, using his long slender fingers to mess up my hair.

I sat up slowly, trying to catch my breath as I looked up at the boy. Before I could say anything about the situation he tugged me to the top of the couch, his hands brushing up against my cheeks. “Glad we got that figured out.”

I opened my mouth again to say something, but he cut me off once more. “So while I got you up here….wanna help me practice my kissing scene with Theresa?” His smug grin caught me off guard and I pushed him back a bit.

“Newt never kisses Theresa in the books!” I exclaimed and before I could continue to be angry, Thomas was nearly bent over in laughter, looking up at me with a bright smile.

“Now look whose jealous.” He purred, stepping back up to me as I smacked him gently in the chest.


His arm wrapped around my waist, tugging me up against him as his lips collided with my own. I wasted no time, the plump flesh of my mouth dancing in sync with his own. After a moment we pulled back from each other.

“See? I can be insanely funny and incredibly attractive too.“

anonymous asked:

What's your organisation scheme for notes?

Well here’s what I do for book notes:

With each indent I make the font size smaller by one (so if the subtitle is size 12, the next indent is 11, 10…). I think this just makes it easier to read, personally. I underline important words. I don’t always define them (I did here) but they will always be underlined. The reason I always make the first bullet the subsection with book notes is so I can find more information more easily if I need to. I’ll know exactly where to look!

For class notes:

I have a Cornell notebook for each class. I write my notes during class on a legal pad and then rework them into my notebooks later. If I have ample time to do that I will usually do some research while copying my notes down to add more details and fill in any gaps. While in class I don’t have a particularly specific method of getting things down. I just write down whatever I think is important, especially if it’s something verbal that’s not written on the board. Chances are, if it’s written on the board, someone else wrote it down, so I could get anything I missed from someone else. When I compare my notes to others my notes are always much more detailed because I write as much as I can down. Sometimes professors go on a long tirade about something important and I don’t see any inkling of it in the notes of others because it wasn’t written out for them. (One reason I hate it when I have to borrow notes because I missed a class.)

I also use a lot of colors. I don’t have a specific method to using colors. Basically I like to separate trains of thought by using different colors. I might create a different coloring scheme if I have a specific class that requires it, but science and math lectures are, to some extent, unpredictable so I would be wasting my time trying to flesh out something specific. I of course also use them to draw diagrams.

I have some yet-to-be-diagnosed condition that’s making my dominant arm weaker, so my handwriting is pretty bad, considering. So I’m going to start typing as much as reasonably possible for certain classes so I can get everything I want down (and be able to actually read it later). I don’t plan on those typed notes to have any particular structure. I’ll just type as I go, without bullets, likely, and just indent if I feel the need. Then organize it later into my Cornell notebooks. My handwriting is definitely neater if I have the time to write. I mostly just want to write them at some point so I can remember them more easily. (Though it’s also out of necessity—if I wait then I may not be able to interpret them later.)

Tough Love (Bias x Reader) Pt.10

Trigger warning: abuse and suicide.

B/N wasn’t stupid. There was no way he was letting her go home by herself. He dressed quickly and followed her, knowing exactly what would happen. People are irrational in situations like these. And since Sid’s been violent before, he’ll be murderous now once he sees those marks. Why didn’t she just wait?

He pauses on her floor and listens carefully, not knowing which door she went into. He hears nothing at first and wonders if he’s on the right floor when he sees a door open and slam close and then a crashing noise. No.

The door is unlocked when he opens it and he sees the one thing that makes his entire blood run hot. Y/N is curled up on the floor and this piece of wasted human flesh is kicking her. He notices him and B/N peels his eyes off of Y/N’s still form. 

“Who the hell are you?” The response he gives is a kick directly into his chest that sends him flying back. 

“Y/N, get up,” he’s fighting his own fear. But she doesn’t hear him. Or maybe she’s…No, “Wake up!”

Sid gets up and he’s a large man, but size never mattered to B/N anyway. It was skill over strength. He charges at B/N, head first. Stupid move. He steps out of the way, slamming his knee to the center of his head. Sid staggers back and actually comes back for more. But he can’t waste any more time, no matter how much he wants to beat Sid into nonexistence. 

He sends his elbow into his jaw, punches him in the ribs twice, and slams the crown of his head against Sid’s forehead. The man falls back and B/N finally moves to her. She hasn’t moved at all and his hands are shaking as he checks if she’s breathing. 

She is. She wakes up right then and he helps her to her feet. And just like that she coughs up so much blood that he freezes. Her knees are weak and he catches her, never having been so scared in his life. 

“Open your eyes,” he demands as he takes the stairs, her mouth stained red. Once he gets into the street, he starts yelling for help. He doesn’t know what to do and his vision is blurring because she’s so small in his arms and he’s so angry that he let her leave.

The ambulance arrives and they pry her from his arms. B/N gets into the ambulance, seeing Sid being taken away by the police. Someone actually called the authorities this time. 

They’re asking so many questions at the hospital and he gives the same response, “She was being beaten and she started coughing up blood. Stop asking me all of this, what’s wrong with her?”

“Sir, if you can just calm down, we’re doing everything we can,” 

He shoves everything off the front desk, “I was calm until just now!” Then they tell him to leave because he isn’t family and he’s being uncooperative, saying they’ll call him if anything changes. 

“Just tell me if she’s okay,” 

“I can’t sir,” he asks why and he gets his answer. They don’t know shit.

He leaves, needing to calm down. Y/N will be fine. Yes, she will. He goes to his gym and beats the living hell out of his punching bag. At his last punch the damn bags breaks from the chain in his ceiling and crashes, startling everyone. He starts to kick it too and he hates how it looks to him. Just like Y/N on the ground defenseless like this sand bag. It’s a horrible comparison and he falls to the ground feeling worse than before. He wishes Sid didn’t get arrested. He’d rather see him cowering at his feet right about now.

There’s a hand on his shoulder and he knows it’s his coworkers.

“I’m fine,” 

“Bad night?” 

He wipes the sweat from his face, “You can say that,” 

“We figured you would’ve enjoyed yourself,” 

“What?” he glares at them. Someone else speaks up, “Your back boss,” the guys start nudging each other and B/N doesn’t know what is going on. He heads to the locker room and removes his shirt to see why everyone won’t shut up. And that’s when he sees the bright red lines all over his back. 

It should make him feel good, except he sits on the bench and holds his face in his hands. If he didn’t initiate. If he just thought about her situation instead of wanting her.  

He punches the locker and it dents but he can’t deny the reciprocated pain. Damn inanimate objects. His phone rings and he answers it before the second one can be completed. 

“Mr. B/N?”

“Yes, how is she?” 

“She’s stable. You can come-” he doesn’t even let them finish. He’s already on his way.

Internal bleeding. What a bitch. You’ve lost a lot of blood they said, but they expect you to make a full recovery. Your stomach is killing you. Literally. A faint knock sounds on your door and B/N enters, you smiling at him. But he isn’t smiling. His face is pale, looking almost as bad as you.

“How do you feel?” 

“Like I just got the crap kicked out of me,” Bad time for jokes. He isn’t laughing at all. You point to the seat beside you but he won’t sit down either. 

“Why did you go back?” 

“To tell him I was leaving him,” 

He finally sits and sighs, “You could’ve picked a different time. You scared the hell out of me,” 

You hold your hand out to him from where you lay and he brings it to his lips. His knuckles are also red and bleeding. 

“Where’s Sid?” because by his bruised hands you have a good idea.

“He got arrested,” Your eyes widen, surprised the cops are doing something about it.

“You’ll have to eat alone for a bit. I can’t eat much until I recover. Who knows how long that will take,” nothing you say changes his expression, “At least my last meal was amazing,” Nothing. If anything it makes him more solemn, “Did you see your back?” 

“Yes, and so did everyone else,” his face turns a bit red and you smile, “You said nothing was there,” he uses your hand to hide his face, trying to remain serious. He’s quiet for a bit and he suddenly asks, “What’s the one thing you’ve always wanted to do?” 

The question is so out of the blue that you take a moment to find an answer, “I…want to travel,” 

He plays with your hand, intertwining his fingers with yours, “Where do you want to go?” 

This conversation makes no sense, “I want to bag-pack through the mountains in India all the way up to Tibet,” 

“Isn’t India kind of…dangerous?” Yes and every time you mentioned it people would tell you that it wasn’t ideal for tourists, especially women. It was discouraging, so you put it away from your mind. 

“You should do it,” he suddenly says. 

“You just said it was dangerous,” 

He shrugs, “So is crossing the street and drinking soda upside down. But I’m teaching you way more stuff before you go though,” 

You smile, liking the idea. A nurse enters your room then.

“Y/N?” she looks confused.


“Do you know a Sid Fisher?” you nod slowly, “You’re on his contact list. He’s been hospitalized here for an attempted suicide,”