Guess what jerk entered my life two years ago? Yup, this terrible hellhound!

From Mexico to Canada. 

Sailing, camping, driving, hiking, and kayaking. 

Through blood, sweat and tears.

She is my fear and my love. 

My excitement and my dread.

She’s torn me down and built me up.

She’s challenged me and spoiled me.

She is my failures and successes.

I have never felt so much love and hate for one thing as I have with her.

In every way possible, I don’t deserve her. 

And in every way possible, she deserves more then me.

She is the beast that has plagued me, the dream that has made me.

With a future of unknowns, and unseeable paths, I can’t give you any promises.

But for right now, right here,

You are my Epic.

Oh, How We’ve Grown

AN ~ for @unlessimwrongwhichyouknowimnot. Title from Castle on the Hill by Ed Sheeran which gives me a RIDICULOUS amount of Bus Kids/Team feels. 

Jemma has a nightmare about the Fitzbot and Fitz trying to comfort her only makes it worse, so they call Daisy - Bus Kids fluff ensues. FitzSimmons + Bus Kids, hurt/comfort/fluff.

Read on AO3 (~1700wd)

Oh, How We’ve Grown

The dream is so real, she can feel it. She can smell it; the fear and the sweat and the blood on her hands. She can hear him, calling to her, begging for his life as she slashes relentlessly into his flesh, trying to find the cut-off. Sparking. Dead.

Did you kill him?

She jolts awake, her terrified dream-mind having apparently forgotten to breathe as she gasps for air that doesn’t smell like copper. She still feels the sweat, and the tangle of sheets is a trap, is a nightmare, everything is trying to drown her – and he’s there.


“Get away from me!” She jumps off the bed, stumbling in the blankets as she backs up against the wall. Her hands and her eyes try to search for something to hold, something to defend herself with. He holds his hands up, palms toward her, he doesn’t pursue.

“It’s alright, I promise,” he assures her. “Jemma, it’s me.”

It’s not him.

I couldn’t.

“Stay back.” Through gritted teeth, she snarls, and slips into the bathroom. It’s then that Fitz lunges, in desperation, and presses himself against the door.

“What’s wrong? Jemma?” His voice is strained with panic. She’s clearly not altogether in the real world right now, but everything he does seems to be panicking her more. Even now he can hear her rifling through the cupboards, probably still searching for something. Is he about to get shivved with his own toothbrush?

Recovering control of himself, of his voice, Fitz assures her;

“I’m backing away from the bathroom door now. If you want to come out, I’ll be sitting on the bed.”

As hard as it is, he forces himself to retreat, and calls Daisy instead. She’s always a good back-up, and especially if this has something to do with his LMD, she might know something he didn’t. At the very least, there would be someone without his face, which seemed to be hurting her. And now he has nothing to do but wait.

Keep reading

Page 2, the book blessing:

In the realm of magick this book shall reside
None but the chosen may see what’s inside
May the Gods protect it and keep it from harm
And upon it bestow power, magick, and charm.
This book be it mine, it harbours no fears
The knowledge obtained through blood, sweat, and tears
My magick’s my passion, the spirits my guide
This book may She bless it with spiritual light
And may only Her children read of its rite.
To those who walk the hidden road
To find the hearthstone’s calm abode.
Guardians from the for directions
Hear me and lend thy protection
May these truths of the Earth and Skies
Be shielded from darker times.
But to the Witches whose map this be
May the path be plain to see
And through all the coming ages
May we find a home within these pages.
Bless this book that it may enhance
All who choose to read its pages
Bless this book as my relationship
With You may continue to grow.
I pray to You that You will grace me
With Your love and Your blessing.
Lend me your strength and stability
To practice with love and set me free.
To practice the Craft of the wise as I must
With truth, perfect peace, perfect love, and perfect trust.
Those if the Craft can truly see
That this is my will
So mote it be!

Los Santos is toxic, a poisoned paradise destroying gods and demons alike, the evil and the innocent and everything in between. The city draws in victims, providing wealth and fame, power and anonymity, but nothing comes for free.

You don’t get to be top dog without accepting some losses. You sure as shit don’t get to stay there without making sacrifices. It’s all fun and games in the heat of the moment, terror and exhilaration one and the same when blanketed in adrenalin, but this life of theirs doesn’t come cheap.

There’s a debt that must be paid in blood and sweat, in tears and fears and panicked pain. In last breaths and dying wishes, regret and loss and bittersweet survival.

Accepting your own demise is one thing, easy really, the inevitable outcome of the choices they’ve made, the lives they’ve lived. Accepting that you might not go first, that you’ve attached yourself to people who’s deaths loom as imminently as your own, well that’s a truth far harder to swallow.

Most crews create a kind of distance, keep professional loyalty separate from deeper emotions, know that in Los Santos even family can only be temporary. The FAHC displayed no such restraint, but maybe they should have, maybe then they could have saved themselves from the greedy, desperate kind of love that comes with an expiry date. The inexplicably accepted promise that one day it will all be over, their carefully constructed kingdom will come crashing violently down, and there’s no chance they will all make it out alive.

But then maybe it’s not so surprising, such recklessness from a crew who treat devastation like devotion, who smile wide around bloody teeth while they rip their city to shreds. The crew who seek no salvation, who look for comfort in gunpowder and gasoline and find solace in each others ruin.

Los Santos is a deadline, the last stop disguised as endless opportunity, a cemetery that will bury them all, but the FAHC aren’t running. All things end, after all, and what is there to fear when even death itself is merely one last vicious victory.


+ Issac Lahey- Teen Wolf 

 author’s note: so im typing this on my phone but I will go back later to edit this and make it less shitty. long live issac lahey even though he isn’t “gone”. sorry if this is on ur dash and it’s very long to scroll through. 

 Prompt: the reader saves issac from a the impending doom of bullies. fast forward one bite later, suddenly he doesn’t seem to need help anymore. 

Nonchalantly, you back up against your locker and watch as Jackson shoves a boy into the boy’s locker room, with a few other jocks chuckling and following behind. 

You barely catch a small glimpse of the boy with a black eye, bruise on his right arm, dry blood on his lip, and a scar on his cheek. 

 "Do you know him, Scott?“ You nod your head at the broken boy being pushed into the locker room. 

"Yeah, Issac Lahey… oh shit.” Scott mutters before jumping up quickly and running into the boys locker room. 

Keep reading

A Mission for someone little with great nerves

Originally posted by hashirama

Request: 1) Can I ask for a fic where the reader is really short (5'0") and goes on a mission with Altaïr?

2)Altair x short!reader on a mission in which the reader “burns” Altair because he teases her for being short? With an innuendo please!

A/N: Let’s give Altair some love… And a burn he will never forget ;)-Jinx

Warning: Cursing(I just can’t help myself, this is almost me as an assassin… The perks of being short lol) and nerves ;)

She watched as her fellow assassin walked in front of her, moving cautiously and silently in the dark corridor. She couldn’t help but think back on the frown on his face when the Grandmaster announced that he was going on a mission with her. Y/N thought that after all this time they had formed some kind of a friendship, and why not something more than that? The young female could have sworn that she had seen him look at her from the corner of his eye when she was training with the other men of the Brotherhood multiple times.

In all these years of knowing and secretly admiring him, she had developed those unwanted, strong feelings for the male. It was something not understandable, how could she be attracted by such an arrogant and selfish bastard?

She was mad at herself for caring for people that didn’t do the same for her.
She forced herself back to her senses, only to notice that Altair had stopped walking. Her fingers barely brushed at the back of his robes, and she prayed she didn’t notice. She wished she could do it again, but the Eagle of Masyaf would notice that for sure.

They hid in two recesses the wall had as some guards were passing by, their weapons ready for a fight, one they were trying to avoid. The last thing they wanted was attention. Altair looked at the h/c girl, and she looked right back at him expressionlessly. The man made some signals, and she nodded as she understood his plan. He turned his head away sharply, and Y/N noticed his body tensed and relaxed in a few seconds.

Altair carried on with his mission, and the female assassin stayed to that dark alley for a second. After noting that there was nobody near, she looked at the ground, and detected the outline of a very small door. Only a little child could get in it without getting stuck.

She was once thankful for her small body.

She opened it carefully and slid inside, ready to strike anyone that stood against her. With her muscles screaming in protest, she closed the empty space once again, so if anyone came they wouldn’t suspect a thing. The Templars wouldn’t know what hit them.

As if she would just stay hidden there, just like the Master Assassin had ordered her. They were in the same rank, for God’s sake, what was his problem? He was frustrating her endlessly with his constant attempts to impress Al Mualim. If the Grandmaster believed it was a mission for two, it was a mission for freaking two.

She could see some light at the end of the tunnel. She flicked her hidden blade out, and held tightly on the other hand her sword as she almost reached the end. She was ready for anything that would try to kill her, and used the darkness as camouflage. She took a deep breath, and looked down, to see that Templars had outsmarted Altair. And he was having a pretty hard time, something that didn’t go unnoticed by her. She could see blood on his robes, and she freaked out.

“Altair!” She screamed as she watched him add pressure onto his aching ribs and almost trip on his own feet. Just how tired was he? That idiot, that’s why this is a mission for two, she knew something like this would happen! That foolish, arrogant…

“Assassin!” One of the men yelled, and Y/N let out a low string of curses. “The hay! Move the cart away before she falls on it!”

But it was too late. She had already performed a very skillful leap of faith, and landed on the haystack with a small “thud”. The first templar that came her way felt her harsh kick on his jaw, and backed away, holding onto it painfully. Without losing anymore time, she threw a knife at his chest, ending his life instantly. Altair hadn’t stopped fighting with five or six other men, bigger and stronger than him. But as the h/c girl had noticed, he was faster.

“A midget came to assist his friend?” One of the Templars that had surrounded her laughed.

“You really shouldn’t have said that…” She hissed lowly as she got up from the haystack, and another male laughed too, even harder than the previous one.

“A-A she? A short female will be able to stop all of us…” He was cut off by a knife thrown on his throat. He gagged at his own blood, and the others stopped smiling.

She walked calmly, maybe too calmly, to the first one that had talked, and smirked under her white hood.

“Do not ever, ever underestimate women, and short people, do you hear me?” She was carrying the man she had killed a few seconds ago, and two Templars ran to her, their swords ready to strike, avenge the death of their friend. Those two that came were previously fighting the male assassin, and he managed to assassinate other two.

He was tired, blood mixing with sweat and nerves with that unmistakable feeling of fear. It had a death grip on his heart, his worry for the girl increasing. Adrenaline pushed him to his limits, with just one goal; get to Y/N and help her out of this situation.

He stabbed someone in the chest with his hidden blade, and swiftly made a turn to slice the other man’s throat. After he was done with the distracted and very scared group that had overpowered him momentarily, he turned to Y/N’s direction again, and saw at least four bodies down. Her robes were full with the familiar red liquid, her arms and feet moving graciously as her rugged breathing matching his own.

He felt… proud of her.

He ran to her rescue, even though she didn’t really need to be saved, and stabbed a man at the back of his skull. A heart breaking scream left his lips, causing a few more heads to turn towards his direction. The duo fought back to back, always defending each other’s blind spots and putting up a very good fight against the Templars.

“The document, Altair!” She yelled in order to be heard above the clashing of metal. They were kept at the centre of the room; he would be able to find the right one there for sure. “Get it while I am finishing this up!” She had a swordfight with two men, some trying to follow Altair but meeting a tragic fate.

He obeyed, something that made her sigh in relief, and that was when a templar got hold of her. She braced herself for what was coming, and crushed her forehead against his, making him stumble back and call her many, many things.

She smirked and stabbed his abdomen with her sword glistening, and the last templar, looking like he was going to cry, ran away.

She was too tired to chase after him, and Altair came to her side, smirking. “No matter what he tells, I have stolen some unnecessary documents too. The Templars will not be sure which one we wanted.”

“Smart,” she complimented, and took a different route back to their horses. That coward would call for back up, and they had to hurry.

“Of course and it was, you would have never thought of it,” he commented rather sassily, and she growled.

Altair was smiling slightly at her flustered frame, and she threw a rather strong punch on his side.

“That’s the highest you can reach? You are disappointing me, Y/N.” He told her, knowing that being called short was not something she could let pass.

She got a bit taller by studying on her tip toes, and Altair let out a mocking laughter. She still couldn’t even reach the top of his chest.

“You bastard,” she hissed and jumped to grab hold of his ear. She pulled his face down with minimal resistance from him, and whispered quite seductively.
“Life is short too, just like your ‘hidden blade’”.

He was left there dumbfounded, as she continued walking to the exit, finally reaching it.

“I am not going to wait for you to stop daydreaming about me, Altair,” she said and sun bathed her short figure.

He smirked at the challenge she was giving him, already intrigued by her new-found attitude. He would push her more often and see where it actually leads them.

“For a person with such short legs, you sure walk pretty fast…”

“Goddamn it, Altair!”

i was tagged by @glitterghxst (thank you, you are the best!!)
Rules: using only songs from one artist, answer these ten questions then tag 10 people

Artist: Bts
Gender? 21st century girls
Describe yourself: danger
How do you feel? I need u
If you could go anywhere: Ma city
Favorite mode of transportation: blanket kick
Your best friend: dope
Favorite time of the day: not today
If your life was a TV show: blood sweat and tears
Relationship status: hold me tight
Your fear: spine breaker

Tagged: @justicetom21 @karvinsky @annileigh

carmicazi-deactivated20170110  asked:

I need Mccree reacting to his s/o's death.Like they were kidnapped and murdered.What did he do when he realised that they were kidnapped?How did he react to them slowly dying.I need angst.Thanks in advance.

Warning: This story gets a little dark! It is also a very long one as I was in quite a writing mood when I wrote it :) Enjoy! 

Smiling widely, Jesse McCree couldn’t help but chuckle lightly as he nuzzled into the warmth of his s/o’s neck, kissing gently along their skin and leaving trails of sweetness along his way. Wrapping his s/o in an even tighter embrace, he breathed in deeply as he felt his sweet s/o’s body warm and tight against his…

Jesse McCree was in absolute heaven. 

What more could he wish for than to be wrapped in his lovers embrace, fulfilled with the overwhelming feeling of love and the purity and comfort of his s/o’s company and affection…

Could heaven be any more sweeter?

Keep reading

On the Road with the Inquisition

Vivienne never complains, and somehow manages never to break a sweat. Varric teases her and accuses her of using blood magic. She smirks and tells him it’s not magic, darling, sweat simply fears her.

Sera pulls pranks. One day everyone’s right shoe goes missing. Cullen’s helm mysteriously shows up perched at the top of a tree just outside of camp. The salt meant for the troop’s stew is replaced with sugar. No one ever sees her do it, but the raucous laughter that peels through camp when one of the pranks is discovered is distinctly hers.

Iron Bull sizes up everyone that crosses paths with the Inquisition. But a spy like Bull sees more than just threats. For every would-be assassin, there are a hundred others that would never harm anyone. He tallies these people in his head, noticing the children chasing butterflies, the shopkeepers slipping apples into the bags of those who can’t afford them and remembers why he fights.

Varric tells stories, some from his books, others off the top of his head (mostly about Hawke). When a fight breaks out because some soldiers missed one of his “performances” because they were on patrol, Varric sets up a rotating schedule for his readings so no one misses anything.

Cassandra conveniently positions herself behind Varric. The tips of her ears turn pink when she accidentally murmurs, “Maker, no!” when he describes a particularly sad scene. This happens on more than one occasion despite her attempts to hold her tongue.

Blackwall sings tavern songs - or at least he tries to. The soldiers near him begin to clamp their hands over their ears to tune him out. Sera notices when he stops singing and jabs him until he starts again, her own tuneless voice echoing his on the road. He smiles under his beard when eventually the other soldiers pick up the spirit of the singing and join in as well.

Dorian surreptitiously checks his hair with a tiny mirror he keeps on his belt. He knows the others think he’s being vain, but he finds that the worse the weather, the more fights he wins against the rain, wind and snow the Inquisitor drags him through, the more control feels he has over other aspects of his life. If he can tame his hair on the road, he can handle anything.

Cole is nowhere in sight while the troops move. No one questions the blanket that’s slipped over the shoulders of a shivering scout, or the water skein that’s pressed into the hands of a coughing messenger. The only real signs of the spirit boy are the horses that spook as he darts about, only to be calmed by his pale hands moments later.

Solas walks and rides separately from the others away from the din of travelling soldiers. He seeks out spaces where the veil is thin, and calls to the spirits on the other side. He does not pull them through, merely nods respectfully to them as he passes, listening to their stories if they want to share.

Also on [AO3]

Diana’s Daily Lines - “Go Tell The Bees That I Am Gone” (Book 9)

#DailyLines #GoTELLTheBEESThatIamGONE #BookNine #notyet #notforalongtime #gowatchS2DVDs#dreamofbattle

I was having the delightful sort of dream where you realize that you’re asleep and are enjoying it extremely. I was warm, bonelessly relaxed, and my mind was an exquisite blank. I was just beginning to sink down through this cloudy layer of bliss to the deeper realms of unconsciousness when a violent movement of the mattress under me jerked me into instant alertness.

By reflex, I rolled onto my side and reached for Jamie. I hadn’t reached the stage of conscious thought yet, but my synapses had already drawn their own conclusions. He was still in bed, so we weren’t under attack and the house wasn’t afire. I heard nothing but his rapid breathing; the children were all right and no one had broken in. Ergo…it was his own dream that had wakened him.

This thought penetrated into the conscious part of my mind just as my hand touched his shoulder. He drew back, but not with the violent recoil he usually showed if I touched him too suddenly after a bad dream. He was awake, then; he knew it was me. _Thank God for that_, I thought, and drew a deep breath of my own.

“Jamie?” I said softly. My eyes were dark-adapted already; I could see him, half-curled beside me, tense, facing me.

“Dinna touch me, Sassenach,” he said, just as softly. “Not yet. Let it pass.” He’d gone to bed in a nightshirt; the room was still chilly. But he was naked now. When had he taken it off? And why?

He didn’t move, but his body seemed to flow, the faint glow of the smoored fire shifting on his skin as he relaxed, hair by hair, his breathing slowing.

I relaxed a little, too, in response, though I still watched him warily. It wasn’t a Wentworth dream—he wasn’t sweating; I could almost literally smell fear and blood on him when he woke from those. They came rarely—but were terrible when they did come.

Battlefield? Perhaps; I hoped so. Some of those were worse than others, but he usually came back from a dream of battle fairly quickly, and would let me cradle him in my arms and gentle him back toward sleep. I longed to do it now.

An ember cracked on the hearth behind me, and the tiny spurt of sparks lit his face for an instant, surprising me. He looked…peaceful, his eyes dark-wide and fixed on something he could still see.

“What is it?” I whispered, after a few moments. “What do you see, Jamie?”

He shook his head slowly, eyes still fixed. Very slowly, though, the focus came back into them, and he saw me. He sighed once, deeply, and his shoulders went loose. He reached for me and I all but lunged into his arms, holding him tight.

“It’s all right, Sassenach,” he said into my hair. “I’m not… It’s all right.”

His voice sounded odd, almost puzzled. But he meant it; he was all right. He rubbed my back gently, between the shoulder blades and I gulped a little. He was very warm, despite the chill, and the clinical part of my mind checked him quickly—no shivering, no flinching…his breathing was quite normal and so was his heart-rate, easily perceptible against my breast.

“Do you…_can_ you tell me about it?” I said, after a bit. Sometimes he could, and it seemed to help. More often, he couldn’t, and would just shake until the dream let go its grip on his mind and let him turn away.

“I don’t know,” he said, the note of surprise still in his voice. “I mean—it was Culloden, but…it was different.”

“How?” I asked warily. I knew from what he’d told me that he remembered only bits and pieces of the battle, single vivid images. I’d never encouraged him to try to remember more, but I _had_ noticed that such dreams came more frequently, the closer we came to any looming conflict. “Did you see Murtagh?”

“Aye, I did.” The tone of surprise in his voice deepened, and his hand stilled on my back. “He was with me, by me. But I could see his face; it shone like the sun.”

This description of his late godfather was more than peculiar; Murtagh had been one of the more dour specimens of Scottish manhood ever produced in the Highlands.

“He was…happy?” I ventured doubtfully. I couldn’t imagine anyone who’d set foot on Culloden moor that day had cracked so much as a smile—likely not even the Duke of Cumberland.

“Oh, more than happy, Sassenach—filled wi’ joy.” He let go of me then, and glanced down into my face. “We all were.”

“All of you—who else was there?” My concern for him had mostly subsided now, replaced by curiosity.

“I dinna ken, quite…there was Alex Kincaid, and Ronnie…”

“Ronnie MacNab?” I blurted, astonished.

“Aye,” he said, scarcely noticing my interruption. His brows were drawn inward in concentration, and there was still something of an odd radiance about his own face. “My father was there, too, and my grand-sire—“ He laughed aloud at that, surprised afresh. “I canna imagine why _he’d_ be there—but there he was, plain as day, standing by the field, glowering at the goings-on, but lit up like a turnip on Samhain, nonetheless.”

I didn’t want to point out to him that everyone he’d mentioned so far was dead. Many of them hadn’t even been on the field that day—Alex Kincaid had died at Prestonpans, and Ronnie MacNab… I glanced involuntarily at the fire, glowing on the new black slate of the hearthstone. But Jamie was still looking into the depths of his dream.

“Ken, when ye fight, mostly it’s just hard work. Ye get tired. Your sword’s so heavy ye think ye canna lift it one more time—but ye do, of course.” He stretched, flexing his left arm and turning it, watching the play of light over the sun-bleached hairs and deep-cut muscle. “It’s hot—or it’s freezing—and either way, ye just want to go be somewhere else. Ye’re scairt or ye’re too busy to be scairt until it’s over, and then ye shake because of what ye’ve just been doing….” He shook his head hard at this, dislodging the thoughts.

“Not this time. “

Guardian Part 3

Pairing: Dean x Reader

Summary: You are Dean’s Guardian Angel, sent to take care of him when he was a baby.

Characters: Dean, Sam, (Most characters make a brief appearance)

Written: i4z-0892-imagines

Word count: 1,421

Warnings: Swearing, Mild Gore, Death,

A/N: Oh my god, the feedback I’ve gotten from this series is amazing! Please, I love hearing from you guys, I want to know what you think, if I’m on the right path, if you hate it! Please let me know!

Part 1 - Part 2

Keep reading


Fairy Tail:

             “They all grow up, the youths that are going to live in this era. Go                      forward, youths. Like a wind on a field. Your burning blood,                           sweat, and tears… are as beautiful as a parasol. Show no fear,                         youths.”                                                        -Mavis Vermilion

TIME - Soulmates AU


This is the forbidden love/soulmates series I’ve been planning. I hope you all enjoy and requests are now open! If you want a drabble make sure you request the list and number


I sat in the centre of the blinding white room on a large bed, my whole right arm bandaged and my heart beating unbelievably fast.

I had just been inked and inserted with the time that it would take to find my future love. For many generations this custom had been running our dimension, it was a notion to find your partner, your second half.

I was scared. I won’t deny it. There’s no point in playing fire with fire. I had left it all up to faith and fate. Of all things. It was scary, leaving it all in this “time” notion to find who this person was. But what scares me the most, is the fact of how much time I’ll get before seeing them.

Suddenly I was snapped out of my thoughts when a doctor came in, all dressed in white, contrasting with the great walls. ‘How are you feeling now? Any nausea? Any pain?

I shook my head, my throat dry as sand paper from not being able to have an intake of fluids for most of the day to get the surgery. ‘Okay then, how about we see if this is ready, shall we?’

I nodded, letting him unwrap the bandage from my arm every so slowly. Then finally after feeling like it was simply forever, the bandage was off, and revealed the time on my arm as 00:00:00.

My eyes widened in shock as I was about exclaim but the doctor placed a firm hand on my shoulder, ‘Hey it’s okay now, the time hasn’t begun yet. I’ll start it now for you if thats what you wish.’

I nodded slowly, letting him press buttons on my arm that had been inserted, wincing slightly at times before he pulled out a pad. He pressed a few keys and then said, ‘It might hurt just a bit, brace yourself.’

I nodded again, taking a deep breath before he pressed the button. My whole body shook suddenly as I let out a scream, electricity overtaking my body. I came to a standstill and I finally breathed, opening my eyes as I now lay against the floor.

And I came face to face with my arm that lay limp beside me.


2 years. 18 days. 9 hours. 48 seconds.

I walked through the park slowly, an umbrella over my head as the rain poured down on the lanes of California, the honking of horns and the flashing tail lights surrounding me in a blur.

I finally came to a forest covered area of the park, more like a forest. I always felt comfort in walking through places like these, keeping myself sane from what the world had come to, nothing but full of technology. 

I shut my umbrella slowly, smiling as the rain fell upon me, the smell of oak and moss waking my senses when suddenly a beeping sound echoed through my ears. I looked around, trying to find the source until I looked down at my arm which was now flashing red and read the lowest number I had seen in ages.


20 minutes. My eyes widened as it continued to fall. I was going to supposedly meet him, “the one”, in twenty minutes. ‘That can’t be …’ I said to myself as I watched the numbers fall as the beeping got louder and louder until I heard a growl.

I turned to see some wolves behind me, all snarling, baring their teeth that were dribbled with saliva. It must’ve been the beeping, obviously having echoed through the silence.

The beeping continued to grow louder, until one of them snapped their jaws at me causing me to shriek, dropping my umbrella and running.

I ran as fast as I could, the wind whipping at my face and my feet hitting the ground hard as the wolves continued to keep in my wake.

Just as I jumped over a fallen tree log, my ankle clipped it, pain surging through me as my body fell to the ground, tumbling down the side of the hill before halting in the middle of the track.

I groaned as I sat up, struggling before looking down at my leg which was now dripping with blood and twisted in a awkward position. I hissed as the pain took over, freezing when I sighted one of the wolves before me again.

I looked around to see the rest, all in a circle as they trapped me, all eyes on me and all. I looked up to the wolf straight ahead, my tears falling as it now pawed at the ground.

I watched as its claws broke the earth, scattering the shards that broke beneath, the way its breath batted against the heavens poured cup, how its eyes gleamed as it saw only me, its prey and lust of hunger burning through its veins.

And with a final growl, it pounced. I cried out at this, lifting my arm as if to shield myself until I heard a whine ring through the air. I looked up, terrified as another massive brown wolf stood proudly before me, growling and snarling at the others who dared to even look my way, clawing one away as it pounced towards me.

I watched as it stalked towards another, before clashing, jaws, claws and all, blood stenched with sweat and rain. I crawled away in fear, pain throbbing at my being as my time continued to flash in red upon my arm in a blur, by all was deaf to me but the ringing in my ears and the snarling of the brown wolf.

I finally looked up to see a final glance of the wolves’ tails slithering back into the thick crowds of the old oak trees. The brown wolf turned to me, it auburn eyes staring into me with a fire that I had never seen before.

My heart thumped against my chest as it grew closer, a low growl as it caught a whiff of my blood that wrapped my ankle. I whimpered as it grew closer, covering my face, ‘Please don’t hurt me, please don’t hurt me please.’

I rambled. I didn’t want to die. It was the fact that I wanted to live my life, I wanted to have children, I wanted to love someone, I wanted someone to do the same.

‘Please don’t hurt me, please don’t hurt me please.’

I felt a warmth wrap itself around me and I cried, I didn’t want to leave this beautiful place. I need that person. I need whoever it was that I was destined for.

‘I need you please … Don’t hurt me.’

‘I would never hurt you, never.’

My eyes shot open. I found myself in the arms of a young man, blond hair and soft brown eyes, lips pale and covered in rain, as it continued to hail down on us. He had his arm wrapped around me and the other holding my hand, caressing it in a caring, almost loving manner.

Suddenly the beeping stopped. We both looked down at our intertwined hands, to my arm to find that where the number had been not too long ago, now read his words.

“I would never hurt you, never.”

And my words upon his wrist, just above the cuff of his black sweater.

“I need you please … Don’t hurt me.”

I looked up at him to find him already staring, his hands caressing my cheek gently, ‘I promise, like I said. I would never, ever hurt you.’

Shakily I nodded, my tears falling slowly out of horror and shock, he kissed the crown of my head ever so gently, letting me rest it on his chest as he held me tightly in his arms, lovingly and protectively.

Mark Tuan never did hurt me. Not once.


Soulmates - Jaebum - Mark - Jackson - Jinyoung - Youngjae - Bam Bam - Yugyeom


Salaam-Alaikum Krew, it’s Jahan again! Did anyone catch the headlines last weekend??? I’m talking about the very important breaking news that Krewella’s Ultra 2015 set was UNPLUGGED!!! Minutes after Almighty Deadmau5 tweets “Aw man, Krewellas got them new completely wireless DJMs??? I’m jealous,“ EDM reporters spread the news like wildfire and the story gets massive traction in the dance community, while Deadmau5 receives praise from critics for his honest and brave reporting from the frontlines. For those of you who are out of the loop with global events, Deadmau5 is the most trusted name on Twitter. Deadmau5’s success skyrocketed when his ratings surpassed TMZ’s after reporting the hard facts of the Krewella break-up several months ago, and since then he has proven himself to be a credible news source for all things Krewella!

All sarcasm aside, I’m rolling my eyes at how much noise the Krewella “fake DJing” story created in the EDM blogosphere last weekend. Not only because it’s another dose of gossip contributing to the pollution on the internet, but because it’s fundamentally based on lie… a “news story” based on the words of someone whose internet reputation thrives off of using slanderous dialogue to entertain his 3 MILLION Twitter worshippers. Every time Yasmine and I are slammed in the media, we debate whether or not it’s worth it to react and share our side of the story. Rumors have real and damaging effects on individuals, careers, religions, political officials, and on society as a whole. Just like our announcement last year stating that we in fact did NOT kick Kris out of Krewella, contrary to what his lawsuit said, we have every right to expose the truth- THE FANS DESERVE THE TRUTH.

This story needs to be cleared up once and for all: We have NEVER played a pre-recorded set and do not intend to do so in the future. Since day one of touring as Krewella in 2011, Yasmine and I have been solely responsible for DJing our shows. We curate the song selection and mix the tracks live, and as a special surprise for Ultra 2015 we introduced our band. To assume that we played a pre-recorded set means that our intentions were to be…..perfect. This goes against what Yasmine and I stand for in the dance music scene. It takes away the raw, human element of our performance. We take pride in allowing ourselves to raise our voices, be vulnerable, fuck up, take risks, face our fears, and unleash our blood, sweat and tears. We would have to be fucking fools to play a pre-recorded DJ set at Ultra, especially knowing it would be our online LIVE streamed debut since the shitty lawsuit drama, and knowing Deadmau5 was going to watch and tweet about it (by the way, Deadmau5 and Kris also share the same lawyer, Dina Lapolt. I’ll let you draw your own conclusions from that).

BREAKING NEWS: Rukes reports proof of cables hooked up at Ultra. Minimal clicks & retweets cuz truth isn’t juicy or fun enough for twitter :(

****If you need a technical explanation of how our equipment was plugged in at Ultra, here’s a helpful video:

We ALL have the right to expose the truth, protect our honor, and share our stories. When a buzz-worthy rumor spreads and completely undermines mine and Yasmine’s hard work, passion, integrity, dignity, and performance- I WILL STAND THE FUCK UP FOR KREWELLA! To bite our tongues and wait for the storm to pass gives too much power to the pattern that we have all fallen into on the Internet: the ingestion of junk food gossip and the regurgitation of bullshit. Within the electronic dance music scene, I have seen far too many influentials reinforcing this cycle by choosing to maintain their internet personas based on promoting lies and rumors about others. And a lot of these people are really fucking talented- but does that give someone a sense of entitlement to degrade others? It’s the typical high school story of the football team’s star who gets mad pussy but still continues to bring down the dork in the hallway- anything to get a round of applause.

Shit talking and degrading others online for publicity and attention completely abandons the values that many people in the dance music community once wore (and many still wear) as a badge of honor. I’m referring to the values that I was introduced to when this genre was on a brink of becoming mainstream almost 5 years ago. P.L.U.R. (peace/love/unity/respect) was the first commandment I was taught by young fans. Togetherness and acceptance were the pillars of the dance culture, and because of these values, I was proud to be welcomed and have a place in the world of dance.

Correction: “I am proud.” The dance music scene doesn’t have to be corrupt. When I’m old, I want to look back on my career and know that I was part of a movement that promoted tolerance, individuality, and speaking out on issues that one believes in. I want to say that 2015 was the year where the paradigm shifted, so that our complacent, jaded, or hateful attitudes were overridden by a fierce movement to stand up for what we think is right for the community. We could save the dance music culture’s honorable values if we become more conscious of what we say and what we share. Spreading the word and reminding people of what the fundamental values are will create awareness.

So here Yasmine and I are, standing in the middle of this war-zone, searching the rubble for the remains of these pillars that have been crumbling before our feet. The thousands of fans that crowded our stage this year at Ultra gave us renewed faith in them as the future leaders of our society- that there is no judgement based on labels and headlines, and that they can think for themselves. These people represent the future of our Krew. #FUTUREKREW. And trust me, there will be many more battles we face with evil trolls. But Yasmine and I are unstoppable, and we will be louder than bombs that try to interfere with our mission to create art and give life to our community. The dark age of evil trolling is coming to an end. The KREWLIFE lives on. 

AH Origins: Geoff

AH Origins explores how the Fake AH Crew came together. Their heists, their origins and their rise to power.

Previous origins:

Gavin | Ray | Michael | Ryan | Jack

The AH Crew’s legacy was built on bones and rose to infamy in Los Santos. It was a reputation that took years to build, fashioned from blood, sweat, and good old-fashioned fear. It grew in to an empire of nameless men and countless enemies.

That’s where Graham Ramsey failed. He cast his net out too far, didn’t understand the importance of trust in a team. That’s how he ended up with a bullet in his brain and a massacre on his hands at the ripe old age of 32.

Geoff had been 8 at the time. His mother had taken what money she could and kept them safe with allies she trusted. The Jenkins, the Pattillos, the Marx. He grew up learning the tricks of the trade and the mistakes his father had made. He knew better than to ever let things out of his control like that.

He kept his friends close. Kept his enemies at bay, and never let them close enough to strike.

Keep reading

He is the boy with a smirk for a cloak and a laugh like god that spits fire.
He is the promise of rain that trails down my broken skin and kisses my pain.
He is the man with a car crashed mind and lungs filled with acid and smoke.
He is the scent of summer love but with eyes that promise me forever.
He is the child of the stars, wishing to return home into dark oblivion.
He is the essence of sweat and blood; to him fear is a cold breeze behind his back.
He is the man that steals time through the tender contact of lips, making my world dizzying and intoxicated.
He is a whisper of danger when our bodies collide through images of light dancing on our smiles.
He is the boy filled with daggers of wit and debauchery that glide across my skin already stained red.
He is the ending place we all fear and long for; a red beacon to guide me home.
He is the man of silence through noise that few can hear due to the wave frequency.
He is the ink blotted paper folded with chaos and a resurrection of hope.
He is the man that only leaves me his shadow when he chooses the emptiness.
He is the empty left ring finger that keeps me awake shivering in nostalgia.
He is the soldier of sacrifice, letting his body explode from the cage of this world.
He is the view beyond the horizon that God only grants few to see.
He is the man I lie down on train tracks for when he is the engine powering towards my fragile heart.
He is the hole in my happiness.
He is the weight on the left side of my chest.
He is my demon.
He is my angel.
He is a broken soul set free.
He is my disease.
He is my cure.
He is
He was
He will be.
—  k.m.s.

Anonymous asked:

I’m writing this story, And the beginning scene is a fight scene between a girl and a feral wolf (written in the girl’s POV). I did the research for this scene but I feel like my writing for this scene is super robotic. Do you have any tips how I can bring this scene to life?

Once again, here’s a scene where the sensory details will be super important:

Touch - the wolf’s fur, sharp teeth, torn flesh, slick blood, dirt
Sound - growls, cries, rapid breaths, crunching leaves, slobbering
Scent - soil, blood, musty fur, dog breath, perspiration
Taste - coppery taste of blood, salty taste of sweat, moldy taste of dirt


Emotion - fear, determination, anger, defeat
Physical - heart pounding, muscles taut, knees slamming into the ground, teeth and claws tearing flesh, ground beneath head and body, weight of wolf pressing down…

These are all the kinds of details will bring your scene to life. :)

Have a writing question? I’d love to hear from you! Please be sure to read my ask rules and master list first or your question will not be answered. :) 

TITLE: Caged “Animal”


AUTHOR: The-stuttering-kiwi

ORIGINAL IMAGINE: Imagine Loki not being adopted by Odin, but being raised as a ‘specimen’ in a lab where Asgardian scientists used him to discover more about the Jotun race

RATING: Mature

NOTES/WARNINGS: Not as gruesome as I wanted but I tried.

“Did you stay here all night?” Ellis’s voice woke Amelia from the deep sleep she was in. She tried to sit up, but laying hunched over her desk all night made it pretty painful.

“I guess so.” Amelia looked down at the file she had used as a pillow and felt a pang of embarrassed meant when she realized she had drooled on the pages.

“What has you so interested in specimen 320?” Ellis asked reading the file upside down.

“I just wanted to learn more about him.”

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seventhfracture  asked:

"Heart?" She slunk into his office. "I've heard something quite strange. Perhaps you can enlighten me?"

It was a mercy there were gaps in their days where they were permitted a reprieve from grave circumstance. The warning Timaeus gave did not yield immediate threat, what demon he suggested bordered inside their home somehow gaining immeasurable power with the acknowledgement of its presence, spreading as though exposure was all it needed to bring destruction upon them. It was quiet again, and the knight had not yet reached out to make contact. The way things were, he appreciated the approach. If they did not need to make hasty decisions, they wouldn’t, no matter the layer of irritation created at being forced to adhere strictly to their fleeting patience. Demons were a very delicate subject to approach. He preferred not having to come up with a solution on the run if it could be helped.

Aside from a random bowl of milk situated in one insignificant corner of the hallway, the ghosts had stilled to the usual rabble.

Atem had been working, incessantly, perhaps obsessively if one might deign to suggest, working toward a goal he wasn’t even sure he was quite aware of. He worked as a means of distraction, worried for a multitude of reasons he kept isolated inside. It did no good to allow such concerns to control him, but all knew he suffered a habit of making deep considerations toward the most simplistic of subject matters. Unfortunately, what they faced was far from registering in that scale, though he suffered the same ailment.

He worried for Yugi, her restless condition, the growing need for her to fulfill a secret bloodlust she held inside. It drove Kor wild to have her home, reeking of death, blood, sweat, fear and madness clung to her in a perfumed layer he took full advantage of.

No matter the outstanding list in need of address, he slept then, the flowers Arcane brought to him safely tucked away in a vase sitting on the windowsill where he could see them. He sprawled on the sofa, arm draped over his eyes to block out the light of day creeping to invade the interior, a fleece blanket thrown over his middle. His legs legs were exposed, his chest, but he appeared content enough to rest as he did.

shm128iii  asked:

"The codenames are completely independent." You gotta admit that Blood/Sweat for Battle for Zendikar and ESPECIALLY Tears/Fears for Shadows Over Innistrad were both uncannily appropriate, though.

Any connection was total circumstance. The names long predated us knowing even what the blocks were going to be about.