red lids

Punk (Chap. 8)

Summary: You’re head over heels for your best friend Bucky and hate the nickname he gave you as it doesn’t exactly scream romance.

Word count: 4284…oops

Warnings: Same as always

A/N: Okay here it is chapter 8.  Let me know if the flow of this chapter is okay, if it makes sense.  I’d like to get a better feel of how I construct scenes so I can improve for the future.  I LOVE feedback, you have no idea.  So don’t be afraid to lemme know how you feel!

Also, there is a line in here with an asterisk (*) after it.  It is a paraphrase from Criminal Minds season 3 episode 8 said by Penelope Garcia to Derek Morgan and it is something that has always stuck with me and I just thought it was so perfect for this chapter.



Perhaps watching Investigation Discovery’s documentary on the world’s most notorious serial killers at one o’clock in the morning while finishing off the leftover apple pie in an essentially deserted tower wasn’t the smartest move.  Every sound was suddenly more sinister and every shadow could be hiding a deranged murderer who wanted nothing more than to chop off your head and keep it in the freezer, which had startled you so badly when it spit out ice cubes into its inner bin that you spilled an entire glass of water on Ferdinand who ran shrieking from the room and knocked over what was probably a very expensive vase. Fuck.

Keep reading

Reminder for those concerned:

Accurate ways to assess a person’s health:
—– Teeth (Are they rotting, yellowed, missing?)
—– Skin (Is it sickly green, yellow, rash, injuries?)
—– Eyes (Are they red, pink, half-lidded, bruised?)
—– Breathing (Is it shallow, heavy, fast, laborous, coughing?)
—– Blood circulation (Can they feel their extremities? Pulse speed?) 
—– Posture (Do they seem tired? Dizzy? Standing up straight? Limping?)
—– Presence (Are they often missing? Do they not seem “all there”?)

Inaccurate ways to assess a person’s health:
—– Size

🚀🍻 “Nuka-Cola” Potion 🍻🚀

inspired by fallout 4′s health potion, “nuka-cola”, here is a frosty potion recipe for emotional healing and positive disposition.

🚀 gather: coke (or some root beer related soda), vanilla (happiness), caramel (love/kindness), orange peel and blackberry garnishes (healing), a red stone/gem.

🍻 fill the glass not completely with the soda. 

🚀 add in caramel to taste

🍻 add in ice cream and cover. let it sit 5 minutes, letting the ice cream melt.

🚀 place the red stone over the lid of the drink while you wait for the ice cream to melt, letting its energies mix with the drink

🍻 uncover and stir. add garnishes. enjoy!

🚀 keep the red stone for whenever you need the potion’s magic again.

Elorcan Werewolf AU part 9

“even a white rose 

has a black shadow”     

Elorcan Werewolf 9

Elide Lochan was locked in a cell, a chain latched firmly onto her ankles. Her shadow would bend and stretch to a dance of melancholy and insanity, dark dreams drenching her sleep. The cold would seep into her bones, every movement emitting a crack and the occasional snap. Purple crescents shaped under her eyes, her throat a rasp of what she once was.

Elide covered her ears as screeches filled the air—the rusted food tray sliding under the opposite side of the wall through a thin slat and grating against the splintered stones. Her spine remained curled as she slowly rocked into herself, the flurry of scratches scraping against her ears.

Elide slowly leaned forward, fingers reaching for the edge of the tray. Her hand wrapped around the cup of water, stale and murky. A noise of determination escaped her cracked throat as she pulled the cup to herself, her hands wobbling.

The cup spilled.

The fluid slithered through the cracks in the floor, weaving through the ground.

Elide pressed her cheek against the floor, the droplets caressing her face and nails caked with grime. She opened her mouth as wide as she could, allowing the water streaks to trickle into her mouth.

Elide laid there, loneliness wrapping around her like a blanket, laying there on the cold stones, chained, and waiting for time to drag on.

And on and on.

Her cell opened, the jarring sound rattling her into clearer conscience, and Vernon’s face peered down. Fear whipped through her.

Not again, she silently begged. A couple more seconds.

Her prayers went unanswered.

“Ready to try again?” he smirked, and jerked the chain out.

Her body dragged along the stones, and slumped against the base of the rocky stairs. She felt every crack along the ground cutting her spine and shredding her ears. The chain clattered to the floor, and a sharp kick to her side sent her to the first step at the base of the cave.

“You know what happens if you can’t make it,” he hissed, the stench of alcohol oozing from his breath.

Elide knew.

And Vernon knew too, a belt snugly fit into his hands, his black-collared shirt already unbuttoned.

“Climb,” he ordered.

And she did.

Up and up and up.

To the unreachable light. 


Elide could not breathe.

She could not think.

She could not focus.

She could only move — every whisper of movement laced with a burning sensation over her hands, knees, and feet to her very lungs.

Her eyes failed her long ago, the tiny slivers of sunlight a shrapnel scraping into her irises. Even with her lids closed, fractures of brightness invaded, too much light for a too long stay stay in the darkness — in hell.

Her hands scraped over stones, scars scratching open. So much blood had spilled and bathed over her body that she could taste the crimson, salted liquid in her tongue.

She didn’t have the energy to spit it out.

Not when her body would seize her with huge wracking spells; her throat closed up and she coughed on her own blood. Her lungs burned, her throat wheezing to a cacophony.

The climb reduced her to submit fully to her knees and hands, a wounded and shattered animal in human form with nothing but the raw emotions of enmity — except no longer did her instincts sing to live, but to relinquish in death’s calling.

Every crack in the ground furthered the descent into madness and rage. The echoing sounds in remembrance of the lash of the whip and the tearing of her clothes set her forward, almost as she’d been duly programmed to climb and climb — tortuously slowly and painfully — skimming the cracked ground with numb hands bearing running lines of red soaking her skin all the way from her ribs down to her toes.

Swabs of cotton blossomed underneath her forehead, her throat thick with saliva from panting and scratches from rasping out her mantra over and over again.

Lorcan, Lorcan, Lorcan.

Lorcan Salvaterre.

Commander of the Lycan Pack.

Her mate.

Hers.

Was.

Blood spilled out her mouth. Her hand caught inside a wedge of slab, her wrist splintering as she pitifully tried — memories slamming and wedging into every corner — tried to stop remembering, old wounds reopening.

Elide gurgled in the blood rinsing her mouth as her bone snapped.

Her cheek rested against cold stone as she heaved, greedily inhaling the musty air that no longer fuller reeked of the rotten, decaying stench of poisoned flesh.

Lorcan Salvaterre.

Her hand clawed along another stone when she heard the lash of the belt at her toes.

“I loved you.”

She saw red beneath her lids as she hauled her body up, her legs shaking and arms shuddering. There was no more youthful joy with dazzling hopes of love. Reality proved the coldness severing any warmth.

“You did not give me a chance, Elide. So I will not give you a second one.”

She collapsed along the stones, a seizure wracking her body, blood spilling out of her cracked lips. Everything swam underneath her, a buzzing sound cutting across her forehead and through her ears. Her only chances were this torture of trying and failing.

Give up, a part of her said. Give up, the walls and shadows and blood and flesh and bone whispered.

So she gave up.

Gave up to heartbreak.

Almost.

A part of her wanted to consent.

To submit to the darkness.

But that tiny, shredded sliver of hope still shone within her. A tiny thread of sanctuary

A dry laugh sounded behind her, a rasping voice that sent shivers across her skin.

She’d been still too long.

The whip lashed across her back.

Her body didn’t have enough energy to arch off the ground—instead she laid limp and broken and shattered. Salt wove through her mouth, grime caking her tastebuds, and salt oozing in thick waves out.

She could feel a hand working up her thigh, and the familiar, rotten stench overcoming her. She could not conjure up the scent of her once-mate anymore, emptiness and bitterness plaguing her.

Not again.  

“Looks like another failure,” the dark voice tsked, darkness overcoming her, shadows leaping over the dark walls collapsing over her and squeezing the last remains of breath from her lungs.

It burned.


Aelin’s door banged open again, the smell of fried noodles and apple juice filling her nostrils. She pressed down the uncomfortable feeling of distaste squirming in her stomach, and noted Manon’s similar look of uneasiness. Elide’s absence had affected them both, nourishment no longer appealing; it had been the Elide, the Pack Doctor apprentice, who had made sure they afforded time to eat rather than completely dive into Pack duties.

The palace door closed, and the scent of familiarity washed over her.

“Rowan,” Aelin greeted, turning her face away, and then paused. “Or should I say personal chef now?”

A snort. “Emrys cooked.”

“So you’re the messenger boy?”

Pine-green eyes flashed. “A boy wouldn’t have had you moaning yesterday.”

Her cheeks flushed at the whisper of memory while Manon sneered at the male, pointing a warning claw at the male. Rowan stilled at the challenge emanating from the half-Lycan.

Gods, not again.

The Prince of Lycans set the plates at the foot of Aelin’s bed with a clatter, and strode to her Beta, coldness and fury radiating from the testosterone-filled body.

“Stand down,” Aelin ordered quietly, watching Manon silently tense. The last thing they all needed was an internal conflict, especially when her own pack member and the Lycan commander were missing.

Rage flickered through those pine-green eyes from his mate’s command. Rowan let out a growl building from the base of his throat, but otherwise stalked back to her bed, breathing in the scent from her blankets and pillows. The muscles at his back and shoulders rippled.

How delicate these males were, exercising self-control daily, each strand chipping away with each passing day.

Aelin reverted back to pacing around her room, ignoring her mate’s constant fussy looks and worrying tactics—and the occasional careful and well-guarded look towards Manon.

Too many plates of untouched fruits, meats, and vegetables piled up in her room, nectar tea and water lining against her walls. The amount of food Rowan had brought her started to resemble a banquet, and if the Prince of Lycans didn’t stop soon, she wouldn’t be able to walk through her own damned temporary room without swimming through a sea of plates and bowls. Walking around this room in the castle consumed her from the normalcy of living within her own controlling borders. Not to mention the other female residents in the Lycan castle lived just a hall down, driving her senses to the edge.

Manon stabbed a nail through a blood-red apple, peeling the skin off into perfectly thin curls. Each strip, no doubt, tasted bland and dry, a reflection of the past couple months turned into emptiness and dread, living in a proliferation of well-kept fear.

“How could anyone obtain Yellowleg’s poison?” Aelin stared out the window where she could only imagine the nightmare Elide was living in daylight. The rays no longer held warmth she could soak in like a security blanket, but rather held a mockery of what she could not protect even in broad daylight. Her skin felt cold, but one look from her mate had a different type of heat racing through her.

She looked away.

Manon’s teeth latched around the peel. “I don’t understand how the poison still could have affected Lorcan after he killed Essar.”

Aelin paused, a myriad of dark scenarios crossing over her mind. She rubbed her temples, a slight draft breezing in and skimming over her skin. Abruptly slamming the window shut, tension rolled over her, not even her mate’s presence able to soothe her. “It doesn’t add up in the first place. If Essar is dead, then who controlled Lorcan while he was at the castle?”

Manon let out a low hiss, one that demanded bloodshed. A calm, killer look crested her face, and her claws slid out. Her eyes cut towards Aelin. “Now that is the real question.”

Rowan cleared his throat. “I doubt it would have been Essar. She did have give her heart to Lorcan, but she knew her boundaries. By the atrocities of her actions, the whole scenario seems absurd, almost as if she’d also been on the poison to act such.”

A pause.

Manon cocked her head, a predator accessing the situation and how to pin down the prey who’d slipped from their grasp one-too many times.

Rowan crossed his legs from Aelin’s bed, the gesture too simple—through the complications—for her eyes to handle. Growling, she chucked the plate of steamed broccoli and peppered carrots at her mate’s head.

The bastard merely flicked his hand, his magic neatly setting the trays on her bed.

Lunging forward, Aelin made way to tackle him, but Rowan hastily stood up, holding both palms up in the air.

Not in defeat, but in contemplation.

He frowned. “The day you came to the castle, pretending you were sick—” Rowan cast a hard look towards Aelin, who merely raised a brow “—you—” He turned towards Manon who had reduced the apple to the very core “—You said you saw Remelle in the palace. In the halls.”

Manon tossed the core in the air, and caught it within her hands without breaking the stare with the Prince of Lycans. “Yes.”

His Adam’s apple bobbed. “That’s…odd.”

It was Aelin’s turn to shoot her mate a glare. “Why’s that exactly?”

“Because she should have been in my room.”

The Alpha of the Fireheart Pack cocked a hand on her hip. “Oh?” Aelin put her mate’s words far out of her mind. When Elide was safe within her pack, then she could think about Rowan’s endeavors with other females. She told herself she didn’t care anyways, not when she had a line of unmated males, and even Alphas, desiring her—but still, the comment stung deep within her.

She’d make the Prince of Lycans think twice in who he was dealing with.

She’d started to think that the whatever deity out there was not some benevolent goddess anymore.

Rowan stalked closer towards her—daring her to interrupt and shut him out. “She’s been deigning to carry out her diplomatic meetings in my room, otherwise choosing to withhold information. That day, she was supposed to fill me in about the Morath Pack. Any details we could use to legally shut them down and use to show the Council.”

Manon let out a low hiss, ignoring Rowan’s hesitance and Aelin’s vehemence. “Morath,” The Beta gutturally gutted out so viciously Rowan’s teeth bared. “Remelle asked Elide how was Morath.”

Morath—Gods, Elide. Lorcan was right—it was that breeding place after all this time.

Vernon wasn’t trying to lie low.

“Even if Elide lived in Morath—” Rowan started, but Aelin’s face paled, realization pouring through her, a vast broken dam.

“It wasn’t Essar who poisoned Lorcan.”

Manon stiffened. “It was the one who is vying for your mate.”

Aelin’s heart stuttered. “Remelle.”

Manon clicked her teeth together, and turned towards Rowan, baring her teeth. “The first time I met Remelle, I was given the orders to not harm a hair on her head. Now?”

The Prince of Lycan’s eyes matched the half-Lycan’s dark glint full of malice and ill intent. “Those orders have reversed.”

Aelin watched Manon and Rowan stride out of the door, purpose filling each of their veins. She supposed it would be fun to have a little chat with the Lycan princess—find out her exact her role with Elide’s kidnapping and her intentions with her own mate—killing two birds with one stone.

The familiar scent of fresh air, pine, and snow filled her nostrils. Rowan pushed her door open again and stood footsteps away from her, a hard look on his face.

“I know what this may seem like, but if you trust me, believe me when I said nothing transpired.”

The Alpha of the Fireheart pack stared at the rotten core Manon had tossed on her floor. Dead and putrid—what state would she find Elide in? Even worse, she dreaded the state Lorcan would find Elide in. The retribution unleashed…

Mate or mateless, both had been tied together by the ineffable feelings of hope and life, a choice both had accepted.

“It’s not you I’m worried about,” Aelin said slowly, meeting her mate’s gaze. “I’m more worried about Remelle.”

She could feel the strings to her link with Manon and the waves of delight rolling through her Beta, just as a high-pitched, feminine scream pierced the air. A grin played over Aelin’s lips and she stalked to the door, sparing one last glance back.

“You coming?” she asked.

Rowan gave a slow shake of his head, and strode next to her, leaning slightly down. “When things settle down,” he said quietly. “I hope you will consider a future with me.”

The hairs at the nape of her neck prickled, and she opened her mouth, tongue tied with too many thoughts. She refused to give up her Alpha position, especially to live among royalty where she’d be nothing more than a trophy wife. “We—”

A body flew towards past their door, and crashed into the wall at the end of the hallway. Manon stalked down the hall, bloodlust written in her eyes, and crimson red dripping off her nails and onto the expensive sapphire carpets.

Remelle’s back was bent—snapped. A hand was pressed against her mouth, brimming with saliva and blood.

“A deal with Rogue Baba Yellowlegs,” Manon hissed, the rims of her dark gold eyes glazed with phantom ghosts. “Two drops of Yellowleg’s poison for the princess here for the promise of winning the queen’s crown in return to revoke Baba’s Rogue status.”

“And?” Aelin pushed.

“One drop in Essar’s breakfast tea. Under the spell, she’d been commanded to poison Lorcan’s goblet.”

Remelle’s shudder was confirmation enough.

Aelin pursed her lips. “Is Baba Yellowlegs still alive?”

Manon swung Wind Cleaver in a wide arc, and Remelle screamed, covering her eyes. “Yes! Yes she is!” When Manon’s claws slid out, the Lycan princess quickly added, “Morath,” her body trembling and convulsing.

Rowan frowned. “That’s most likely one of the quickest, successful interrogations I’ve ever seen.”

The Alpha of the Fireheart Pack smirked. “It’s why she’s my Beta.” Because the half-Lycan bred more unsatiasted ills inside of her, cultivated over the years, never receiving the closure comfort in her past. The wrath of a woman never worshipped.

Remelle screamed as the half-Lycan stalked towards her, swinging Wind Cleaver easily in one hand. The Lycan princess glanced desperately at Rowan, who merely nodded his head at Manon in expectation.

“Wait,” Aelin said, cracking her neck.

Manon looked at her impatiently, the black in her eyes dilating in anticipation.

“You get Sorscha and reinforcements to Morath as soon as possible.”

A nod from Manon, albeit unwillingly. The half-Lycan spared one last glance at the Lycan princess, who slumped against the wall in relief. And then her Beta was gone, a menace’s shadow.

To Elide, to restoration.

Aelin, Alpha of the Fireheart Pack and mate to the Prince of Lycans, stepped forward from under the doorway, and locked eyes with the Princess of Lycans.

“Remelle,” she purred. “You and I are going to have a nice, long civil chat.”

She drew Damaris from her sheath, the blade glinting against the overarching golden beams.

To the unanswered dreams and whisper of hope within them all.


Vernon rebuckled his pants, licking his lips in satisfaction. The experiments on captured wolves turned them into Ilken now guarded Morath so that not one soul would dare not survive a trip past his borders.

He’d gotten his empire, and built a kingdom out of skulls and death. He’d done the impossible without the interference of the Lycans blooded with Royalty. He’d beaten the heir to his Pack into submission.

He’d gotten it all. And so much more.

Nightmares turned into realities.

He had his secrets, his dark deeds, his gory graves, burning in his brain, a living hell, his own to hole up under lock and key.

His boots shoved the limp figure away from him, a nest of black hair lying dead against the slope of stones. Blood pooled around her, her stomach caved in, mouth open in a silent scream of terror. A perfect doll stuffed with poisoned needles and sewed with barbed words.

He had broken the Perranth spirit and heir, and carved out Morath, a devil’s realm of hell to rule absolutely.

A mirthless chuckle shuddered through him, seizing every pore. He’d brought down a Pack of light and hope, tore through every crack, and filled the gap with his own gushing red rivers of twisted wickedness.

The truth was out. That heinous acts could thrive and withhold a place in this too gray world.

He’d nudge the canvas towards the ink, and devour the white. Completely.

Vernon felt, rather than saw, a shift in the darkness—a different blackness with more volumes.

A hatchet whistled through the cave, and flew through a wide arc, nearly slicing the limp figure’s fingers, rottened and rottled.

A heavy, dark presence shattered the shapes of phantom and shadow.

Pure, undiluted rage and unfiltered feralness.

And barrenly broken.

The Alpha of the Morath Pack slowly turned around, revealing yellow-red teeth, caked with the crimson liquid of the broken body’s mortality. A nasty soul for the invading one in his land, his territory, his sanctuary.

“You missed,” he hissed in delight.

A warrior of moon’s darkness, not of the sun’s glory descended into the cave.

Deeper, deeper into hell. His hell and no one else’s. His, his, his and his own lovely-pieced heaven.

Welcome, he almost breathed, soaking in the other demon’s face.  Look at this little lush.

The darkness flared out, every vein within him throbbing as if pins and needles had stitched through him.

A hysterical laughter shot through him.

A consequence that had not foreseen.

A broken girl with a broken mate.

Put together, they healed.

He should have known. Wedged them further, despite the inevitable. His own secret darkness failed, to tell to another larger and loose dark, a spawn of wretched misery.

A wild, maniacal grin—a monster he had unknowingly forged. A living sin.

“Did I?” the twisted darkness rasped.

Vernon’s ankle collapsed, a chunk of flesh ripped and torn, blood seeping through the floor, dark ink swirling with the fading scarlet. A slice reeking of revenge felt to the depths of his marrow.

The hatchet yanked out of his ankle, and the Alpha’s knees kissed the stones. A pale hand, too twisted for true comprehension, gripped the hatchet.

The little girl who had hung onto that little thread twisted with hope.

A fading will focused on retribution, a face meaner than his own demons.

He hadn’t won.

The warrior slipped through his peripheral, the slickness of the liquids sliding over his hands too tangible.

“Tell me how you did it,” he insisted, not feebly—anything but. Foam bubbled at his lips. “Slipped through my defenses unharmed.”

His utopia. Meeting an end to greater darkness. There was no perfection, truer silencer than this. The Ilken had failed him, his fantasy had not been fulfilled, the girl had not crossed over the line. Into insanity.

The warrior stepped over his mangled ankle. A true devil in a lower hide.

More pain, but numb.

Onyx eyes peered into him, a smile promising more things than the sweet release of decaying. Hardened and unconquered. Eternal seconds of breathings for this very moment.

He repeated his words. Slurred.

Grasped at the syllables in response.

Knew the warrior opened his mouth.

Did not know the warrior had been broken and remade. Would remake the broken, shattered figure next to him, gripping the hatchet with a ferocity only the desperate could hold before fading away into dust.

The warrior knelt down next to him, and leaned close to his ear.

Opened his mouth. Said the words again—

Death cannot conquer love.

The sickened rose within him, swirling and spiraling savagely. Vernon howled at the sounds of answer, the clipped crunching cracks chipping away. Heard them over and over again, slithering down his ear and wrapping around him, a vice like grip. Choking him from the inside.

Again and again.

The Alpha of the Morath Pack heard the beating drums of madness crescending louder and louder and louder matching the beating within his own ribcage until all fell into silence and solemness.


She knew she was blinded.

Suffering in the darkness did not mean alleviation in the light.

Too bright, too sunny—she could not see the same way again.

The male warrior had stripped his shirt into thin slices and wrapped the fabric around her eyes, shielding them from the blinding sensations of radiant rays that ripped through her orbs.

But—

—she knew she was safe.

Secure, and sound.

Warm, and protected.

There was no words needed to fill the silence, not when a reunion of simple touching kissed away every troubled crack.

It was as if the past had washed away with the present.

A hand wove through her knotted hair and stroked her scalp, rubbing away the grime and dirt coating her roots.

“Elide,” he murmured, and Elide felt the vibrations rumbling through his chest.

Hers.

His.

Elide opened her eyes, the thread expanding and pouring through her. The warmth from that sliver span flashed through her, and she felt her insides match the other string’s song, the warrior whose arms she was in. Then—in that moment, she realized paradise was not a place, but a feeling.

Mates.

How could she forget that rough-hewn face and those onyx eyes—once haunted—now glimmering with that resounding hope pulsating through her.

Lorcan Salvaterre.

“I am an immortal, seen it all, met it all. But you—” The Commander of the Lycans looked at her with something akin to almost wonder in his eyes. “—You, Elide, are entirely different. You taught me ascension.” His fingers cupped her face, a gentle caress. “You taught me that life is finite and fragile.” His Adam’s apple bobbed.

Elide Lochan cried.

And her mate cried with her.


Elide felt the threads of connections flowing through her, more safety nets, more familiarities. More lives.

She could hear the sharp and feminine voice ringing through the air, and taste the death of Rogues on her tongue.

A blade whistled through the air, and she smiled.

Wind Cleaver.

Which only meant—the white-haired wolf stalked through the clearing, black blood and dust showering her leathers. Claws and teeth and all, she was still radiating the dominance of the powerful and unconquered, the unhinged lethalness of past and present.  

A fierce, feral grin. “If you call one werewolf, you invite the pack.”

Lycans and Fireheart Pack members filtered through the clearing, some scratched, some bleeding, some scarred. Blistered hands and broken joints.

But alive.

Seeing the Lycan carrying her in his arms, Manon gave him a warning glare, but a sharp nod. The white-haired warrior disappeared through the trees, the sound of wind and death weaving through the trees as more of the Ilken summoned, only to receive the hand of death.

This was not some pity party, but art—in death.

In the deserved.

“No,” she whispered, and her mate carried her to the edge of the thick, crooked trees where she could see glimpses of Sorscha and other medical care. Her chest rattled, and her throat cracked. But— “I want to be the one.”

She stared into those onyx eyes that carried her physically and mentally through the darkness, and willed them to understand.

“You want to be the one to bring Morath down,” her mate said, stroking her cheek.

Yes.

Her eyes fluttered close, tiredness overwhelming her. Every part of her still hurt and throbbed, but once these passings passed—

The once Alpha of the Perranth Pack would reclaim her throne.

“Elide,” Lorcan said, solemnly. “I need to know one thing before you pass out.”

Elide Lochan blurrily stared at the shape carrying her, stroking her. Loving her.

She could feel the presence of Sorscha pressing a damp cloth against her forehead, and her mate hooking her trembling fingers through his. Flesh thoroughly marked and matched.

“Do you—” A pause “—love—”

Elide Lochan screamed, a new flare of flame flashing through her. She saw red and felt raw, as if her insides were on fire. Her bones rattled and spine seemed to contract.

More pain.

To think it would end, she almost cackled.

What the hell is going on?” Lorcan roared, gripping her hands, which had started to tremble uncontrollably.

Sorscha—sweet Sorscha—swore, a rattle of a gasp emerging from the pale column of her throat. “She’s Settling.”

Elide Lochan nestled into the darkness, submitting to this other facet of pain and fracture.


Lorcan looked down at the trembling figure in his arms, twisting and turning. Her skin sweated in large rivulets, stinging even his hands.

His mate.

Suffering once again. They were dirty and dirt, but they could blossom from their own embittered seeds. Together.

He swore it. To her, to his mate, to his future.

Sorscha took a hesitant step forward. “By her conditions, I cannot guarantee that she’ll live through the process in becoming Lycan.”

He felt his darkness flare out, angry, bent on madness. Rage. “If you cannot guarantee,” he said lowly. “Then I will.”

He ignored Manon’s demands to halt and Sorscha’s protest. He sent one demand to Rowan Whitethorn, one if carried out, would pay off all of the Prince’s debts to him.

Lorcan Salvaterre whisked his mate away from the screams and tucked her thrashing body under his chin. Elide Lochan was his mate, so damned poison nor words nor ills could deprive him of.

And he would be damned if even Death could snatch that away from him.

Because death could could not conquer love. And love bled in war.  


Rowan Whitethorn tossed the Alpha of the Morath Pack into a cold cell.

Dark and damp.

Aelin and Manon and the entire Fireheart Pack had clawed at the dungeon entrance, demanding justice and retribution to end the pitiful existence of the monster of a man, Vernon.

But he had a deal and a command.

And he would make sure it would be upheld.

The Prince of the Lycans locked the door and watched the gears spur shut. Click after click after click.

No escape.

Confinement.

While Morath was in flames, the true dark core rested within the beating heart of the man who had raised an army of rogues into turned Ilken and experiment on the souls of once-purity.

It was only a matter of time before the pulsing faded away into ashes and dust.


The man clawed at the walls and howled and screamed and scratched and laughed.

Insanity and lunacy. His liar.

His bones started to rattle, blood burn, his teeth chatter, his eyes widen, his jaw unhinge, his insides boil, and his body twitch over and over into a dark and forbidden dance of nightmares and little secrets. 

A swooning flame swished through him, and the little specks flecked across his head. The chunk of missing flesh at his ankle seared and sparked. The demons within him caved him, a forbidden forgiveness. 

Shadow and phantom. Dark and dangerous.

Ill and inquiry.

Hueless and hellish.

And his Settling began. And a new reign dawned. 

anonymous asked:

Hii, could you please do more Fanboy!Tae HCs please???

Yoongi remembers the first time he ever saw Taehyung jealous. It was actually so hilarious and a fun time for him. Yoongi’s usually the only to pout and glare at the boys Taehyung pulls with him to events and for once it’s Taehyung being pouty and grumpy literally Yoongi wants to milk it for all it’s worth because the younger is so fucking cute!!!

It’s during a fan sign in Seoul. Taehyung arrives at the usual location dressed up in his best outfit and carrying his favorite camera to capture any cute poses his boyfriend might do in his direction. It catches him off guard for a moment, though, when he lines up and none of the normal fan masters he interacts with come up to say hello like before. 

His eyebrows scrunch together and he looks around to notice that most of the fan masters are in a circle a little further ahead of the line. 

“Hey, Yoona! What’s going on over there?” 

Taehyung smiles as he spots and talks to one of the Seokjin fan masters he’s gotten close with. She’s a cute girl who always has a Mario plush with her and wants Soekjin to call her baby girl and also one of the few persons that knows of Taehyung’s and Yoongi’s relationship. The girl giggles and covers her mouth before her eyes shut into half moons with her grin and Taehyung himself can’t help but grinning. 

Until she speaks. 

“There’s a new Yoongi fanboy! You remember how wild it was when you first came, they are just excited to see another boy.” 

The grin on his face falls and he wants to say something else but before he can the staff is asking them to line up and of course, of fucking course, the boy lines up right in front of Taehyung. He doesn’t even try to hide his frown. The boy is fucking adorable as fuck. His hair is dyed silver, to match Yoongi’s Taehyung notices, and his almond eyes are lined in sharp dark black liner with light red shadow covering the lids. Really if Taehyung thinks about  it the boy looks similar to himself and that thought only pisses him off more when he sees the boy wearing a shirt that reads “Suga’s boyfriend!” on it.  The boy grins when he sees Taehyung. 

“Hello, I’m Baekhyun! Are you a fanboy too? Ah i bet your girlfriend dragged you here right?” 

Taehyung just points to his camera that hangs around his neck and more specifically the card taped to the camera that reads “Sugas_Sweets.” Baekhyun’s mouth drops open.

“OH YOU’RE MY FAVORITE FAN SITE!!” 

Thankfully before Baekhyun can try talking to him more the line begins moving and the fans are aloud to enter the building. Taehyung quickly looks for Yoongi and his mood instantly brightens when he notices Yoongi is already staring at him with a gummy smile on his face. His mood again is dropped when he hears Baekhyun squeal followed by “Holy shit Suga hyung is so handsome!!” 

He’s really not normally the jealous type but something about Baekhyun gets the possessive juices in him flowing. The boy is pretty, fucking gorgeous really, and Yoongi’s type. It makes Taehyung frown.  

“Did you get Hyung a gift? I got him this signed Eminem cd and some of his favorite candies!” 

Baekhyun is tossing an arm around Taehyung’s shoulder as he talks and Taehyung tries to focus on getting quality pictures of his boyfriend, and some of Namjoon for Kyungsoo, he really just wants to toss his camera because he knows Yoongi is going to fucking love that gift. It’s not a competition but Taehyung wants nothing more than to casually toss out a “I sucked his dick last night that’s a good enough gift.” but he stops himself. Instead he just smiles and shakes his head. 

“I go to every event. Yoongi asked i stop getting him gifts because my love and support is enough for him.” 

It’s their turn to meet the boys at the table and he counts it as a win when he sees Baekhyun look a bit jealous at the way Yoongi lights up when he notices Taehyung is in line. Most fans themselves have just figured Taehyung is Yoongi’s favorite fan site and that’s why the rapper lights up whenever he sees him. Taehyung knows it’s really because his boyfriend is a giant sap that loves when Taehyung shows his fanboy side. Sadly the way the line is set up has Baekhyun going to see Yoongi before Taehyung does. 

He watches with a frown as Baekhyun hands his gifts to Yoongi and Yoongi’s eyes shine when he sees the Eminem cd. Baekhyun raises his hand and Taehyung assumes he’s asking for a high five until he sees Yoongi link their fingers together for a few seconds. It makes his stomach turn unhappily as Baekhyun blushes when he makes eye contact with Yoongi and Yoongi himself laughs at how fucking cute Baekhyun is. 

The staff push him along and Yoongi laughs again when Taehyung sits in front of him with a pout. 

“He’s cute.” 

Yoongi teases his boyfriend and Taehyung huffs. 

“I’m turning into a Namjoon fan site.” 

Of course they both know he’s lying and Yoongi laces their fingers together as he coos. 

“Kyungsoo would kill you if you did.”

They don’t have much time together and Taehyung knows Yoongi has a packed schedule so they won’t get to have any secret dates anytime soon so he tries to smile as he hands over some sticky notes with questions for Yoongi to answer. One of them has a question that reads “Hyung what is your ideal type?” and he winks as he writes down “Pretty boys that pout when they are jealous and have purple hair.” 

Taehyung leaves with a blush on his face as staff ask him to move on. Damn Yoongi can be so smooth sometimes. 


Yoongi laughs the moment he reads the text. He knows, thanks to Taehyung, how much the fans are fearing for his hair now that a new comeback has been announced and although Yoongi already knows he’s keeping his dark hair he decides to tease Taehyung. 

He uploads an old selfie he has on his phone that was never posted onto twitter with his hair a bright orange, from when he was in the middle of bleaching it, before texting Taehyung back. 

“You haven’t checked Twitter?” 

A little bit of worry runs through him when twenty minutes pass and he’s gotten no reply from his boyfriend.  Another ten minutes go by and finally Yoongi texts his Taehyung again. 

“Are you okay?” 

What he receives is a picture of Taehyung in front of the bighit building with the words “BRB fighting Bang PD.” under it. 

(HE QUICKLY STOPS HIS BOYFRIEND BUT NOT BEFORE NEARLY FALLING OFF HIS CHAIR WITH LAUGHTER)


It’s hard on them sometimes. Not always sunshine’s and rainbows. Sometimes they fight and it’s so ugly because they care for each other so much. Yoongi has idol friends that are just so fucking rude sometimes and there the ones that know about him dating a fan and they put words into his head that normally he wouldn’t think about. 

“What if he’s only with you because of the fame?” 

“He only likes you because you’re Suga.” 

“Once the excitement of being with an idol wears off he’ll leave you and go to a magazine about your relationship.” 

Yoongi’s so stressed out when Taehyung calls to tell him about how much he loves the new mv and talk about it he just snaps. 

“Can you please just shut up about the music video.” 

Taehyung goes silent for a moment before trying to change the subject to maybe cheer Yoongi on for his next concert. Yoongi knows he’s being a dick but again the stress it there and the lack of sleep and the words from his friends creep up and he just can’t handle it. 

“All you ever want to fucking talk about is concerts and music videos and it’s so fucking annoying can you just stop being such a fucking fan for once! I’m sorry i don’t want to be your idol boyfriend Suga today you can leech from me later.” 

The line clicks as Taehyung hangs up their call before Yoongi can even realize he’s taken out his stress on his boyfriend. Of course the younger doesn’t answer any attempts Yoongi makes to call him back. It just makes everything hurt more when a few days pass and Yoongi doesn’t see Taehyung at the fan event that he knew for sure the younger had tickets to. Yoongi checks twitter and his gut drops when he sees the top tweet. 

Sugas_Sweets: Hello it’s admin of S_S, for the first time ever S_S will be going on hiatus. Thank you for understanding.

He tries one more time to text Taehyung. “Am i really losing my favorite fan site?” and of course he feels like a dick when Taehyung text him back. “Clearly it bothers you that i’m a fan so i’ll stop.” 

That same day he nearly runs to Taehyung’s apartment as soon as he gets the free time. He has no idea what he’s going to say or do but he knows he needs to fix things with his boyfriend. He never really realized how much he looked forward to seeing Taehyung at events and concerts until the younger hadn’t showed up. He sees it coming when he knocks on the door and Kyungsoo answers just to slam the door back shut when he sees who it is. He’s always been protective over Taehyung and Yoongi is ready to fight his way into the house if he has too to get to Taehyung. Thankfully the younger opens the door a few minutes later. 

Yoongi doesn’t say anything before pulling him into a tight hug. 

“I’m sorry i’m a fucking asshole. I love your support and i love that you’re my fan and that you are there to cheer me on and i didn’t mean anything i said i just let some stupid words some people said get to me and i’m sorry.” 

He hates that Taehyung’s eyes are red, probably from crying, and the younger sighs as if he’s given up. 

“You know i’m dating you because you’re Yoongi right? I love Min Yoongi the man that snores too loud and is picky about his ramen. I don’t care if you are Suga of BTS i love Min Yoongi and i only talk about your work so much because i want you to know how proud i am of you.”

Yoongi nods. He does know that he just fucked up and he says so as he holds the love of his life to him. Taehyung finally hugs him back.

“I love you, stupid. If you make me cry again i’ll get Kyungsoo to kick your ass.” 

Yoongi just chuckles.

“I love you, too brat.” 

dangerouslyaddictivethings  asked:

1988. Childhood friends, mutual pining after thousands years of denial. I love your fics so much. 10/10 recommend

Jonny first met Patrick in 1995, when Patrick smashed a handful of goldfish crackers into Jonny’s hair and giggled incessantly while Jonny tried to shake out the crumbs. His hands clenched at his sides, Jonny set his jaw and glared, but Patrick just smiled and asked if he wanted to play.

They built a castle together from dirt and sticks and Jonny put a worm down the back of Patrick’s shirt. They made a moat out of their juice boxes and didn’t even get scolded by their mothers, who planned a play-date as the sun went down.

Patrick’s life goal, it seemed, was to make Jonny laugh. Sometimes he was good at it - he’d make faces or put his underwear on over his pants - but sometimes he messed up. He’d call Jonny a name, or push him into a snow mound, and Jonny would cross his arms and plant himself until Patrick apologized.

Jonny started calling Patrick ‘Kaner’ after his first year in squirts hockey. Patrick was still too small to play and hated the nickname, until Jonny took him out on the ice behind his house and taught him how to steal a puck. After that, they were Kaner and Tazer, and they were on the same team the next year.

Keep reading

Soulmates? Castiel x Reader

Request: I love angel wing fics so I was wondering if I could request a fic where the Reader can see castiel’s wings and she knows this means she’s his soulmate. But she’s nervous or thinks she’s not good enough so she decides not to tell him but he ends up finding out and it’s so cute! Thank you so much xo

Warnings: None

Pairing: Castiel x Reader

At first, you thought nothing of it. When you met him, Dean made a joke about his wings, and you assumed he could see them.

Somedays you found yourself staring at them, your chin in your hand as you daydreamed about how they felt. You would never touch them or ask to, that’d be too awkward. So you just kept your thoughts to yourself as you tried to read.

It wasn’t too long after you first met Castiel when you found yourself reading a lore book about angels. It was boring, dreadfully, but you forced yourself to continue. Sam was on the couch, his feet propped up, reading a similar book. On the table in front of the couch sat a pile of books, some in different languages. You were supposed to be looking for passages about Nephilim, a spawn between angels and humans. But so far, you found nothing.

A passage about their wings caught your eye and you smiled as you remembered the look of Castiel’s white wings. They were so beautiful, it was a wonder how you didn’t catch Sam or Dean staring at them. You lazily read through the passage, skimming over the repeated use of ‘celestial’ until the word ‘soulmate’ made you stop.

‘Only he worthy of it may see an angel’s wings, or their true soulmate, may it be human.’

You furrowed your brows at that line and shook your head. You knew you weren’t ‘worthy’ and you sure as hell knew you weren’t his soulmate. You were just a hunter, right? If anyone is was worthy it was Dean. But he never made a big fuss out of it. Were you the only one who could see Castiel’s wings?

“Sam, can you see Castiel’s wings?” You asked and he looked up from his book.

“Uhm, no?” He furrowed his brows. “No one can. But angels, I guess.” He said, folding the page in his book incase he had to put it down. “Why?”

You felt your muscles go slack and you almost fell out of the chair you sat in. “I, Sam, I can see his wings.”

His hazel eyes widened and he slowly closed his book. “Are you serious?” You shook your head and your fingers raised to touch your lips, a habit you picked up recently. “You gotta ask him about it-”

“No!” You stopped him. He looked at you questioningly, and before he could speak you continued. “I don’t want to make anything weird, or, what if I scare him off? I read in the book it means I’m his soulmate. Sam, oh my god, what if he kills me?”

Sam burst out laughing, not even attempting to hide it. “Jesus Christ (Y/N), he’s not going to kill you. Calm down.” He laughed for a bit longer before your serious gaze made him quiet down. “Okay, I’m sorry. But seriously, you need to tell Cas.”

“Tell me what?”

Your heart dropped at the sound of his voice and you slowly turned around to see the angel. “Castiel, hi.” You tried to change the subject, but you couldn’t help your eyes from wandering to the large wings curled behind him.

“Tell me what?” He repeated, pressing the question. You were about to pull the clueless act, but Sam slaughtered it for you.

“She can see your wings, Cass.” He said and you had never wanted to choke Sam more than now.

Castiel tilted his head and looked to you. “Is he lying?”

You were tempted to say yes, but you just sighed and shook your head. “No, he’s not. I thought everyone could see them, but then I read this book, and it said no one unworthy could see them, the only other explanation was…” You trailed off and wanted to scream. This is not how you wanted it to go. “Fuck.” You sighed and rubbed the bridge of your nose, standing up from the chair to face him.

He smiled, amusement on his features. “Soulmates?” He said, and you nodded. “I assumed something of that sort when I caught you staring.”

Oh god. He knew you had been staring. “So, is the book right, or?”

“Yes, the book is correct.” He was still smiling, and it made you wonder why. “I had always thought my soulmate would be an angel. This is, a surprise to say the least.”

“Are you disappointed?” You asked, chewing on the inside of your cheek nervously.

“That’s not the word I’d use.” He chuckled and scratched the back of his neck, it appeared he was nervous as well. “Surprised, yes, disappointed, no.” You didn’t know what to say, you always had a tiny crush on him, but this was a lot to take in. You’d prefer that you weren’t soulmates, it felt like someone was forcing you to be together. You wanted it to be a natural thing, if you got together at all.

“Well, anyone want a beer?” Sam cleared his throat awkwardly, and both you and Castiel turned to look at him with looks of confusion and annoyance. “Uh, nevermind. Sorry, I uh, yeah.” He swallowed and nodded, getting up and walking upstairs.

You looked back at Castiel and laughed timidly, but before you could speak he kissed you. You gasped in surprise, your hands gripping his shoulders roughly. His lips were a bit rough, but what did you expect? Angels didn’t go around carrying chapstick.

He parted and left you with red cheeks and half lidded eyes. “What was that for?” You smiled shyly, raising a brow.

“I assumed, since human soulmates do this, it might be appropriate. Was it not?” He looked worried at your expression.


“You’re too sweet, Cass. Kiss me again.”

What's up buttercup?

A/N: I know this one is a little choppy and kind of just cuts off but I thought it was a good way to end it. This is probably one of my favorite things I’ve written so far just because I’m a sucker for this crap. Plus…omg 46 followers?! Last I checked I was at thirty something or another…Thanks you so much for all the follows and the notes. I love love love you guys💜 With that said, I hope you enjoy it, and thanks for reading ❤️❤️

🚫WARNING🚫:

MATURE LANGUAGE AND SUGGESTIVE DIALOGUE

Three minutes…two minutes and fifty nine seconds…two minutes and fifty eight seconds…

You didn’t pay any attention to the stopwatch on your phone. You didn’t need to, you were counting down the three minutes in your head. Anxiety rushed through you, just thinking of all the ways this could turn out even though there were only two paths this could take in the long run:

Pregnant or not pregnant.

Two minutes and thirty seconds…two minutes and twenty nine seconds…

You first suspected you were pregnant when you had been rifling through your bathroom drawers looking for a bottle of nail polish remover and you saw it.

The unopened box of tampons you bought almost two months ago, having run out of them while you had your last period. Without having to ponder it, you knew there was a definite possibility you could be pregnant. Nail polish remover forgotten, you bolted out of the bathroom, grabbed your wallet, keys, shoes, and broke several traffic laws to get to the nearest convenience store as fast as possible.

You hadn’t bothered with picking out the ‘most effective’ test. You grabbed the one with the digital screen that you knew would be the easiest to read and slammed money next to the cash register, barely waiting for your receipt.

Now here you were, an hour later, sitting on a closed toilet lid, hands wringing in your lap.

One minute and forty seven seconds…one minute and forty six seconds…

The white stick kept a heavy presence on the bathroom counter. You stole quick glances at it, imagining it flashing “pregnant” at you once the timer was over. Just thinking about this kind of outcome scared you to no end.

What the hell were you going to do with a baby?

It’s not like you didn’t have a stable job or home. You were a responsible adult. Theoretically, you could take care of this baby. But you just weren’t ready. This wasn’t supposed to happen until maybe one or two years after you got married and currently your relationship status with your boyfriend was serious but not marriage serious.

'Oh my god, Wade. What am I going to tell Wade?!’ You screamed internally.

This whole new can of worms brought on a fresh wave of fear. Wade had never said anything about wanting kids, it hadn’t come up yet.

You snorted, “Well it’s definitely going to come up now.”

You hadn’t even known you said the words out loud until Wade’s voice came from the other side of the door,

“What’s going to come up now?” He semi shouted so you could hear him.

You froze in panic, 'What the fuck is Wade doing here? He wasn’t supposed to be home until tomorrow!’

“Suggums, is everything okay in there? Need some help with the shower?” He asked suggestively.

At that moment, you were speechless. It was like your brain had become a blank slate. You scrambled for something to say, something that wouldn’t make him any more worried than you were.

'Maybe if I don’t say anything at all, he’ll go away…

…Yeah because that’s not being rude at all to the father of your maybe baby,’ you scoffed at yourself and ran your hands through your hair. You looked back towards your phone timer to see how much longer until you’d find out if you were going to be a parent.

One minute and twenty three seconds…one minute and twenty two seconds…

Wade, still on the other side of the door, grew increasingly concerned as your silence went on,

“(Y/N), honey, seriously is everything okay?” You could hear the worry in his voice and knew if you didn’t answer him, he would definitely break down the door.

“Yeah Wade, everything’s okay,” your voice came out unexpectedly raspy from the emotion clogged in your throat. Tears were starting to sting your eyes, threatening to roll down your cheeks. Wade, of course, saw right through this and busted the lock then walked right into the bathroom. It was a rare day where he wasn’t dressed in his Deadpool suit, but jeans and a black sweater with a t shirt on underneath it that depicted a kitten swinging on a wrecking ball.

You furiously wiped at the tears in your eyes and tried to get in a deep breath so you could have some semblance of calm. Wade strode through the open door, like he hadn’t just broke in. He saw you sitting on the toilet lid with red puffy eyes, and looked around for anything that could explain your mood.

“What’s wrong sugar toosh, happy to see-”

His brown eyes found your phone and more importantly, the pregnancy test, lying on the granite bathroom counter. Wade seemed to know what it was right away, without having to ask. Never one to shut up, Wade’s eyes widened comically as he let out a quiet,

“Oh.”

You simply nodded your head, keeping your face down towards your lap, even though you could feel his eyes burning through the top of your skull.

“Is this because of all the sex we’ve been having? You know, it’s perfectly normal to be horny all the time, you don’t have to be pregnant to have those kinds of hormones, you know what I’m saying?”

Wade tried to joke, hoping you’d look up at him. When you kept your head hung, he let out a sigh and crouched down in front of you.

“Hey, talk to me, ah…there’s those sexy eyes I dream about every night,” he charmed.

You chuckled, glad Wade wasn’t completely furious with the situation. Knowing you couldn’t shut him out forever you explained,

“I might be pregnant-”

“I deduced,” Wade interrupted with a smirk on his face. You smiled and ignored him, pushing on through your words,

“Obviously it would be yours-”

“Obviously,” Wade repeated, this time getting a laugh and a push to the shoulder. He laughed with you and raised a callous hand to cup your cheek. Wade tilted his head as if he was taking you in, trying to decipher every little curve and edge to your face.

“So what’s the big deal? Or are you overcome with such joy at the prospect of birthing my prodigy that you couldn’t hold in the happy tears?”

The way Wade boasted about himself was one of your favorite things about him. The first being how well he was taking this so far. No one in the history of ever would be this calm learning that they may have accidentally impregnated someone.

“I just-”

You were cut off by the shrill alarm of the timer on your phone going off. Before you could read the test, Wade’s hand shot out and hid it behind his back.

“Wade, what are you doing?!” You shouted, and made a grab for his arm, desperately needing to find out whether or not the purchase of a crib was in your future. But Wade only shushed you and held a finger up to your lips,

“Nah ah ah, just wait a minute. Let’s talk about this. Why are you so upset?” Wade questioned. He raised his nonexistent eyebrows and waited for you to speak.

You let out a deep sigh and shrugged your shoulders,

“I don’t know. Just…”

You were at a loss for words until a sudden incredulousness took over you,

“Why are you so calm about this?! How?!” You shouted, throwing your hands up.

Wade merely laughed then patiently waited for you to calm down with him before he gave you insight. A couple minutes and a long silence filled with your heavy breathing later…he told you,

“It’s because I can’t stop thinking about a little kid running around this place, a little kid who I will love unconditionally and who will love me too. No matter how fucking disgusting my pizza for a face is. And I can’t stop thinking about how much I love you. I know you like to be prepared for things and this probably threw you for a loop, but everything is going to be okay. I promise.”

By the time he finished, Wade’s thumb was gently running across the top of your cheek. A new bucket of tears spilled over at Wade’s confession, making you feel more in love with him than you were five minutes ago.

“Plus a baby would give me an excuse to keep watching Teletubbies.”

A laugh bubbled up out of your throat and suddenly you weren’t so scared anymore. Suddenly, the prospect of a baby wasn’t so terrifying and something you were starting to want. And if there was anyone you would want it to be with, it was with Wade.

You cleared your throat and clasped your hand onto his,

“I love you too, you know,” You croaked out. Wade smiled and nodded his understanding. He then abruptly stood away from you and brought the test out from behind his back.

Wade blankly stared at the test in his hands, there was nothing in his expression to give away the result.

With each passing second, you grew more and more impatient. Finally, he looked up at you and met your expectant gaze with a frown. As you saw the corners of his lips tug down, your heart unexpectedly plummeted and you knew what the little screen read.

“It’s negative isn’t it?” You asked, defeated. Wade didn’t say anything, just kept looking at you with that same frown, giving you the time to ramble out random thoughts,

“You know what? It’s okay. We don’t need a baby right now, it’s fine. It’s not like we were trying or anything. This is not disappointing at all. It’s probably better this way.”

You stood and wiped the tears off your cheeks and headed out to your bedroom. Wade followed you, then stopped at the entrance to your room, leaning against the door jam. He quirked a hairless eyebrow and watched you through your vanity mirror.

“Do you really think that?” Wade asked seriously.

You halted your process of drying off your eyes and really thought about his question. You wanted to scream no and cry about the baby that never existed. You didn’t think that this was better than the alternative at all. But still, you shrugged a shoulder at Wade and stuck to your guns. Fake it till you make it, right?

“Yes, Wade.”

“Well suck it up buttercup because you’re pregnant.”

Wade’s words stunned you in place and caused you to whip around to face him,

“What?” You breathlessly asked.

Wade nodded as your feet ungrounded themselves and nearly ran over to Wade. You stole the test out of his hand and read the little screen that spelled out 'positive’ in little digital letters. A warmth of happiness you had never known before spread out all over your body and put the biggest smile on your face. Wade broke you out of your daze with his next words,

“Looks like we’re going to need to get Al down here to assemble a crib.”

Before he could prepare himself, you tackled him in a bear hug, dropping the pregnancy test to the floor. Wade let out a boisterous laugh and wrapped his arms around your waist,

“There we go, that’s more like it.”

His large hand rubbed circles on your back and he buried his face in your neck. You clutched onto his broad shoulders for dear life, never wanting to let go. Needing to show him how much you loved him, you pulled back and framed his face with your hands so you could bring your lips to his.

Wade responded strongly, cupping the back of your head and encircling your waist with his arm. When the need for air arose, the both of you broke apart. Wade pressed his forehead down onto yours and stared into your eyes with pure adoration.

Without warning, he dropped to his knees and slid a hand to caress your still flat belly,

“Hey there little one, it’s your daddy. You probably can’t hear me because you probably don’t have ears yet but you should get used to the sound of my voice now. They don’t call me the merc with a mouth for nothing. Well, your mommy calls me the merc with a mouth for a whole other reason, and that’s probably one of the things that led to you being alive. She cannot resist the talents of my tongue-”

You smirked when Wade let out a sharp “Ow!” after you smacked him on the back of his head.

Wade laughed and brought his other hand on top of your stomach and pushed your shirt up. He moved his head and hands around, looking and feeling for something.

“You’re gonna get so fat.”

The sudden statement caused you send another smack to Wade’s head but you still laughed and looked down at his face.

You took in the brightness shining from his eyes and the absolute glow his smile portrayed. Seeing that, you knew everything was going to be okay.

anonymous asked:

Hi! :3 I love your blog so much. Can you write more for that stoned Noodle imagine? How would that play out?

Thank you, sweetie! <3 I’m flattered as hell.


CONCEPT: YOUNG NOODLE FINDS BROWNIES IN THE KITCHEN BUT THEY WEREN’T NORMAL BROWNIES

2D walks into the kitchen while nursing his bruised shoulder, “Finally I can get me hands on my sweeties, I thought Murdoc would never stop talkin’- heya Noodle!”

Noodle giggles in response and as 2D looks up towards the medicated chocolate squares he was looking forward to eating,and he nearly has a stroke. Some of the brownies were missing…

“No, no, no, no, no I was just gone for an hour!  Noodle-girl please tell me Murdoc or Russ came in here and took some of these!?” The frightened lanky man bolts to Noodle (who is staring off into space with her head tilted and a slight smile…) and grabs her to look closely at her face. Her eyes are red and lidded and she gives him a grin.  

“Toochi, I hoped you would not mind, I helped myself to a couple! They tasted funny though…I’m hungry, can we order pizza?”

2D suddenly looks terrified, he lets out a string of curses as he snatches the plate with the brownies and then he snatches the little girl up and pulls her into his room.

“If Russel finds out… Nonononono… if Russel finds out, I’ll be as good as dead.” 2D squeaks out.

“If Russel finds out what, Tooch?” Noodle looks up with her now droopy red eyes,  confused. “I feel funny…” She chortles.

“Ahhhum, nothing, donchya worry about a thing Noods, just sit tight…”

“Okay!” She giggles, “I want wings, can we please get food now …pleeeeaaaase, D?” Noodle sounds like she’s desperate for food, 2D can’t help but laugh at the girl, he felt bad for laughing but stoned Noodle is quite adorable and she seems to be having the munchies. His laughter is contagious and it has Noodle cracking up as well.

“Sure, Noods, I’ll pop in a movie first then we’ll figure out the food situation… ”

“I’m so thirsty… I don’t think I have ever been this thirsty… 2D, I’m so thirsty!”

Well, the cotton mouth seems to be setting in…

“Hold on Noods, we’ll fix that soon, just watch the movie for now and I’ll get the food and drinks, please Noodle, just sit tight though, you are not to leave this room for anything understand?”

“Hai!” And she resumes concentrating on the TV, and every so often she would giggle at the most ridiculous things.

2D sighs, slightly amused and slightly disappointed.  That’s supposed to be me right now… She’ll be like this for the next couple of hours considering how much she ate. I doubt she’ll move from that spot any time soon. It really couldn’t hurt to eat some now that I’ve got the situation all fixed now, could it?

He takes a brownie and munches on it while on his way back to the kitchen to get the pizzeria’s menu. He orders a large cheese pie, tons of water, and two orders of boneless wings. Suddenly 2D needs to use the t o i l e t b a t hroom. When he’s done with his business,  he enters his room again.

“Noodle I ordered th-”

Noodle is gone.

Suddenly 2D hears her giggle.

“Ah crud…” He was just out the room for 20 minutes he’s already starting to feel the effects of the edible he ingested.

“NOODLE! Where are you? Come back!”

2D sticks his head out of his room to see Noodle playing by Russel’s room, and Russel is making his way up the stairs, he’s on his way towards his room. The horrified 2D’s eyes go wide and he shrieks:  “Nooooodle come here I have to show you something!!! Noodle, I have pizza! C’mere Noods!”

Noodle turns around and runs back with her back facing Russ and 2D breathes a sigh of relief. I thought I was a dead man…

Noodle enters the room as Russ reaches the top of the stairs and 2D slams the door.

“You. Are. Not. To. Leave. This. Room. Noodle.” 2D manages to squeak this out as he is out of breath, he has his hand over his chest.

Noodle seems this funny and she starts having a laughing fit in which 2D ends up partaking in later on because he too is starting to feel the full blown effects of the cannabis.

They sit down and start to watch a zombie movie (every time someone screams, gets dragged or bitten, they both burst out into laughter.) This goes on for another 30 minutes until 2D hears the doorbell.

The two very stoned musicians look at each other immediately and both shout: “t h e  f o o d!”  And 2D leaves to get the food he ordered, feeling like he’s in some sort of trance.

He takes his time going downstairs and trips twice, not because of the weed but because he’s just very clumsy.  2D opens the door, takes the food, and hands the delivery person money and a hefty tip then slammed the door. When he spins around to make his way back up the stairs, he hears a little girl’s giggle and shortly after Russel’s booming voice:

“D!!! WHATCHYA DO TO MY BABY GIRL?!? WHAT DID YOU DO TO BABYGIRL?!”

That’s when 2D’s stomach fell and his high was killed. His buzz was completely gone and replaced with fear.

  • Word Count:1,279
  • Characters: 2p China & Reader 
  • Theme: Yandere

Haze

He was an adrenaline junkie, always searching for that next high and chasing danger wherever he went, just hoping he would feel alive inside. Regardless of the injuries and pain it brought him, it only made him feel more awake. Feeling no remorse for the pain he inflicts on others, nor sorrow for the trail of broken bloody hearts that followed his every step.

How could someone so vain and narcissistic truly worthy of being loved? He deplored love, denouncing every act of tenderness and ardor. Only the feeling of lust and greed that he would embrace, until he met you that is. You had caught his attention upon first sight, soon finding himself maddened and addicted to you. There could be no other substitute to satisfy that desire of which he craved of you, as he was determined he would own you body, mind, and soul.

You were now his own personal strain of opium, a high that would never dull whenever he was around you. The feeling of a needle piercing into his sickly pale arm and releasing the poisons into his bloodstream, a familiar buzz growing stronger that often left him numb. This high could not compare to you though, only a means of distraction until the decaf buzz wore off sooner than expected.

He knew he just had to pursue you, to swallow the pill filled with promises of serenity and bliss. When he haunted your footsteps, scavenging for every little trace from you left behind for him to cherish and treasure above life itself that would later be added to the collection within his home. Really, you should be more careful.

You never know what creature in the night may steal you away, creatures like himself that would not hesitate to ravage the very innocence you withheld. The very thought of having you writhing and twisting under him brought immense pleasure, yet almost brought agony to be the one who would taint sure purity.

All he wanted was to bask in the holy light you gave and to wash over him, rinsing away his unforgivable sins. The internal flames that have engulfed him for so long, extinguished with your very presence and leaving the feeling of waves washing over him.
Tonight was the night, he would finally capture that starlight and keep it hidden from the heartless world filled with damnation and unrighteousness.

Creeping through the shadows of your bedroom, hanging over your bed in silent prayer for you to stay in the serene state you were in. His hand hesitating to touch your silky smooth skin, the sensations scorching his very being. Sort murmurs escaping slightly parted lips, causing red eyes to stare in intensity for signs of awakening. Maintaining composure, he leaned just barely above your silky hair and inhaling the toxic scent that would burn in his memories and linger in his system for hours.

After that single hit, the crimson blood began to rush through his veins in excitement and anticipation for what is about to happen. Bringing out a syringe filled with an unknown vibrant substance, the silver of the needle catching the moonlight that pushed passed the curtains. In front of the open window allowing a slight breeze follow suite into the room, extinguishing the flush of his skin.

With gentle precision, pushing the needle into your virgin skin and injecting the rich solvent. Sighing out in satisfaction as your mind wandered deeper into sleep, just barely hanging there from no return. Gathering you into his arms, then carrying you into the night where he would take you somewhere he would only see you and could protect you from the outside world.

Once carrying to the prepared room that was custom designed just to accommodate your every desire. The room itself not luxurious, but held a certain charm to it. Placing you gently on the bed while you laid in the comatose state, his mind racing and numb from the actions he had just taken. You were finally home, where you belonged and would be worshiped every hour of the day.

Hummed with an inhaled breath, his long fingers tapped itself down your round stomach, traced upon the rolls upon your hips before retracting his fingers, as if he would ruin the masterpiece painted on a canvas. This is exactly how he wanted you, senseless and unresponsive. Crawling onto the bed and laying next to your sleeping body, he wrapped his arms tightly around your plush body to pull you against his chest.

Breathing out a shaking breath he did not realize he was holding, he finally felt he was complete with you by his side. For hours he laid there, counting every breath you took and memorizing the rhythm of your chest rising and falling, still within your comatose state. However, the peaceful moment was soon interrupted with the poison dulling within your system and causing you to awaken.

Eyes snapped open, cheeks flushed and your muscles rigid, you inhaled in a breath as your struggled against his arm; yet he still squeezed tightly. No matter what whimpers and pleads of freedom, the begs fell to deaf ears as he brought out a familiar object from the nightstand.

Filling the vial with succulent substances, bringing it down onto your panicked form before injecting the smooth concoction to relax your mind to the previous mindless state. He did not care that you would not respond to his confessions of love and adoration, as long as you were next to him in the skin and flesh with a beating heart was he satisfied.

The days dragging slowly, filled with promising words whispered into your ears that trailed into your blanked mind. Tendrils of smoke dancing within the room in spirals, leaving a sweet scent behind as half-lidded red eyes trailed your every detail and crevasse on your body. Bringing the opium-laced pipe to his dry lips, inhaling yet again the venomous smoke into his lungs.

The sleeve of his shirt lazily wiping away the left over powdered substance that gathered at his nose, threatening to burst into a crimson river. His mind in a constant satiated haze from obsessing over your paralyzed body laid on the bed where he placed you upon first acquiring you, which was months ago.

Make no mistake, he would allow the drugs to wear off long enough to feed you and bathe you. Though your mind became so warped and fogged from the effects of the drugs he has laced within your food, causing you to not know whether you were alive or not. Unable to feed yourself, he happily fed you to his hearts content.

His fogged mind shaken back into reality as he heard the familiar whimpers falling from plump lips, you were awake. Smirking to himself, he lazily rose from his seating position to strut over to the various vials placed with rigor. Assorting from strain and strength of the concoctions, he chose the ultra violet lilac substance before filling the glass vial within the syringe.

Flicking the needle twice to expel any air bubbles for total accuracy for your daily dose. Flashing the needle before your clouded eyes where you could only barely make out the shape of the object before you, where incomprehensible sounds spewed from your mouth into a tantrum.

Pushing the needle past the skin barrier and into the worn out vein in your arm, he released the smooth fluid into your addicted body that now craved the very substances he fed you every day. Love and lust clouding his eyes as he watched you fall back into your beautiful mindless state, this is where you belonged.