this is not a drill this is reality

anonymous asked:

Gabriel might be canonically alive, now. In the AU at least.





GABE IS JUST FINE. and this season’s finale put the final nail in the coffin for me

i was going to do a comic about it, but it could be too much to shove into a comic anyway. SO–in regards to this:

he was literally drilling into their heads “GUESS. WHAT. CAN. KILL. ME. THAT. I. TOTALLY. HAVE.”

i don’t think gabriel brought an actual “archangel blade” at all. we find out in hammer of the gods that there’s a specific blade that looks like an angel blade that can kill an archangel, and it was confirmed in s12′s finale that a regular angel blade doesn’t do much to an archangel. so whatever luci stabbed him with, wasn’t actually something that could hurt gabe

if you think gabriel can literally warp reality but couldn’t recreate an angel death, i need you to sit down and reread that


but we also learned that lucifer apparently thinks, even without incredible showmanship, “if i stab it, it’s dead.” crowley, a DEMON, just a demon, was able to slip out of his body into a rat, with lucifer none the wiser. this wasn’t premeditated on crowley’s part. i firmly believe gabriel went in with a plan for the worst

so when sam and dean watched the porn gabe gave them:

i FIRMLY believe this was actually gabriel that they were watching. he was alive. right there. and he just wanted an easy out of the drama. he never had the plan to be caught, he just got heated in changing channels and realized he was going to back himself into a corner if he stayed in the game. which is ALSO why i think this stunt was pulled in meta fiction:

this is genuinely just something he can do. and metatron had, more or less, the power of god. he probably suspected the same thing i did when he read chuck’s work. so metatron literally made gabriel pitch to cas what gabe was afraid would happen to him. he didn’t want to lead armies or head rallies. he wanted to spend the rest of eternity fucking with humans

ALSO. FROM THE FINALE. dean says to luci something along the lines of, “…so you’re just going to go around smashing all of his toys?” which,

and at the beginning of the season, cas crashes into the Mystery Spot sign.

so while he is alive in other universes, sure, i think he’s still just fine in this one. if anything, he’s the one archangel that chuck actually respected, just by leaving him alone. but with the new devil baby i think something might snap

viruskit said:

I have no idea if this was already theorized but do you think the Scooby Doo episode will happen cause Gabriel came back to fuck shit up? Cause high and low key I’m hoping that happens

with rich being on set so much, it wouldn’t surprise me if this was the case! if this is what happens, they’ll think Oh They’re None The Wiser because of all of rich’s directing spots, both now and in the future. otherwise, it might just be a weird fever dream MOTW ep. FINGERS CROSSED, THO

Cake Mix (Bucky Barnes X Reader)

Hey guys, just writing some things to queue up because i’ve got a week full of exams coming up! If you have any requests feel free to message me or something :)

Originally posted by whohehellisbucky

You rushed around your tiny apartment, running into haphazardly stacked piles of books and the ends of furniture. You tripped over your end table, landing on the couch with an ‘oof’. Still, you didn’t stop, scrambling to get to your cellphone. At this very moment, there were fifty boxes of cake mix in your kitchen, and you needed an ungodly amount of cakes done by tomorrow night. The only way you would be able to get this done, would be to call your best friend and life saver over to help you. 

You recently got a new phone, and hadn’t moved all of your contacts over to it yet. Luckily, you remembered your best friend Elisa’s number by heart.You dialed it at the speed of light, impatiently listening to the phone ringing, willing her to pick up. Finally, someone did. 

“I have 50 boxes of cake mix, we need to start making cakes ASAP! Deadlines, Elisa, ever heard of ‘em? Where are you?” You hollered into the phone, tripping your way back to your kitchen. Instead of a straight answer, a rather masculine-sounding chuckle. 

“ I think you got the wrong number, but count me in anyway. Sounds fun!” I guy said on the other end of the line. You sighed exasperatedly. 

“You know what, I don’t even have time to question it. I need fifty cakes by tomorrow night. I’m apartment 3c in the red brick building on the corner of 5th and Holland way. If you turn out to be a creep, I’ll suffocate you in cake batter,” You replied matter-of-factly. 

“Sounds like a great way to die. I’m on my way,”the guy said, and with that he hung up. You shook your head at yourself as you ripped open the first box of cake mix, wondering how absolutely crazy you had to be to do what you just did. 

Twenty minutes later, you had your first cake in the oven, and a knock was sounding on your door. You set down the mixing bowl in your hands and flicked the stray hair out of your face. When you opened the door, you came face-to-chest with a guy who was obviously much taller than you. 

“Hi, I’m (y/n),” you said, sticking out a batter-speckled hand for him to shake. He shook it, a smile on his face. 

“I’m Bucky.I guess i’m your co-baker for the day?” He said, his voice making butterflies erupt in your stomach. You pushed the thoughts away and opened the door wider. 

“Yeah, I guess you are. Now, I’ve got forty-nine cakes to go, and t-minues forty-seven hours until deadline,” I said, sounding eerily like a drill sergeant. 

“Yes, ma’am. Oh boy, am I excited,” Bucky replied, smirking as he followed you to your tiny, cluttered kitchen. 

Seven hours of vigorous baking later, and you and Bucky were exhausted. Both of you had made your way to the living room, collapsing on the couch. 

“So, trashy reality tv time?” You asked, quirking an eyebrow and making Bucky laugh. 

“You know, I never expected to have so much fun baking with someone I just met,” Bucky piped up, turning to look at you. 

“Yeah, you’d be surprised,” you shot back, a smile on your face. 

“So.. same time tomorrow?” he asked.


[Image Title: Fire Drills.

Left Image Description: A fireman in just his helmet, pants, and suspenders, is holding a girl in his arms. They are looking into each other’s eyes, while surrounded by flames and an empty wheelchair. Text underneath the image reads “Expectation”.

Right Image Description: A girl seated in her wheelchair is alone, leaning over to the stairs beside her, with small flames coming from the opposite side. She asks “Um… is someone coming?” The text underneath the image reads “Reality”.]

In high school we always joked with our EAs that in case of a fire, we’d want to be swooped away by a hunky fireman. Meanwhile in reality (true story), Lianna was left upstairs with her EAs during a tiny contained fire… and no one came up to get her! Safe to say we switched most of our classes downstairs after that lol.

When War Runs Deep [m] (ft. Yoongi) Prologue

Originally posted by gwiyongie

→ angst, implied smut, vampire/war!au 

→ when a forbidden relationship between the general’s daughter and a vampire used as a military tool takes place during the war. 

prologue: “I know” | 01 I swear on my honor | 02 “Marry me” [M] | 03 Freedom doesn’t exist | 04 On the Other Side

basically I watched howl’s moving castle and I’m also a vampire au hoe and I was sad I didn’t get to post anything for yoongi for his bday so this is the brainchild that was birthed in less than half an hour sorry

But as you wind your arms around his neck and press your trembling lips to his, you let yourself indulge. You let yourself be selfish for once, to live without thinking about the consequences and to live without thinking about anyone else except yourself and this man you have come to love more than yourself.

Keep reading


An interview with Laura Johnston Kohl, a survivor of the Jonestown Massacre

Why did you join Peoples Temple?
The United States was going through critical growing pains in the 1950s, 1960s, and 1970s. In the decade of the 1960s, five American heroes were shot and killed by vigilantes - John Kennedy, Martin Luther King, Bobby Kennedy, Malcolm X, and Medgar Evers - and many more besides these heroes. Then, we got into the war in Vietnam. I did not want the world run by bullies, nor by vigilantes. I tried as a single, naive woman to change some things - but was pretty powerless, it turned out. When I met Jim Jones, and joined Peoples Temple, I thought Jim would protect me, and stand for issues I felt were important. He had adopted children of many races, had gathered a huge interracial congregation, and stood with other leaders of our times - Angela Davis, Cesar Chavez, Dennis Banks, many in the LGBTQ community in San Francisco, and others. It seemed like a perfect fit, even though I was an atheist. Jim’s efforts were to move people into activism.

What was it about Jim Jones that first attracted you to the Temple?
From the first time I met Jim, in Redwood Valley, I was impressed at his inclusion and affection for all of us. He would hug, smile, congratulate, assist and nurture all of us regardless of age, sex, income, education, and life experience. He would be the one to notice the people cleaning up or working hard, or setting up events. His concern seemed genuine. In his own life, he and his wife had adopted five children of many races, sometimes having to fight a system opposed to household integration. They did it. His wife seemed to be as enchanted with him as the rest of us, which I thought was remarkable. And, he had political allies who were my heroes of the time - Angela Davis, Cesar Chavez, Dennis Banks, and others. In San Francisco, we were supportive of all diverse community members. There was not only a vision of what we could be, we could look around and see that we had already arrived in a small measure. Certainly, we had more work to do, but we were an inclusive interracial community, and determined to continue the fight.

The public persona certainly differed with the reality, even at that time. But, I did not see that part.
Some of the literature on the Peoples Temple paints a picture of abusive practices. Such as catharsis sessions, physical beatings and suicide drills even before the move to Guyana. How apparent were they?

I disagree that the catharsis sessions were always abusive. Jim ran the Temple as if he were the Godfather of a huge family. He was in charge. He took people to task if our work was shoddy, or our behavior was off, if he or others noticed issues. To this day, I have “family meetings” with my husband and foster son to resolve issues and organize our lives. Sometimes that happened in the Peoples Temple Family Meetings. The abuse part was to have Jim making a decision, stating a problem, and then not allowing the person to respond, or to refuse to listen to problems that needed resolution within the church. Jim could never be questioned. Never. That is abuse. A healthy catharsis is not abuse. Catharsis was the wrong word for much of what went on in our Family Meetings. We had dictatorship laying down rules, and not allowing discussion or defense. Because Jim took the role of everyone’s “father” he managed the discipline of the members. The beatings were outrageous, and even created life-long disabilities. The suicide drills were an early clue of Jim’s power-tripping. I wrote them off as just one more of his antics to get us more unified and to work harder. I think that the most relevant thing about the suicide drills was that NO ONE COULD EVER HAVE IMAGINED that Jim, the person who got relatives out of prison, who fought in courts for children and adults, who got people legal and medical help, who adopted his own children and seemed to love all children, and who spoke up for human and civil rights would or could EVER take our lives. Every family had had some relative or close friend helped. Everyone had a story.

Former members have described Jonestown as one of the best things that happened to them. Conversely, it has also been likened to a concentration camp. What was your experience of Jonestown? Did people tell you they wanted to leave?
I was one of the members who loved Jonestown. I always felt that there were many positives of our community, and that the problems would be sorted out and resolved once we did not have to work so hard building everything. If you look at a photo of Jonestown - built in just over 3 years, you will see how amazing it became in that short time. We were humping to make it less primitive and more functional and livable. I did not see things that would not be remedied as soon as our full-out building was done. For people who were not happy in Jonestown, it was a prison. You could not leave. Jim asked people to work hard and that after two years, anyone would be free to go. Many were rightly skeptical. Jim did not ever want anyone to leave. He took it as a personal betrayal and defeat. Even when about 20 people wanted to go with Congressman Ryan, he was overwhelmed. Twenty people out of 1,000. His paranoia and Narcissistic Personality Disorder (even besides his drug addiction) did not allow him to see that in perspective. For those of us in Jonestown, since people did not speak about how they wanted to leave (much as in Hitler’s Germany, where parents were reported by their children or neighbors), I had no idea that people seriously wanted out. I was a zealot so no one would have told me.

As a former member, how do you view the tragic ending of the Peoples Temple?
Jim Jones talked about revolutionary suicide in the death tape, however some scholars view it as mass murder?
The term “Revolutionary Suicide” was coined by Huey Newton, for his book published in the early 1970s. It was the rhetoric of the times, and was used at a time when the disenfranchised poor and people of color were reacting to the abuses of their neighborhoods. Many were saying that if they were to be killed by police or others anyway, they chose to decide the when and where. (That is a rough paraphrase) The deaths in Jonestown were murders. No good came out of the deaths, except that Jim got all the fame and infamy about the community just as he wanted. He never shared leadership.

How was Jim Jones’ behavior?
At the beginning, when I was part of the smaller Redwood Valley Peoples Temple, Jim’s behavior was inclusive, and consistent with the ideas he shared. He did work to get rid of racism within the Temple. Once he moved to San Francisco with many of his members from Redwood Valley, and many new members, I only saw him in public. He was very polished in public. I felt like I knew the “real” Jim Jones and so did not watch him as critically as I should have.

How did you feel inside the community?
The people I met in Peoples Temple were the best, most dedicated and diverse people I have met in my life. Many people made huge sacrifices because we all felt that we could create a safe community for our friends and family, and be a role-model community for the larger world. We worked tirelessly, and felt that each day, we accomplished a lot. I loved the Peoples Temple community, from the communes I lived in and the entire family - which is what it felt like to me.

Was sex an important element?
Jim was married, had a long-time mistress, and continued to have multiple partners over the years. He would justify having sex by telling us why these people “needed” him to show his care or his appreciation for their beauty - really, blaming the victim. And then, he used sex as a further control over that person. I would say that others in the Church were not invited to have multiple partners, and instead earned Jim’s trust be being celibate. He often referred to people as most trustworthy because they were single. He preferred everyone to have a personal connection with him, no room for others or rather, no distraction from others.

When and why did you leave the community?
I did not leave the community. I happened to be working in Georgetown from late October through the deaths in Jonestown on November 18, 1978.

How did Jones maintain such a strong control over the members?
First, Jim Jones was extremely smart. He just outsmarted us by knowing what to say to pull us in. He would speak and be sure he covered exactly what each person or group wanted to hear. I was always political, along with many other members. He would be sure to include politics and a political message in each sermon. Many members were religious, and he would be sure to include that as well. He was well-versed in the bible, although I have a strong opinion that it was useful for him, rather than it being his core belief. Religion was a magnet he could use to draw people in. Then, he would teach and model how activism was essential in interacting with the world.
Second, Jim actually helped nearly every family. He could write letters to get people out of jail or on probation, or get leniency. He helped get people off of drugs, into housing, into communes with shared resources so everyone had a safe place to stay, with enough food. He provided free legal help and got medical attention to members when they had been denied help. Really, every family was impacted by the services provided in Peoples Temple. People could not fathom that he would do them harm when he had so tenderly cared for them or their loves ones over the years. He was powerful because of his deeds. He took care of people.
As a consequence, people did not admit to seeing his flaws. His drug addiction and personality disorder, which worsened in Jonestown, were hidden by his closest nurses/mistresses/secretaries. His reputation was protected vigilantly. Most of us had no clue about how he was disintegrating right in front of us. Even people who did see some problems had no idea that he was so mentally ill that he would kill 917 people and himself.
There had been no precedent in US history of a leader killing nearly 1,000 people. No one in Peoples Temple - or very few, because some did see it on the horizon and left - could have imagined that end. We thought any issues in the community could be fixed as we settled into Jonestown and didn’t have to work so hard.

How did you feel the People’s Temple was taking a stand for social justice?
From the first day, I realized that Jim Jones had an adopted family of all races - Black, Native American, Asian, and his “home grown” son. He and his wife were the first white couple in the State of Indiana to adopt a Black child - Jim Jones Jr. His congregation was the same - mixed race, mixed socio-economic levels, mixed education. This was in the 1960s and 1970s, in a country that JUST passed the Civil Rights Act. Even today, that is not the norm.

From there, we moved on to supporting emerging groups - we spoke up for the LGBTQ community in San Francisco, the American Indian Movement, the Farmworkers, really, all of them. They were us and we were them. We wrote letters to Judges to get family members and community members released from prison, and helped be the voice for the voiceless. That was our mission and we did it tirelessly.

In the late 1960s, I think that was Jim at his “purest.” He always had a borderline personality disorder - and power issues - he wanted all the power, over all of us. But, it really started eroding what he was doing in the early 1970s when he was so successful with the powerful in San Francisco and in California.

What did you see was your role in fighting for social justice?
In high school, I had been active in integrating my neighborhood in Maryland, and in the fight for equality and putting an end to segregation. In college in Connecticut, I worked hard on civil and human rights, and demonstrated to end the war in Vietnam, among other things.

After college, and a brief marriage, I went to Woodstock - but wasn’t interested in being immersed in that culture. Then I lived and worked with the Black Panthers for about 6 months. That did not work for me as a naive, and optimistic young girl.

When I moved to California and met Jim Jones and Peoples Temple - I thought of Jim as a protector who would enable me to continue on with my political activism. That was my life-blood.

How do you think the social issues of the time affected the rise of the People’s Temple?
I know that the society going through such upheaval (with the murders of so many leaders in the 1960s (MLK, the Kennedys, Malcolm X, Medgar Evers), with the war in Vietnam being so unpopular, and with Civil Rights and civil abuses so much in all of our minds made Jim’s rise to a political position meteoric. He was at the right place (SF) and at the right time to become a spokesperson for many of the disenfranchised.

What do you see as the impact of Jonestown on society?
Jonestown had the POTENTIAL to show the world that racism and abuse did not have a role in our society and that we should get rid of both in our communities. Those of us who went to Jonestown thought that we could prove to the world that our kind of mixed and fluid society worked. We thought we could keep our kids safe from drugs, give them a community that valued them, and … That is what we thought. What we didn’t know was that jim had so deteriorated in mental health, and had become so drug-addicted, that he stood in the way of that happening.

Could you describe what the transition into life after the People’s Temple was for you?
When I came back from Guyana, I was totally shell-shocked. I moved back into the San Francisco Temple building on Geary and Fillmore for four months until the Conservator assigned to sell off the assets of Peoples Temple kicked us out. Then, I lived in several different communes of Peoples Temple survivors for the next ten months. The government put a lien on my passport, saying I had to reimburse the $500 they spent to bring me back from Guyana, since I was one of those who received a subpoena to appear before the Grand Jury. I went to work, got a job, and went to school at night. I was putting one foot forward at a time - but not yet determined that I wanted to keep going. It was very difficult and we survivors were not much help to each other or to ourselves.

After a year of trying to make my decision about survival, I moved into a community I had been spending time with - Synanon. Synanon was a residential drug treatment program when it started in the 1950s, but it had become a fully-functioning diverse community with both former drug addicts and “squares” - those who did not become drug addicts. Over the years, there were thousands of residents who passed through. When I moved in in 1980, there were roughly 50% squares and 50% former drug addicts. Synanon took good care of me. However, there are some events mostly from before I moved in that were illegal and problematic. Some of my fellow survivors from Peoples Temple were anxious for me, moving into another “cult.” Synanon closed in 1990, when the IRS rescinded tax status because of profits we were making in selling advertising products.

While in Synanon, I married my current husband, Ron, and my son was born.

In 1990, we moved out. I went back to school and got my California Clear Teaching Credential. I started teaching in 1994. I also became a Quaker in 1994.

After 20 years of keeping my head in the sand, I went to the 20th Anniversary Gathering at Evergreen Cemetery in Oakland, where most of those murdered in Guyana were buried. That was when my healing began - once I realized I would and could never forget. My life in Peoples Temple is part of who I am today. Once I admitted to myself that I am forever changed - somehow, I could work with that and fully move on.

In the early 2000s, I started public speaking. I wrote and published my book JONESTOWN SURVIVOR: An Insider’s Look in 2010. I continue speaking about Peoples Temple and my experiences.

How would you like history to remember the people of Jonestown?
The people of Peoples Temple were wonderfully committed and optimistic people who wanted a better world and who were willing to make great sacrifices to bring it about. We were so determined, we failed to watch Jim enough, especially at the end. In Jonestown, his mental and physical health deteriorated, and he and his secretaries/mistresses/nurses were able to hide the disintegration.

In your opinion, what do you think is the historical significance of Jonestown and the People’s Temple?
There is an enormous historical significance of Jonestown and Peoples Temple. Here are just a FEW:

Leaders can never be given absolute loyalty.

Insanity can be very well hidden.

There is no time and place where critical thinking and observation can be turned off.

There are certain behaviors of cult-leaders that are recognizable:

Wanting to take members away from family and loved ones who are not a part of the group

Moving the group to a remote location

Creating a we/they belief system

Refusing any questioning or corrections of the leaders

Keeping members exhausted and poor

Never assigning anyone as a replacement

Really, it is a very long list.

Are there any misconceptions about the People’s Temple that you would like to correct?
There are many misconceptions. The primary one that I always want to address is the nature of the membership. We were bright, hardworking, and optimistic people. It was unimaginable to us that Jim Jones, who had gotten our family members out of jail, into the hospital, into shared housing where there was enough food, and kids into safer environments - and so much more. It was just not possible that the same person would become so mentally imbalanced that he would murder or assist in murdering 918 people.


Originally posted by taeyounq

JaehyunxReader (Drabble)

Genre: Fluff

Word count: 700 words

“I don’t think I can live without you”.

“Lord knows I can live without me” you giggle, snuggling closer to him. You hate how cheesy he gets sometimes. And unfortunately, he hates how self-deprecating you are most of the time. You feel him clear his throat uncomfortably, but you ignore it. He should know better than to take your humour seriously.

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The Destiel of It All: Part I

Briefly before We Begin

Hello. I’m new. I’ve not been in this fandom for very long, but I’ve loved Supernatural for longer. I’ve now read some meta and have found it so uplifting and enjoyable to read through thoughts that reflect my own so perfectly that I felt inspired to begin putting my own impressions into actual words and sharing them with you all. Being in this fandom is like stepping out of the cold and into a warm, lovely, welcoming room of kindred spirits - all kinds of wonderful - so I do apologise for the repetition I’m undoubtedly going to bring to the table, but hopefully I may bring some fresh angles as well. 

Part I of, well, I honestly have no idea.

That said - let’s start.

Romance or Bromance?

The core premise of a romantic coupling, the idea that makes the Love Story so powerful, is two people coming together to open each other’s eyes to what they really need, rather than what they think they want. It should be said that the bromantic coupling is also rooted in this idea: the completion of an emotional puzzle, where the character traits of the one help evolve and, ultimately, unless it’s a tragedy, better the other. However, I will argue my point in the following posts that the relationship between Dean and Castiel is, and always has been, romantic. Not only because of how the showrunners have chosen to write these characters’ dialogue, or because of the blatant use of romantic subtext, evident in how they’ve set up the shots and how the actors act out the scenes and how those scenes are then edited (more on all of that later), but because of how the showrunners have chosen to angle these characters’ joint journey of self-discovery.

Here’s what I mean: in many an example of the romantic narrative, two Opposites will argue and refuse to see eye-to-eye, but unavoidably they will learn from the lessons the other is teaching. This growth is what finally allows them to see past what they’ve always thought they wanted (the conscious external motivation for their journey) to what they really need (the subconscious internal goal of that journey), which is right in front of them: in the case of a romantic narrative this is their other half. Pairing up with their other half and getting what they need, in a well-written story, will usually result in the characters also being able to attain what they truly want, which is typically a variation of the external motivation they’ve been striving towards all along.

For example: In the romantic comedy Leap Year, the protagonist ANNA has one main desire, which is to marry her boyfriend, but she also wants to gain access to a prestigious apartment building in central Boston, which is made easier by the fact that she and her guy Friday are a successful couple, and they’ve both wanted to live in that particular building for a long time: an internal goal (marriage) going hand in hand with an external goal (apartment).

When Anna goes to Ireland to surprise her boyfriend by proposing to him (since he’s seriously dragging his feet), bad weather leaves her stranded and at the mercy of Irishman DECLAN, who runs the small hotel she finds refuge in. Anna and Declan clash immediately, but as Anna needs someone to get her to Dublin, and Declan needs cash to pay off the debts on the hotel, their journeys intertwine. A battle of wills ensues as they go on the road and both clamour for control of the situation, questioning the other’s behaviour, challenging one another and, ultimately, growing to understand each other and lend each other support and encouragement. By the end of their shared journey, their joint external motivation: Dublin or bust, will lead them to call out truths about each other that has them see new truths in themselves, ending in them fulfilling their inner goals: Declan makes peace with his past and Anna let’s go of her expertly planned future. Their reward for learning their lessons and daring to evolve: sharing true love and finding happiness together.

Why am I outlining the plot of this romcom? Because this romantic structure is so applicable to the interlinked character journeys of Dean and Cas - to the point where it’s such an integral part to their narrative - that I cannot imagine it’s not used with every intent and purpose. I would go so far as to say that Dean and Cas being the central love story is very much canon, and have so been since Castiel’s epic entrance into the series, because visual and verbal subtext is every bit as important as the superficially stated - I’d argue it’s more important - to the intricate narrative of this show. When it comes to why the showrunners would need to, rather than outright choose to, keep this love story in subtext is something I’ll (also) discuss further on, so back to the topic at hand: the romance.

Let’s begin with the two most vital ingredients for any narrative, but especially for the romantic one - The Characters.

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She's Like The Wind - Part Seven

Summary: You have been blind for over 10 years. During the apocalypse, you use your utmost strength in order to survive while also fending off your mixed feelings for the big bad leader of your community, the Sanctuary.

Pairings: Negan x Blind Reader

Warnings: language. moderate violence.

Note: this chapter is a bit shorter than usual, but it sets up for a great part eight!

Negan led you down to the meeting area the same way that he led you to his office. He had his arm wrapped tightly around your waist, with your body pressed securely against his. You tried your hardest to fight the burning urge to lean your head against his chest. As Negan led you through halls and down some stairs, your mind was spinning out of control.

He had told one of his men to ‘call for a meeting’ and you were unsure what it was all about. You really hoped that Negan wouldn’t blurt out what had happened to you in front of everyone. It was still drilling into your brain, the fact that you had almost been raped. You felt a tear fall from your eye and trail slowly down your cheek as you thought about it. You quickly wiped it away as discreetly as you could, hoping that Negan hadn’t noticed. This would take you months, years probably, to even attempt to come to terms with it.

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From the Prompt List

“193 188 and/or 164 with Jealous!Dark please for the love of-” 

193: “ Good girl.” 

188: “ Mine.” 

164: “ Stop teasing me so much… ”

Originally posted by rubies-and-oaktrees

Dark was a patient man. 
All knew this. But, there were times where his patient cracked as soon as his eyes set upon something he found…disconcerting. 
You were across the room, speaking to Wilford of all people. 
Dark would have accepted the Host, Google, even that idiotic “doctor” as a companion for conversation. 
Anyone would have sufficed. But not Warfstache. 
Dark made his way over to you. His hand snaking around your waist as your lips curled into a smile. Wilford met Dark’s eyes with the same ridiculous glint that man always wore. Foolishness wafted off him like the plague. 
“Ahh, Dark! You just missed one of my hilarious jokes!” Wilford slurred, his mustache twitching. “(Y/N) here adored it, didn’t you dear.” 
You didn’t get to form an answer before Dark’s growl caused your voice to die in your throat. 
“I’m sure they did, however, it appears our time here has come to a close.” Even though his voice was smooth, it was void of any emotion and just as cold. 
Wilford didn’t catch onto the dangerous edge to Dark’s voice, and he clapped a hand on Dark’s shoulder. 
“What a shame! I admire your choice in friends Dark. Anytime you need me, my dear, just say the word.” 
Wilford wasn’t even halfway through his sentence when Dark whisked you away. Google and Host made to follow, but he dismissed them with a cold glare. 
“You really don’t like him, do you.” You said, only half mocking. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were jealous.” 
Your lips moved close to Dark’s ear.  So close in fact that your mouth grazed his skin. 
The hand on your waist tightened and you felt a sense of excited dread wash over you as Dark opened another door and pushed you into an empty office. 
The snarl that ripped from Dark’s throat was almost animalistic. He shoved you against the table, moving between your legs and pushed you down on the surface. 
“Stop teasing me so much… and I’ll show you jealous.” 
You squirmed under him as Dark moved onto you. His lips crashing against yours as his hand pressed against the material between your legs. 
“Undress me,” He demanded as his hands moved. 
You smiled, fighting the urge to moan his name as your fingers worked on the belt around his pants. You did so slowly, like how he teased you every night. 
He glared down at you, ripping your hands away to do it himself. Dark removed his belt so viciously he almost tore his pants off in the process. 
With a flick of his wrist, his trousers were around his ankles and he flipped you onto your back. 
He leaned down to roughly kiss your neck, his hands wandering greedily over your body. 
“Now, be a good girl and scream for me.” He hissed in your ear. 
He removed your own pants with in a second, and without warning, thrusted into you. 
His waist snapped against your ass in quick succession. His hands holding your hips with a firm grip to ensure you didn’t try to move. 
And how you screamed. Your back arched, pushing your behind further into his movements to assure he hit that spot inside you. 
His grunts were just as loud, teeth gritted with anger as his mind went back to your smiling at the showman. Laughing at something he said and Warfstache’s words as you both left. 
A feral fury raged through him. His shell was cracking, shifted in and out of reality as he drilled into you. 
You felt his power surging into your skin. Like a wave of heat and energy, zapping you with each thrust. 
Dark pressed his chest against your back. His hand turning your chin to consume your lips with his again. 
“ Mine.” Was all he managed to get out before your climax struck. Your scream of pleasure threw his own finish against him. And he pulled out with a satisfied grin as he heard someone coughing loudly when they passed the closed door.
Dark lifted you to your feet, turning you to kiss you properly. No anger, just a greedy press of his lips. 
“I don’t want you talking to Warfstache again.” He said, his shell back in place with it’s calm tone. 

Reasons why this Framework world should NOT be looked to as how the team’s lives might have turned out if they made different choices:

1. Radcliffe even says, this is not the world he had intended. AIDA has changed it.

2. The team’s past memories and choices that influences them when they were dropped into the framework narrative were determined by a computer algorithm and actively manipulated by AIDA - the team did NOT get to choose, they do NOT have free will. They did not actually live a whole life where they made every single decision. No. A computer made most of it for them already and they were simply dropped into their avatars to assume a storyline already dictated out for them. Computer algorithm cannot equal real people making real decisions.

3. AIDA. Her presence, her active manipulation of the world, her Project Looking Glass that she’s using Fitz to work on - all of this once again shows that the world is made to fit AIDA’s needs. She is using this world to pursue an endgame that is benefitting herself. The team is her tool, her hostages. They were put into narratives and mindsets purposely designed to keep them sedated instead of fighting back.

4. Mace’s inhuman powers. The fact that Mace has inhuman powers in this world is again proof that this cannot be compared to a real “what if”, because inhuman powers isn’t something you just magically get one day, it is GENETIC. No regret changed or different decision made in real life would have made Mace an inhuman simply because he does not have the gene. Mace does not have the choice in any decision making to change his genes, so him having powers is already an impossibility that the framework and AIDA has ignored to thus change a storyline to fit into AIDA’s needs, which is to keep the team sedated.

5. Fitz’s father. This is not even the man who in real life could have influenced Fitz if he had stayed. This is AIDA’s safe guard. This is a man designed to drill AIDA’s message into Fitz’s head so that AIDA can keep him in control. You see it in the scene where he is talking with Fitz about how Madame Hydra is the only one who understands Fitz, how Fitz loves Ophelia. This is not even an imitation of the real Alistair, this is a program AIDA designed to make sure that any moment of Fitz questioning his reality and his choices would be nipped in the bud and she is free to use him as she sees fit.

As long as AIDA exists in the framework, as long as AIDA is the top dog in charge, the puppet master - this framework world cannot truly be compared to as what the team’s lives could have been if they had made different choices or had different influences because it is a world where a computer algorithm made the choices, NOT the team themselves. They did not live a full life of free will - this is an actively manipulated world by AIDA, not actually life.

This is NOT what Fitz would be if his father had stayed. This is NOT what May would be if she saved the girl in Bahrain. This is NOT what Coulson would be if he didn’t join SHIELD. This is NOT what Mack would be if his daughter lived. This is NOT what Mace would be if he was inhuman.

This is what a computer algorithm THINKS their lives would be. A computer algorithm that cannot account for nor truly understand human emotions and the unpredictability that comes with it.

Elorcan Werewolf Part 10

Are you ready? I’m not. [Unedited]

All my wolves, begin to howl
Wake me up, the time is now
Oh, can you hear the drumming?
Oh, there’s a revolution coming

Elorcan Werewolf 10

She soared on wings of misery and ruin, every feather slicing slivers of sores and wrecking welts through her. Ripping pain rippled through her, muscles burning and tightening. Her skin had shed, her nails stretched, the very roots of her hair screaming in agony. A rattling vigorously shook within her, bones bending and lungs lifting. Her spine arched, with her nostrils flaring. Hair prickled across her skin, acidic akin feelings coursing through every inch of her screaming pores. Saliva bubbled in her throat and a dryness coated across her tongue.
After the flame came the ashes, where the the mind slaved down memory lane: roaming and raging with flashes of sickened smiles and the whistling whip raining over her, pale skin blemished with purple and red hues, salty and thin liquid warming the stones. Afar she watched the strippings and the beatings, the ghost of the red and the pain a figment of reality that no longer her drilling appeals of feebleness. The phantom face of the predator in victory and ruined triumph leered down on her.
It was neither hot nor cold.
It was all nothing.
And dark, and more dark.
It was another cell, a transformation from a weak, ruined flesh to hardened, strengthened possessions. She distantly was aware of the shivering wracking her skin, but the cold cell had been far worse, a numbing to the perspective of an outsider welcoming the pain, and relishing in the wrongs of the singular and surroundings. A part of her swayed to an unsung melody, trapped within the bleeding ears and scarred tongue, scratches and screaming echoing through her head and bouncing around her walls. Her head throbbed and swabs of cotton smothered her vast space and thoughts of process.
It was cold. The loneliness had left her for the embrace in pain’s open arms. The itch at the back of her mind eased as the darkness swept in, consuming every crevice and corner, calming the chaotic condensations once crammed down her throat. A bubbling sensation rose up, smothering down her body, lying still in a seemingly blackened alley where the crickets no longer chirped and the roaches had long deceased. Pacifism arose with those lying words of calm and soothings, for she was not alright, and had not been.
Distorted images and mangled bone rose within her vision, and she could see the image of a trembling girl huddling in a damp corner, tears coating a grime-caked face with equally dirtied and bloodied skin, crimson liquid bathing her skin, sticking to her tongue, and filling her nose. Scars decorated her, blood crowning her black burnt strands. Smoke and ashes filled her insides, slithering into her veins.  
There had been the warm, tepid hands of longing and hope, shattered by the epiphany of what came after pain, numbness. A string of stress snapped within her,  a balloon of remembrance sleazing a decrement of undulated joy and innocence. Her lungs opened and filled with a vast broad suck of air, and Elide Lochan exhaled, breaking from her cell.

Lorcan laid his mate in the center of the dark cave, running a hand over her burning forehead, leaving traces of red welts over his palm. He hadn’t expected the circumstances to trigger whatever hidden Lycan gene within her to detonate, especially within the bounds of being able to finally hold her within his arms safely and securely.
He would never let go.
He was sure of it.
A sob escaped Elide’s mouth, and her body lurched forward from her previously prone position. Lorcan immediately pressed wet towels against her burning body, and hissed when her temperature plunged into dangerous, icy textures, mist escaping her breath.
A damned old Lycan, and through his entire life span, he hadn’t seen a transformation like this. He could not fathom why fate or the moon goddess would pair him with a beautifully and tragically broken creature who would suit another male of purity and trueness, but he supposed that Elide had enough with attempting to be molded into a higher figure as a priestess with inked and poison insides.
He murmured his mate’s name soothingly as he rocked her in his arms, and whispered his assurances into her ear, her skin already hardened and smooth from the beginning stages. In certain intervals of seizures, her eyelids would flare open, dark, onyx pupils glistening in true, speckled darkness even the cave could not swallow. The final stages of the process had come, the coldness shattering into the shedding of wrinkled, outgrown exteriors to sleek skin, and muscular limbs.
Lorcan studied his mate’s even breathing, and gently wrapped himself around her, stroking her hair. All the troubles for her to live immortal along him, to see the world through a deeper, more powerful eye’s of restrained responsibility and flying faults, would mean tethers to the true. To have another soul to care for didn’t seem the burden’s weight when the very fabric of mates meant equality and sharing, a bond of the better.
Elide’s eyes darkened into pure obsidian, and her spine snapped straight, a sharp gasp of breath wrenching itself from her mouth. A rasp of sound crackled through the dampened darkness, and Lorcan gently poured a little stream of water into her mouth, allowing her to swallow. His body lit afire, his mate’s perfectly situated with him, both tragically broken. A rumble of possessiveness shook his body.
Her wet hair, curling into thin curls and loops, slicked back against her forehead and plastered against her pale skin. Cold hands wrapped around the nape of his neck, and erratic breaths burst from her, chest heaving deeply. A roaring sensation fired from some hidden depths within, matching the turmoil colliding within his own mate’s eyes, filled with a blankness that sends him reeling over.
“Elide,” he whispered, and leaned his nose against her forehead.
The hands slid down his neck and across his chest and right over his beating heart, thrumming just for her. A phantom of a breath ghosted over his skin, and a tremble ran through him, in forever peace and contentment within the splits of a second.
Fingers reached up to cup his chin, and dark lashes blinked up at him.
“Lorcan,” Elide Lochan answered, and the edges of her lips curled up, revealing white, canine teeth.
A dark, questioning look flickered across her features, a spell of quick agony. By the dilation of those hardened eyes from the once-softness, and the tang of fear and anger spiraling through the air, Lorcan knew that his mate craved a revenge full of vengeance so deep that the ocean itself would be envious.
He could not rightly offer he what she wanted now so he endowed her with what she needed; not of the bloodshed to beckon her away from the abyss of numbness but another stolen piece from her scratched and strung tapestry of life. The pads of his thumbs brushed over her cheekbones down under the curve of her jaw, cupping her neck and smoothing one shoulder; pulling his mate in, Lorcan kissed her deeply. Elide responded instantly, her teeth nipping over his parted lips, and wrapping her own hands behind his neck, viciously pouncing on top of him, his back kissing the cold, hard ground.
Her body was warm, and suddenly the cave seemed full of the hidden potential that had coasted over his own ground, soiled and covered with dirt. His Lycan within him responded to the roaring in his female’s, and his nerves set afire with each stroke of her hand that set him into a frenzy of no return past deep despair. Her skin touched his, her full breasts pressing against his chest, pale and porcelain legs wrapped sinfully around his waist. She gasped as he sucked on her neck, the sound full of rich forbiddenness, sending him close to free ferality.
“My mate,” she whispered, and leaned her head back, exposing her neck to him.
“Mine,” he growled, and stared into those onyx eyes, waiting for that permission to confirm past the disaster that had dented their destiny, waiting for that spark of what should have been theirs since the beginning, waiting for step towards surety and security.
She merely cupped his chin, forcing him to stare at her, not quite consenting. “Do you love me for who I am or for what I do to you?”
“You are referring to the mating bond?”
“What else?” she said, almost bitterly.
Dark eyes narrowed. “I do not need the mating bond to fall in love with you, Elide Lochan.”
He could see the doubt in her darkened eyes, and the slight chill coursing through her. Lorcan held her tighter, and buried his nose within her damp hair, cradling her stiff and new body, one with unbridled potential and higher capacity.
His Lycan side growled, needing to assuage his mate’s concerns and fears, and Lorcan abided.
“I do not need the mating bond to see how the light catches against your hair,” he murmured, brushing her hair from her forehead. “Nor how you twist the strands when you’re nervous or thinking, a quiet foreboding. How you lick those fingers before turning a page or to remember the taste of what you last ate. How you believe yourself inferior when you have surpassed the limitations of your expectations. How you cross my mind, as if I can see the magic in the world, as if “I’d been searching for you all my life, a lost soul without an anchor.
I have made a plethora of mistakes in the entirety of my life, but if each of this missteps would have let me to you in the end, I would commit each single atrocity again. If every inch of darkness and insanity was so that I could have you, then I forgive the cursed fates. I had never planned on falling love, much less with another person, didn’t think it was possible, much less it possible to love someone so much with all of me. I barely held control and focus, but with you, it’s not about these things. It’s about honor and cherishment, about you, Elide Lochan.
“The darkness lived and lives through me; it simply does not live around me. So when you cannot see the light, I will sit with you through the darkness. I look at you and the twisted things that have come between us, and I know that I will choose you in the next life, in the next realm, in this life, through death, through whatever shape or form, to whatever face of shadow will appear. I broke and will break my rules, my mind, myself, just for you, just to see you hum to yourself as you continue in your beautiful, complex symphony, a passerby such as myself forever granted the pleasure of hearing.
“I do not care if we are not soul mates because I had never believed in the concept of love, nor bothered to listen to its proof of existence, not when fear would win out in the end. But I fear for my love of you, and I fear for myself for what ends I would do for you. At your beck and call, I do not know what bounds or limits what I could do and destroy for you. In the middle of the chaos and lunacy, you were there, with my heart, and I’d let you keep it for the eternity. With you, I can breathe a little bit more, and fill the dead skin and smothering ashes sweep away, filled with a sound melody, one that will reverberate for as long as your heart beats.
“If I could turn back the clock to be the male you deserve, I would do so in a heartbeat. For you deserve every twinkle in the stars that lights up the night and the rays of the sun in coldness. No longer do I think I deserve nothing but stark bareness for my brokenness, but one who craves so deeply for more and seen too much that perfect shards would not be enough. You need to paint, Elide, and need to unleash your emotions jailed, and I will be your palette should the need arise. I have conquered and silenced but never have I loved, and now, I think that I can finally do such a thing. Everything I have not done, I want to do with you. With you, and only you. It’s always you, Elide Lochan.”
Elide stilled, pressing her cheek against the top of his chest. “You—”
Lorcan brushed a knuckle under her chin. “—I could not learn about my mate as a human, so I chose my weakened wolf form to present to you.”
“Lory,” Elide murmured, her lashes fluttering, inevitably floored.
His inner Lycan twitched, and he pressed himself harder against her, needing more than their touches, needing to fulfill that animalistic need driving him for completion.
For awhile, simple silence filled the cavern, a blanket of the inked dark providing solemn, sincere need of time as a sponge to soak in the words and occurrences of the chaotic, distorted past.
But the present was a gift for aknew.
A laugh slipped past Elide’s lips, and his mate smiled knowingly at that tent in his pants, screaming for her, ready for her, slaving to her. Elide bared her neck wider. “You are mine, Lorcan Salvaterre, and I will fight for you.”
Trust and certainty bound between those eyes.
Lorcan brushed his nose over hers, and a deep rumbling resounded from within his chest, a noise that had been locked and swept along with the ashes of unspent time and burning emotions. Baring his fangs and revealing the aura of his true other side, unhinged, Elide leaned forward, waves of longing from what time and distance had built between them.
Lorcan bit down, and watched Elide’s eyes flutter open and close, a murmur of content escaping her mouth and her skin shuddering with pleasure. Her lidded eyes gazed into his, a smile smoothing across her features. When his fangs retracted, his tongue licked the blood pooling across her collarbone, his mate’s breathing uneven and ragged, her body ready for what followed next. The scent of need and hormones permeated the air thickly.
But Lorcan could not give that to her, not when they needed to seek cements of closure from the cowardly confronted. So he pulled his mate into for another kiss, one which their their inner wolves howled together in synchrony, a stimulation ceases his current worries and fears, save for the warm body in his arms.
When they pulled apart, both mouths dripped with blood and sores, Elide ran a tongue over her ripped lips, and gave him a wicked smile.
The scent of mixed arousal pierced through the cave, flowering in the darkness, matching their smoldered songs of suppression and satisfaction.
Lorcan’s hands ran over her thighs and skin, not to claim, but to heal, kneading those tight, new muscles that would need to be broken in. Tomorrow they would face the new freshness of the world together, hand in hand.
So he said, “Sleep,” and curled her body against his own, molding their flesh together and against one another.
Elide reached out to grasp Lorcan’s hand through the darkness, resting her head along his torso. “Goodnight,” she whispered, voice muffled.
Elide could almost feel the other Lycan male’s smile warming her skin, a rarity at odds against all.
“Goodnight,” Lorcan rasped back. “Elide Lochan.”
“My mate,” Elide whispered, and allowed the dark oblivion to wash over her, carrying her further with an anchor into the abyss. No longer was she only human, a simple, disposable gem in this dim world, but a larger player, one with cards to hold and discard, with a lover at her side, one to fit her perfectly, one she’d love forever, through everything.

Elide awoke to warmth, her body tucked within another’s. As soon as she stirred, the male holding her gripped her hips, and a satisfied growl rumbled deep from his chest. She traced her hands across his chest, and closed her eyes as he kissed her forehead, stealing another one from her lips.
Tracing her fingers along his lips as they parted, she could feel them curving up into a feral grin.
“A run?” her mate proposed, and her body surged with power at the request.
She didn’t respond, and instead channeled in the raw depths of power and dominance within her. Elide closed her eyes and focused on her inner Lycan, the unknown beast within her that had slumbered for years in silence. Feeling her bones crack and rattle, her teeth shifted and hands grew, paws hitting the floor, her tail wagging. By the time her nose sniffed the air, the scent of humanity had no longer reeked within the cave, the other in front of her radiating the typical-Lycan authority. Her mate took off and out from the cave, Elide surging forward behind him.
The hints of light peeking through the demented trees drooping over with hanging branches and sickly yellow leaves dripping thick, orange meshes. Their bodies wove through the firm trunks with white claw marks and deep indents, stale, brown blood caking the curves. Stalks of yellowish grains spurted from the left fields, the tips dotted with crimsons colors.
Their wolves streaked by, and Elide pushed her legs faster and faster, feeling the wind tearing at her face and her lungs opening and expanding, the infinity of forever within unleashed within the trapped seconds of a limited body.
This was freedom.
She hadn’t been a believer in hope, that sliver of beautiful shreds ripped within her and howling to another wolf. She didn’t need hope when her true passions blazed from the wrongs and flaws hampering her true state. She couldn’t be restrained, not in this body, nor in the next. She had been scared of her future from her past, but she swore to herself no more.
As they raced through the forest, the trees grew straighter and taller, the air crisper and fresher, no longer stale stenches of the rotted filling her nostrils. Rich green flashed across her vision, an array of colorful, vibrant hues rising from the soiled Earth, full of the minerals and sprinkles of waters. The sunlight glared down harsher, and no longer did the shadows loom over in hulking forms, cowering the damp dirt. The first willing surrender came with chasing her mate, allowing him to hold her heart.
She lost track of time, allowing the figment of that necessity to slip from her mind. She followed her mate, with her giving trust, the last piece of what remained from her fractured heart. She nipped at his paws when he slowed down, and eventually took the lead, leaping over fallen logs. They raced further and further in the morning until her tongue lolled out, and Lorcan slowed down to a trot, leading her to a crystalline river.
He nudged her to the edge of water, licking the tip of her ear. Pushing her forward from her behind, her mate eagerly walked them down the bank.
Elide’s snout reached down to lap up the water, but stopped at her reflection.
No longer did white-fur coat her, but midnight dark streaks to match her mate’s fur. Darkness.
Elide’s ears twitched, and Lorcan stalked next to her, rubbing his snout affectionately against hers. Elide can only stare at her reflection, at the darkness, and the pitch-black coat that she now owned. A tiny part of her shivered, and wondered what her once-jailed would have thought, at the winning inklings that he’d left in memory, perhaps even a victory. Her uncle had molded her so that staring at any reflection had her turning away, scared of her own ruined image full of tears and washed dreams.
He’d seen her heart as a piece of plastic, his own mind a red-hot brand, hands his hammer to pound with pain. The salted liquid brimming on her eyes had held no value, full of empty emotion, a natural response from her body, damaged and depressed.
The cold cell had been a war with herself, a pity for her own weakness and feebleness, for her foolishness in believing for much more. It had been a cry for wonder, her own pity party in the trapped and isolation. The only beginnings had been the flames in the night of broken memories and crooked laughters.
And now, this river, with the sun beating down on her, filling her with unwanted need that a past shape of her would have needed awhile ago.
Pure, undulated light.
Light that could not outshine the dark hole inside of her.
She could feel a calling to fulfill the need in wrecking pain against her uncle, and having bloodshed run along with her bloodlust. It was an animalistic, acute sense that had her almost on her knees, but her mate was next to her, holding her, a pillar of solidity.
The fact that her pelt had transformed into rich tufts of dark fur to match the midnight quality of her mate’s had her mate often licking her coat, and content rumblings emerging from his throat.
Their wolves had gotten to acquainted with one another too well, and too much. Most hunts ended up in playful banter between the them, rolling on top of another, the male allowing his female to yip her victorious by pawing him on the ground.
After drinking their fill of water, two dark, ethereal shapes raced through slanted and crooked trees, the onyx eyes the predator and feared as creatures of the night and strays of the moon, bent on their own love and no other facets wedged between or among them.
No longer did she have to hide the things she hadn’t like about herself, flaws or facts in the hands of vices clamping hard around her. She had freedom and fullness, no longer a mangled ankle, where she could howl and push her legs faster and further as one with the wind, the whispers of might and glory at her heels, her mate racing right next to her, sheer power and strength exuding from him.
The first kill had been a bear, to which they’d taken down easily that Elide gained a grasp of her own power. The male bear had not withstood a chance against the two hungry Lycans, Elide ripping chunks of his hide, her maw drenched with the warm blood oozing out. Lorcan had scratched the bear’s face, and easily clawed an ear off, slamming his body into the bear’s side, sending their prey into a tree, which promptly collapsed.
Lorcan had dipped his head at her, allowing her to take the first bite. After digging past the ribcage and licking the bone clean, she’d allowed her mate to finish devouring the other meat from the liver and stomach. Leaving the carcass in the burning sun, they’d returned to the lake afterwards to clean the blood off their faces.
She lapped from a lake greedily, ignoring the sense to reach out to her past Alpha and Beta, and nudged her mate’s proud head towards the water. Lorcan had taken in the habit of standing guard whenever she ate or drank, but all she wanted was her mate to eat with her, two forces of nature sharing a meal together.
She slowly lost herself with her mate, to the wildness and its call, while the itching for revenge grew at the back of her mind. By the time the sun set, and the shadows loomed, preaching the misfit and the outcast, Elide had nudged her mate’s head. Lorcan responded by licking her mated mark, sending sensual thrills over her body, tail wagging furiously.
The floating feelings of ecstasy ended as the loneliness diminished, the rage filling her, claws digging into the soil. Lorcan brushed himself over her, intertwining their scents, a question in his eyes.
She swallowed, and twitched her eyes, pawing the ground. Reality would sink in one way or another, and it seemed it would always harbor anguish. Tugging on that firm thread between them, Elide allowed her mind to coast and seep over the sanctuary between them, shattering them with her syllables.
Where is Vernon?
Lorcan’s tail stopped wagging, and his snout touched her nose. After silence reigned over them for awhile, Elide reared back and shot off into the distance. If her mate would not give her the answer, then she knew someone else who would willing. Following that thin thread of connection to former warmth, she touched the link between her old pack, feeling the storm of voices and waves of shouting.
She could feel Lorcan at the back of her mind, growling, but the itch grew more pronounced. Focusing on that past link, she channeled into the Fireheart Pack, feeling the soothing remembrance of belonging on some interval.
Aelin’s link soared over her first, sending her a set of coordinates that Elide followed easily, weaving through the trees and jumping over rivers, knowing that her mate would be on her tail despite all odds.
Manon’s voice easily boomed over the little murmuring in her mind, demanding how she’d survived the shift, if she’d been marked and mated, if she was fine.
Elide didn’t know what fine was, but merely repeated her previous question. She’d be fine once the scratch within her went away.
Aelin hadn’t responded, and Elide could imagine her musing over the consequences of telling her, while she sprinted towards them, pushing her new body faster and harder.
Manon didn’t wait. Locked in the middle of a human city Las Vegas in human form so no wolf can get to him. Council banned any werewolf in any form from entering.
Elide nearly tripped over a dip in the ground, but continued to leap forward and run and run and run. Then I cannot get to him? He’d gotten to her, wormed his way into her, darkened her, hurt her, broke her.
Not without breaking Council rules, Aelin piped in. There is a death penalty, Elide. Come home.
Elide abruptly swerved to the side, and shut down the link of her past, before leaving her farewell. A death penalty would not serve when there were worse things than death, a figment of this reality she no longer feared. Home was no longer with the Fireheart Pack when she was destined to rule to Perranth Pack, buried under the disgust and falsities of the Morath Pack. She deserved her empire and her people, one where her Alpha blood reigned, now mixed with Lycan genes.
Her home was herself. She owned herself to her mate, another creature of the night and wind and darkness, and her broken mind and shattered heart. Closure seemed a distant concept with seeping ailments howling within her.
She would no longer be feared. How could she settle for less when she’d been given none in return, given a body as more?
Lorcan had feared for the depths for her, his love for her, and now Elide only feared what she would do when she saw her uncle. She left her scent through the forest as she broke out into the clearing, allowing whispers of her to trail behind for her mate.
Pushing her legs faster, her paws pounding against the Earth, Elide ran, her lungs capable of more, her muscles able to absorb more, and her heart ready to devour.
She crossed borders after borders, a set destination carving in her mind, to quell that urge for more.

Elide’s scent had ended past a run-down railroad, his own wolf growling and snarling in frustration. She’d blocked her own link to him, shutting down a window on her mental side, leaving traces of bitterness. Shifting and showering his own dark residency in the castle, Lorcan headed towards the Fireheart Pack.
Rowan, to his credit, didn’t speak a word as his hooded face stalked into the Pack House and slammed the door shut. An arm was wrapped around his mate, Aelin, and across the table sat an empty chair where the half-Lycan should have been.
The lack of activity when he had passed border lands sent him on edge more than usual, and by the blank faces staring at him, numbness had settled in.
Lorcan slammed a fist on the table, staring at the thick wad of papers sent from the Council. Across in bold were the consequences if any wolf in any form dared to set foot or paw into Las Vegas without authority.
Rowan nodded, hearing his linked question. “It’s where Elide went.”
He let out a growl, anger rushing through him. “Do you know what you’ve done?” Sometimes secrets were for the better good, for the sake of sanity, one lesson he’d learned over time. Information was too gold, too heavy, and too greedy for those whether unwilling or drowning.
Aelin sat higher in her seat, and pressed her palms against the table. “Manon told Elide, and is tracking her down currently. You can’t cage someone again when she’s been locked up for too long.”
“And if your Beta fails?” Lorcan hissed, and Rowan leaned forward, his natural instincts to protect his mate.
But at least the Lycan Prince had his mate near him, while his own was a shattered mosaic of wear and tear.
Rowan ran a thumb over Aelin’s arm. “Then the Council will issue a death warrant.”
Lorcan stared at them dully. “Everyone has their secrets, some more deadly than the rest. But my mate held the most dangerous. She harbored her Lycan side in.”
The monster had thrashed within her, claiming divine retribution.
Lorcan allowed himself a brief second to close his eyes, at the wrenching and snaring tugs at his heart. Without his last shred of fulfillment, he had lived without honor, but to live without experiencing the brighter spectrum to only listlessly carry on with the dulled cowardly and bloodied halves had already ingrained into his mind. His duty had shifted from the killing fields to defend and cherish another soul, a match for his.
“She’ll be fine,” Aelin whispered, flatly staring at the stack of papers with vivid contempt. “She lived in Morath all her childhood.”
“So Elide’s been through worse,” Rowan clarified. “You have a strong mate, Lorcan.”
But even the strongest fell, and Lorcan feared that for once, this concept of more, of hope and love, would not be enough. He tore off into the fading sunlight, his clothes tearing and body shifting into solid muscle and full wolf, a deep howl full of pain and sorrow erupting from his throat, a sound that no other echo would capture, and no other wolf could vocalize in the forbidden night.
For Lorcan would reclaim what owned his heart and keep hers beating. He promised her as much. He flew across borders and pushed his body to the limits, all for her, all to have her, all to live for her. 

Aelin cradled the picture frame, tracing a finger over the young dark-haired female in the middle, Rowan’s arms wrapped around her waist.
Three women had stood proudly in the picture as the sun’s rays had casted over their tanned bodies, their toes curled from the wet sand and waves lapping at their ankles.
Aelin had taken Elide’s right, her hair seemingly catching on fire at the angle, Manon the pillar of ice and height on Elide’s left; Elide had smiled gently into the camera without Aelin’s own signature smirk of wildness or Manon’s sneer of ferocity.
She had been their rock, their gentle tide, their voice of calm reason against all raging reasons. It seemed the fates were bent on disorder and chaos from false notions of tranquility.
“She’ll be alright,” her mate murmured, staring at her instead, offering his warmth. Rowan slid the frame from her hands and guided her to the bedroom.
“I’m afraid,” Aelin murmured. “That in the dark she chose herself because we all fully refused to give to her. Her pack, her freedom, her strength. She’s been so cooped up for so long, I’m afraid what the oppression has molded into Elide’s heart.”
Rowan leaned down into her. “Elide is not evil, Aelin. She will come home.”
“The problem is, Rowan, where exactly her home?”
Elide was heir to the Perranth Pack, an Alpha in her own rights. She’d been a second Pack Doctor within the Fireheart, and could now have a place in the Lycan’s royal palace as a mate to one.
Aelin didn’t even know where her future laid with the Prince of Lycans, one where she was a simple female Alpha, one with a dirty past no clean palace could harbor. She’d killed many, had many blood and lines on her hands, and played dirty. By no means was she ready to take up the Princess title.
“You do not think she will return to your pack,” Rowan mused, brushing a hand over her neck where her mated mark would have shown. He’d been surprisingly patient with his feral dominance to take things slow. He hadn’t displayed the typical possessive behavior in vying to mark his mate that every male inherently held.
“I do not think Lorcan will return to your Pack.” Aelin shrugged off her leather gears, noting the scorching gaze Rowan shamelessly directed towards her. He shucked off his own clothes, pulling off his boots, and headed to the washroom.
She could imagine two Lycans on solid, ivory thrones, heading the Perranth Pack. A new type of signal in a new world with darkness and lightness colliding like never before. A force Elide and Lorcan would hold as two blooded Lycans, mated to one another. A new empire forged from the darkness into the light, one with scores to settle.
Lest her own Pack fall apart, her Beta was missing, Manon radiating another ancient power of her own, her authority matching that of an Alpha and strength comparable to the Lycans. Their functionality seemed to end as time poured over.
Sense evaded her.
Rowan tucked her under his chin, his naked torso slightly wet, steam escaping from the washroom door. “Elide and Lorcan have each other.”
Aelin blew out a breath. “They will reinstate the Perranth Pack. If the Council does not demand their deaths first.”
If not—
She felt rather than saw Rowan’s wolf rear at the thought of the blood and deaths that would be shed, and Aelin’s own skin matched his shiver. A dark dawn was emerging, one that time had cultivated, and it seemed like the fire would not be able to out shine the shadows. Ashes had scattered too far.
Sleep did not find her, a restless itch at the back of her mind. Even her mate’s presence was not enough. Even the chocolate gifts he’d bestowed on her no longer tasted sweet in her mouth, sourness gathering at her teeth.
When the clock strummed twelve midnight, a beeping emission rose from her office computer. Aelin blandly arose from her mate’s embrace, and sleepily headed towards her device, scanning an email from an unknown address.
Frowning, she dragged her tongue over her bottom lip, doubling clicking the link. Her eyes skimmed over the package, and her cursor hit start, she listlessly stood up, and cast one look at her mate, the Prince of the Lycans.
Her focus returned back to the video.
A gown had swished around the Princess of Lycan’s hips, her cunning eyes taking in the male in front of her. Minutes later, the beautiful fabric had been ripped and discarded, skin on skin. Rowan and Remelle had been more than acquaintances, and it seemed like the Lycan princess’s claims of lovers had been more fact that false. Aelin didn’t bother to mute the moans from the video and the flashes of naked skin that sent her inner wolf reeling. From shock and disgust.
What we did meant nothing, her mate had said.
But by the mated mark on Remelle’s neck, his words had meant otherwise. And would explain why he felt less of a tug and shift towards to her, not matter fate’s plans in destiny.
You are mine, Prince, Remelle had smiled, moments before Aelin had once upon a time entered the castle for Elide to confront Lorcan, before all pain and chaos had broken, before she had allowed Rowan to court her.
I am yours, her mate had said, holding Remelle in his large arms, embracing the Princess.
For she had come too late. For timing had been everything, a facet of life destiny had not granted her.
She was as good as rejected, and without her mate, her pack would not fully function.
And her pack came first.
Aelin stormed out of the Pack House, masking her scent, and shifted, damning the Council, and shifted into her blood-red wolf, sprinting off into the night. She had enough of games, and without her rock here, bloodlust was calling.

Manon tore through the forest and past the streets, a blur from the cars and trunks, the buzzing and honking, the shiny lights and cursed mumbles streaming past her ears. Once the sights of the looming, towering structures came in sight, she quickly shifted, and stalked through the night, cracking camera screens before glimpsing the dangerous, seething woman.
Sliding through thin doors, she picked a set of clothes from the racks, flipping a black hood over her white-hair. Filling the pockets with the familiar curve of blades, Manon strode into the human-filled streets. It was a filthy, ugly disgrace here, where innocence bled and corruption ruled.
The disgusting cards littering the cracked streets and whistling catcalls had her gripping her blade at her waist. Walking up the steps to the Caesar’s Palace, Manon could feel the eyes boring into the back of her head, and the thumping of other foreign heartbeats. She could not stop Elide from her mandate, but she could complete it for her, lest she suffer from death, live without experiencing the joy of having a mate and belonging in unity.
Manon moved behind a pillar before an arrow drove through her spine and out her heart. She barely had time to dart away before the pillar collapsed and the human screams erupted.
You are not welcome here,” a voice hissed, a slight rasp and undercurrent lying beneath the syllables.
Manon drew out Wind Cleaver, her eyes adjusting to the smoke billowing in the hallway. She swore as the marbled statues glowed and shuddered to life, moving towards her. The water from the fountains rose to the air and slammed against the ground, rushing towards her.
Her lips thinned, and she rolled underneath the first lash of a fist aimed at her head.
She hauled herself onto the higher beams, and dodged the first strike of the Poseidon statue, slicing off the trident. When the chariot flew through the air, the water flooding the entire floor, Manon dove, and swam deeper into the hotel. Rivulets of stream wrapped around her ankles and tossed her back to the entrance, the back of her head hitting the wall.
Gritting her teeth, Manon ducked as a wheel from the chariot flew right above her head. Her nails dragged along an outlet, and with a wince, she clawed at the walls, climbing higher.
When the next stature flew towards her, Manon loosed a dagger at one of the columns, the marble collapsing on top of the magiced solid. Panting, she hauled herself into an alcove, and grasped blindly at the stones embedded in the walls. She jerked her body to the side as a hammer grazed the edge of sweatshirt. Finding the Lycan stone, she twisted hard on it, and when it didn’t budge, she drove Wind Cleaver through the middle, and the entire building shook in response.
Turning around, she flashed her blade in front of her, watching the statues crumble into dust, and the water drain beneath the tiles. Dropping onto the ground, she continued deeper into the hotel, scenting the darkness and wretched scent of twist distorment.
The next hall shuddered, and the ground shifted within her, tossing her body to the side. Darting up the middle stairs, Manon slashed Wind Cleaver through the incoming volley of arrows. One arrow exploded in front of her, and while Manon had seen many explosions in her life, she didn’t think she’d seen one where the flumes aimed straight up her nose and mouth. Snarling, she pressed her blades against her face, and muttered an archaic Crochan command, spoken from eons ago.
Wind Cleaver flashed out, forming a mask around her face, thinning out to a veil around her eyes. Then she darted behind a curtain, ready to jump out the window if the attack continued.
It did.
A large spear shot above the curtain, crumbling the entire mainframe of gems and sparkling hues.
Manon swung herself back into the staircase, her exit now blocked. She palmed two daggers, and then dashed down the main hall. Two knights standing against the wall shuddered to life and groaned, their helmets turning into her direction.
The Council must have hired experienced witches to fortify the entire hotel with magic.
It was too bad she was half-witch.
Manon ducked and danced between the two knights, dodging each blow. When the last sword embedded itself into the wall and the other knight dug his lance out of his foot, she launched herself in between, and stabbed both her daggers through the would-be hearts, disconnecting the magical chain. The armor clattered to the floor, and she dusted off one metal hand clinging to her elbow.
Sheathing her daggers, Wind Cleaver peeled off her face, and landed comfortably back into her palm. Manon slashed the blade through the cracks of the grand hall door, and then yanked the doors open with a crash, tasting the blood slipping out her scratched lip.
Wind Cleaver nearly dropped out her hand as she leapt forward with a no, her face straining. For she had been simply too late.

“Well, well,” the face of her nightmares chuckled in front of her. “Have you come to finish me off at last, my dear niece?”
Elide smiled at him, a curl of lip full with ice. “I don’t need to kill you when you’ve been dead for some time.” She stalked in front of the silver-chained monster. “But I suppose death would be a nice touch.”
Especially if she were to break Council laws.
“You touch me, you cannot touch your Alpha title as Perranth.”
Dark shadows had blossomed under his eyes, and his body had thinned considerably, skin faded into gray, feeble meshes. His teeth cracked at the edges from grinding his jaws harshly together, and his nails were shredded.
All the lies and tells in her life…maybe one day she’d have all the pieces.
But maybe it was better she be reckoned as shattered and broken.
Elide hefted a chain in her hands, her heart thrumming. “Look familiar?” she cooed, and swam in the despair and fear in her uncle’s eyes.
She had drowned in those emotions a long, long time ago.
The chain jerked around his neck, the shackles at Vernon’s wrists and ankles and waist screaming against his scarred flesh, burning from the metal. His neck snapped to the side, his eyes unfocused but glazed over in determination.
She’d burned for so long that the sight did not an ounce of satisfaction to her.
Elide stepped forward, and the balcony window shattered.
A sigh of relief bubbled from the Vernon’s rasped throat, but quickly dissipated into a squelch of agony as a hatchet whistled through the air and pierced across his ankle, destroyed the chain and the flesh underneath.
A howl of anguish shook the Alpha’s body, but he continued smiling.
For he had believed crafted the perfect monster and carved a hole into society, a shard in the masterpiece of society.
His legacy, his faults, his nightmares.
A reality.
Little did he know that he hadn’t destroyed her.
She had destroyed herself.
He had willingly retreated into the abyss of dark and ink.
Elide tightened the chain, and waited for the newcomer to reach her.
Warm hands wrapped around Elide’s waist, and her mate kissed the base of her throat.
The ground beneath them shook.
“Together,” Lorcan rumbled, and wrapped a hand around her wrist.
Elide knew what her mate was offering. To end Vernon himself, to take the burden off of her.
But this was what something that she needed to carry by herself.
Shrugging off Lorcan’s hand, Elide offered her own smile at her Uncle, who shivered violently, teeth bared weakly.
“I’ll see you in hell,” she said sweetly, and jerked the chain violently down, watching the neck snap completely.
The doors burst open, and Lorcan arranged himself in a protective stance around her.
Manon, looking as if she’d been dragged across the grave and back, hissed, her eyes purged into utter block. A single no hissed out of her mouth, and Elide felt the thin thread bound to the Council snap, and a fallen order blanket across her mind.
A death sentence. Issued and ordered.
The hotel floor shook again, and Elide braced herself for the consequence.
Manon slammed the door shut, and stalked towards her, not sparing Lorcan a second glance. Blood dripped from her sides, black sweatshirt torn and ragged.
Her past Beta dipped her head and gripped Wind Cleaver solemnly.
“I stand with you.” She bared her teeth, and nodded towards Elide’s mate, just as the balcony drapes flung apart, and the white uniforms of the Council guards flew in, wolves of order leaping from behind.
The South wall shuddered and collapsed, fire ringing out and bursting into flames around them. Lorcan pinned her to the floor as a burst of flame brought it down.
An Enforcer flung a sword towards them, aim at Lorcan’s exposed back, but a wolf leapt through the fallen wall, a red pelt slicked with flames flying through the air, and taking the weapon.
Aelin Galathynius slammed into the floor, the sword sticking from her back, blood swirling with the flames around her. Her wolf shuddered and stilled.
Elide roared and tossed Lorcan’s weight of tons off of her and ran towards her fallen friend, the echoing howl of Manon’s having the tiles shake. The tide of Enforcer did not stop, but Lorcan flung his dark magic forward, sending the first wave of wolves out the window.
Darkness swept across Elide’s eyes as she nosed her previous Alpha’s body.
She watched the flames surrounding them wink out.
She felt the Alpha of the Fireheart’s pack fur turn to ice.
Elide howled, and Lorcan roared his own, Manon’s screeching nails tearing across bodies after the next.
The doors from the upper floor cracked open, and Elide’s heart soared as she saw members of the Fireheart stream in, wolves of all colors with snapping teeth.
The floor became a battleground for unseen justice and stringent consequences.
The Fireheart Pack had openly issued their statement in disloyalty as rebels and resisted the Council’s orders by heeding their Alpha’s call. As Elide launched herself against the nearest guard, she knew the deaths would come.
But she welcomed it. For once.

Lorcan ripped off the pelt of the nearest enforcer, and kept an eye on his mate, whose claws had dug into a guard’s eye. After the wolf laid dead as his feet, he raced towards her, hauling the bleeding enemy off her back, and tossing him into the rubble. His mate rubbed her maw against him, and together they leapt into the mess of hissing and tearing and howling.
They killed every beating heart of human or animal in their way. She became the silencer and the executioner.
He was death. She was desire.
They slaughtered the Council guards and the Enforcers.
Without a blink or thought.
And together—together they could bring down kingdoms if they wanted to. In another realm or world.
For their limits came as the Council themselves stormed in, and the floor levelled off, the ground shaking and infrastructure collapsing around them.

Rowan awoke to a cold bed, and felt frosted agony worm through his body. He tore through the Pack House in search for his mate, and found not one trace of another Pack member.
Aelin had to have more logic than to dare step foot or paw into Las Vegas, but by the true absence, it only seemed plausible.
He swore, and opened his mind link with Lorcan.
Blocked out.
Of course.
Snarling, he shifted into his silver wolf and followed the Council orders to the edge of Nevada where the desert ran for miles. Uneasiness ran through him as he picked up speed.
The sun baked his fur, but he continued to push. Riddled and bristling trepidation coasted over him, driving him over an edge. When his paws no longer hit grass and soil, churning over sand, his pace slowed down considerably, a sharp searing pain digging into his side.
The Prince of Lycans howled as he felt wedge drive within him, pain flowering within him to unknown depths. From his peripheral vision, dread building within him, he mustered up his well and stalked to the camp where the flying white flags of the Council shone.
The guards parted, and his wolf strode through the line, noting the scent and stench of metal and wolfsbane.
As the line of guards ended, a white elder with wrinkly face came into sight, and Rowan halted.
The King of the Wolves.
Rowan dipped his wolf’s head, not meeting the golden-ringed eyes of the other Lycan.
The final authority and the highest honor, King Erawan, wolf of the order.
The full-blooded Lycan merely handed his scepter to a helper next to him, and maintained his posture. “As the Prince of Lycans, you are authorized to uphold the law,” the King droned, and parted to the left.
Rowan’s heart broke at the sight.
A red-ash wolf laid bloodied and broken along the sand, face caked with tears and grime.
His mate.
“Aelin Galathynius.” A pained look crossed over Rowan Whitethorn’s face.
The King nodded, a sneer on his face. “She has broken Council law and is sentenced to die. As Prince, you will set an example.”
An example.
That law was first.
Over love, over morality, over need.
The King beckoned a finger, and Rowan shifted, clothed in his royal garb. His Lycan within him howled in anger and fury, a turbulent storm raging within him.
But the duty called. The first bond he had swore.
His tongue filled with ash as the solemn words washed over him. One his animal side could not yet overcome.
“Through my Lycan blood in me and through orders through the Council, you are condemned to execution for slaughtering and violence, death and destruction. Your disloyalty holds charges with the end.”
Rowan felt his legs lurch forward, his wolf howling within him, a sound his mate did not echo.
Betrayal ran in his mate’s eyes, deeper than the execution.
Disappointment and sorrow.
He knew the sight would haunt him for the rest of eternity.
Another Hell on Earth.
The King snapped his fingers, and the helper handed Rowan a dark blade, crested with obsidian gems on the hilt. He could feel the order pressing down in his mind, caging him.
He lifted the blade. 

Aelin merely grinned at Rowan Whitethorn, still finding the strength within her failing lungs. He wasn’t on his knees grovelling, serving her, honoring her, cherishing her, protecting her.
He wasn’t.
Not when his mark laid on another’s neck.
Not when a silver blade inked with darkness was directly over her.
Not when the Council themselves had swarmed the hotel, and Remelle had triumphantly dragged her bleeding body across the city and into the desert where her veins had been ripped and displayed.
Her Pack was in ruins, more than demolished.
Only thirteen of her pack members had survived, and had fled with Manon—Aelin’s last order as Alpha.
To survive and to remember.
Aelin watched her mate take the dark blade from the King’s hands, and felt hatred boil up within her.
Felt her inner wolf agree and hiss out, “I, Aelin Galathynius, reject you as my mate.”
It would be easier this way, for the pain to fuel her, and for the pain for him to end her without rational thought. So that he could live with the burden that he had no control over his animalistic side, and lost his other half by priorities. That it wasn’t the sword of the King that ended the chance of more, but the emotions of the rage and embittered.
She supposed this was her fate. To be stuck within that scale.
And she did not stop her once-mate as the feral growl rippled through him and his bones shifted, a silver wolf leaping towards her, fury in those eyes.
Aelin supposed she knew how Elide felt, how the physical pain of her skin being ripped apart and blood gushing out, pooling around her—it compared to nothing in the slightest to her heart breaking, not from the sheer force, but from her mind collapsing down on her and giving up, diving into that black abyss, and over the edge and into the what waited in the next life.
“I hope Remelle is everything you wanted,” Aelin managed to whisper out as her spine cracked and her neck snapped.
And she saw the darkness.

Lorcan stared at his mate, his love, his fate.
“Elide,” he whispered.
Elide blankly stared at him, a little trickle of blood running down her face.
“Elide,” he repeated, his voice cracking between the syllables.
Elide part her mouth. “Lorcan,” she murmured, and her hands fell limply to her side. “What have I done?”
He swallowed harshly. Rid the threat before the threat rids us, as ordered by the King Erawan. Kill the girl.
Pure ferality and unbridled bloodlust.
His mate, his fate.
The Council members closed within them, blank faces.
Another cage, another cell.
Lorcan felt his paws holding blood and sand, reeking of gore and flesh. Holding his and his mate’s defeat. It had not been enough.
“I am sorry,” Lorcan whispered, despairingly. “Moon goddess forgive me.”
For his first oath had drilled into his mind and wormed its way.
The silver blade lurched forward, driving within his Elide Lochan’s ribcage, piercing through her hardened flesh and out her other end.
The onyx eyes widened before her lids fluttered shut, and she croaked out his name thickly, her upper body collapsing on top of the blade.
“Forgive me,” Lorcan said, and embraced her. Darkness and madness swept through him, a cord of sanity pulling into a reach beyond him. Her nest of hair fell across her face, and the salted stench of blood filled his nostrils again.
He wrenched the blade out, and a silent scream stamped onto her face, pale features turning into whitened ash.
“Forgiven,” Elide rasped out, and went limp, her eyes closing.
For they had both sinned beautifully in the tragic world.
Lorcan held his mate in his arms, and blankly stared at the silver sword tainted with crimson, staining the ground.
He had promised to not let her go. Promises, his oaths, his only living shred of morality in this world. He would not let it slip from his fingers as further dishonored.
Lorcan slowly reached down and wrapped the warm hilt around his roughened hand, his other wrapped around the drooped body, a sack of emptiness. Inhaling the fast fading scent of his source of elation one last time, Lorcan drove the blade inwards without a figment of restraint.
The Council wolves stared blandly, empty holes drilled into their eyes.
Two bodies collapsed onto the soiled ground, blood intertwining between them, tying them closer than ever before than in life, through the decay, and to death.
Even his Lycan genes could not regenerate him fast enough, as the fast fading mated mark disappearing from Elide’s neck snapped his own tether to this world.
For when his mate had been sentenced to die, so had he. She hadn’t needed a ring on her finger when he had claimed her, a claim that went into the next life and realm, a long, long dream of what could have once been and whispers of fantasy of might and true love, an easy conquerment to whistle through his heavens only to plunge into the depths of hell.
For death had been their wedding with eternity.

Manon tossed away the flowers that littered the three graves she had built near the entrance of soom gloomy and haunted cave in the middle of a darkened forest. 
Elide Lochan. Aelin Galanthysius. Lorcan Salvaterre.
It would have been suicide to return back to Las Vegas where the Council awaited, with too much dark enhanced power and foreign allies.
The Fireheart Pack remained in spirit, but the name was filled with too much raw memories. Settling her heart in steel, Manon headed into the wild, Alpha blood coursing through her veins.
She’d rebuild up this pack, and forge them into their own masters, not weapons.
And the dawn of the Crochan Pack arose, filled with thirteen beautifully broken members.
Thirteen survivors with the blood bathing over their bodies and minds, sculpting their souls.
She had revenge burning within her. In memory of her fellow wolves, the fallen who had fought against the stringent orders.
And so the Crochan Pack sprinted into the distance, where they’d forge the next era.

Elide jerked up, panting, and stared at the darkness within the cave. Lorcan immediately sat up, and wrapped his arms around her, offering his warmth.

She yawned, and her mate yawned back. 

A run? Her mate proposed.

She didn’t respond, and instead channeled in the raw depths of power and dominance within her. Elide closed her eyes and focused on her inner Lycan, the unknown beast within her that had slumbered for years in silence. Feeling her bones crack and rattle, her teeth shifted and hands grew, paws hitting the floor, her tail wagging.

Elide waited for her mate to shift, watching the powerful muscles ripple through currents in the dark cave. When Lorcan finished shifting, her nudged her in concern. She moved against his pelt, shaking off the vivid images that had flashed across her head. Elide licked her mate’s ear affectionately, and wiggled her tail in anticipation.

Her mate took off and out of the cave, Elide surging forward behind him, into the breaking light of slanted rays, ignoring the murky and hidden feeling of deja vu running underneath her. 


memoriesofpurelight  asked:

For the follower special: either 10 for pidge and her mum, or 26 with Shiro and adult/authority/family figures? Please and thank you if ts not too much trouble/you already have too many requests. I'm new to this fandom but I love both it and Shiro so your fics bring me no small amount of joy. You deserve ALL of the followers!

It’s the 1000 Followers Special!  Based on these prompts.  Prompts are now closed.  Don’t want to see all 35 of these?  Block ‘1000 Followers Special’.  Can’t read on mobile?  These will slowly be posted to AO3 starting in a few days as ‘Hold Up Half the Sky’.  A huge thank you to Xagrok for the beta’ing!

It had been a long day, and it was barely mid-afternoon.

Sam wandered down the halls, hands in his pockets as he sighed.  

The reality of what they did was the need for training and developing resources.  Part of that was one-on-one training.  Shiro ran them every few weeks, checking individual progress and making sure no problems or weaknesses were developing.  It was standard by now, and something Sam approved of.  With how busy their lives were, the ritual and schedule of it was good, and it kept issues from falling to the wayside with everything else.

At least, Sam had approved until this afternoon.

After a full morning of target practice, hand-to-hand sparring and running drills, all of them had been exhausted.  But Shiro in particular had been going nonstop since breakfast, and he’d already looked ragged that morning.  It was a recipe for mistakes.

Eventually, inevitably, there had been one.

(Read More Below)

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Creepypasta #1065: I Work As A Private Investigator. Here Are A Few Of My Strangest Cases (Part 2)

Length: Long

I don’t believe in the occult. I don’t believe in the paranormal or anything of that sort. The case I’m about to describe did not change this. You really have to put a lot of trust in your senses; what you’ve personally seen or heard as a PI, and bogging those very senses down with deductions spotlighting supernatural intervention is a pretty piss-poor decision if you wanna get anywhere. Y'see, I do, however, have my weird personal superstitions and idiosyncrasies. Wouldn’t really be human if I didn’t. I try and keep them separate from my job, but sometimes they pop up in the back of my mind regardless, picking and drilling at the gray matter in my skull in a desperate attempt to burrow their way back inside.

For example, I sometimes feel that reality stops functioning correctly in complete isolation. That, when things are left completely unobserved for a long amount of time, the unknown, unseen spaces cease to exist. Stuff that shouldn’t be able to physically happen is suddenly no more than child’s play and unwelcome things that have no right existing play their fickle little games with us.

I don’t try to think about it too much, and I most certainly don’t try to give the stupid little thought any power. Nonetheless, there’s always the occasional case in which the idea is particularly tempting to indulge.

It was the middle of summer and the cicadas were chirping in their monotonous choir, like a million audio tapes put on never-ending, ear-rending repeat. The summers are fairly cold up here, but at least there’s no snow. I was sitting in my office, finishing up one of my previous cases. Just general reports left; lots of paperwork. Boring stuff that seem to cause the world to drown in a cacophony of summer insects. The tedium was broken when my phone rang. I picked it up, only to hear the voice of one of my closer PI friends on the other end. We chatted casually for a few minutes, mostly just me trying to get my mind off of the writing pains in my wrist, but it was obvious that he’d called for a reason.

He explained that he’d been on a missing person case, a small boy around the age of four. His mother and father had divorced a few years ago, and his mother is currently holed up here, in my area. The boy had apparently been missing for quite a while now. The police had been contacted first, but they turned up with nothing.

After a week passed with no sign of a missing person, you kind of have to start assuming the worst. Nevertheless, we’re usually the last resort for these cases. So my buddy went asking around, and apparently he managed to dig up a couple of accounts saying that the kid was seen boarding an olive green SUV with a woman looking to be in her early thirties just hours before his disappearance was reported. Nobody thought to note the license plate. 

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Wedding date

A Drabble Games fic requested by @queencaitlin135, featuring Fili

02: “I think I’m in love with you and that scares the hell out of me.”
03: “I almost lost you.” 


The silvery chime of a bell heralded your arrival as you pushed open the door of the Blue Mountain Roastery, letting the warm smell of coffee waft over you. A smile immediately brightened the face of a plump, raven-haired lady behind the counter who balanced a large tray of freshly baked pastries, ready to find their home in the glass bakery case.

“Good morning, dear,” she called, “so nice to see you again.”

“Thanks, Dis, it’s great to be back.”

Dis’ younger son pushed an unruly mop of dark curls away from his face to greet you with a cheeky grin from where he stood on a stepladder, stocking a display shelf with small bags of coffee beans.

“Well, look what the cat dragged in.”

“Hey, Kili,” you chuckled. “How’s the wedding planning coming?”

Kili gave a mutinous roll of his eyes, lowering his voice. “Let’s just say Mum’s idea of a small wedding is different from mine and Tauriel’s. Eloping has never sounded so good.”

“Well, not long now, at least,” you consoled him, turning toward the counter and steeling yourself for the flutter of your stomach that had nothing to do with hunger.

Your eyes met Fili’s sea-blue ones over the cash register, and his stubbled cheeks dimpled with a dazzling smile as he wiped his hands on his apron before resting them on his hips.

“Haven’t seen you all week,” he noted, with a teasing twinkle in his eye. “Don’t tell me I almost lost you to Starbucks.”

“Bite your tongue,” you mock-scolded, “I was at a conference for work.”

“Well, you’re in luck, your favorite table is empty and I’ll get the usual started for you, hmm?”

“Thanks, Fili,” you grinned, making a beeline for the table in the corner as the bell tinkled again, bringing more people into the cafe.

Keep reading

anonymous asked:

Hi! Can you do where the reader is the youngest of the team and Hanzo, Mcree, and Solider play the adult in their life and one day during training they break down cause they never wanted to hurt anyone thank you! ^^


It’s been almost a year since you’ve joined Overwatch, a dream of yours for a very long time and now you’ve made it. You’re the youngest member of the team, younger than D. Va so naturally you are the butt of a lot of jokes, but you like them and join in on the jokes.

Jack waits awkwardly in the training hall; he fidgets with his gear and looks at his watch. ‘10 minutes late’ he thinks inwardly. He was surprised that you wanted to train together but he was more than happy to help you. Another five minutes pass and you come barreling through the door. You double over, visibly exhausted and out of breath. He walks over to you and hands you a water bottle.

“You’re late,” he said sternly, almost like a father talking to his kid. You gladly take the bottle and down the water.

“I’m sorry, Dad,” you say teasingly as you stand up and slow down your breathing, “the time sorta got away from me.”

He moves away from you to give you some space. “Well, when you’re ready we can get started kid.”

“I’m not a kid,” you say laughing at his remark.

The training session goes well enough. Jack corrects you where you need help, drills you and continues to drill you for about 2 hours. He notices your performance, though far from terrible seems slow, and hesitant. He ends the session, and begins to leave when the sound of sniffling stops him. He turns around, and notices you are looking at the ground and your shoulders ever so slightly shaking.

“Hey,” Jack says walking slowly to you. When you feel his hand rest on your shoulder and begin to openly cry. You put your head in his chest and continue to cry. He awkwardly stands still, unsure what to do. Ultimately he settles to gently pat your back, and lets you cry.

“What’s wrong? Did I push you too hard?” he asks concerned.

“I’m sorry Jack,” you say as you move away from him. Sniffling you say, “It’s just…I never wanted to hurt anyone.” You wipe away the tears and continue, “I love Overwatch, I love that we are helping people but at what cost? I just—” you turn around, ashamed to look at him, “The reality of what we’re doing is sinking in and just, I don’t know what to do, what to think.” You begin to cry more.

Jack places his hand around your shoulder and awkwardly hugs you. “It’s ok, kid,” he says softly. “This life isn’t easy, but if you want I can help you figure it out.”

“Thanks Dad,” you weakly say, trying to joke around.


“McCree, do you think you have time to train me for a few hours tomorrow?” you say ask after you cornered Jesse.

“Aww, you want me to teach you how to be like me?” he says teasingly.

“Oh shut it, Jesse,” you laugh, “So you gonna help me or not?”

“For you shorty, sure thing,” he said ruffling your hair.

The next day, you begin your training with Jesse. You are shocked to learn that he has very strict training drills. It’s refreshing to see this side of him, and in a way very humbling. You remember how nice Jesse was to you when you first arrived to Overwatch only 5 months ago. He’s always looking out for you, everyone does seeing as you’re the youngest and it warms you inside just how much you’ve learned about Overwatch…how much you’ve learned about the world and the reality of it.

An hour into the training session, you stop shooting the targets in front of you. Jesse doesn’t immediately notice that you’ve stopped. When he finishes shooting the targets and turns around to you he sees the tears falling down your face.

“Hey,” he says concerned. He wraps an arm around your shoulder and takes you to a nearby bench. You begin to openly cry. “What’s wrong?”

You cry on his shoulder, and he continues to hold you, not saying anything else. After a good while of crying you calm down, you try to control your breathing.

“Shh, there there,” Jesse says as he pats your head, a very comforting gesture.

“Jesse,” you begin softly, “I joined Overwatch to make a difference, to help people. But all we do, what I do is just hurt people,” you feel tears falling down your face again but you try to keep your voice level. You need to say this. “I never wanted to hurt people Jesse. I wanted to help people.”

You both say there, Jesse holding you while you left out your frustrations, anger, regret, insecurities, you let all of it out.  

“You feel better shorty?” he asks trying to cheer you up. You give a snort, trying to wipe away all the snot and tears.

“Yea. Thank you Jesse.”

“Don’t sweat it. Seriously, if you need to talk more about this, let me know anytime ok?”

You smile up at him, “Sure thing boss.”


Hanzo was already in the training area waiting for you to arrive.

You were new to the team and the youngest but you’ve already shown much potential thus far that you’ve amazed everyone. Even Hanzo was impressed with your skills. What surprised him even more was that you asked him for a training lesson today. It wouldn’t help the jokes that were now spreading like wild fire about how you always look after the new teammate and worry about them like they were his kid. As he continued his musings, you arrive ready and excited to start training.

“I must warn you,” he begins, “that I will not go easy. I will show what I have been taught and we will not slow down. Is that understood?”

“Shit you make it seem like this is life or death,” you joke, “But yes, I’m ready!”

He smiles at your enthusiasm, “Then let us begin.”

An hour into the training and Hanzo is all the more impressed and happy that you’ve been able to keep up with his rigorous training. However, something doesn’t seem quite right. He’s happy, but he notices the lack of intensity you are exhibiting. That passion, that enthusiasm that he’s seen you show on the battlefield isn’t present. He looks at your face more carefully this time and he finds what he’s looking for. He sees the sadness in your eyes.

“Stop,” he says. You stop and look at him.

“Why are we stopping?”

“Because,” he says standing in front of you, his arms crossed over his chest, “You are hiding something. You are not fighting as you normally do and it shows.”

“So you notice huh?” you say looking away from him, “I should have figured you would have noticed it.”

Tears quickly begin fall down your face.

Hanzo grabs your shoulders when he sees you crying, “What’s wrong?”

“I didn’t want this,” you begin. You sink to the ground and cover your face. Hanzo sits down next to you and awkwardly pats your back.

He’s never been in a situation where he had someone cry openly in front of him much less him trying to comfort them. After a while you slow down and try to wipe away the tears.

“What did you mean by ‘you didn’t want this’?” Hanzo asks.

You still continue to look at the floor, ashamed.

“I came to Overwatch wanting to help people. But I never thought that helping people would mean that I would need to hurt other people. I didn’t know that, and I didn’t want that,” more tears fall down, “I was living in a dream, thinking that I could do something to change the world. If I’m hurting people, how am I any different from the bad guys?”

Hanzo stays quiet for a long time thinking. You rest your head on his shoulder.

“I cannot tell you what you need to do, but what I can tell you is that made that choice and will need to learn to accept it. Yes, we hurt people, but we hurt those that have hurt the innocent and those that cannot fight back. We are trying to save those that cannot fight and to one day stop the fighting all together.”

You stay quiet for a while thinking about what he said.

“Hanzo, would it be alright if I can talk to you about this more? I’m really tired right now and want to go to my room.”

“You can always talk to me.”

Achievement Het Hunters [Rooster Hunters TF/MC]

For @henrycavbsc aka @mrcavanaughtf

Jake Dickson smiled, passing about brand new Achievement Hunter controllers to each of his friends. His raven hair combed down emo, body shorter than ever barely reaching at a 5 ft 5 with little to no body or facial hair.

He was about to chill a new game along with his two gay friends, Garett Finch and Rick Han. Loving boyfriends, the former being quite pudgy in his blonde haired belly while the latter being a skinny and strangely enough, overly tall asian trying to fit in with his brown dyed hair.

Connecting the brand new limited edition controllers to their PS4. The couple sat on the floor with hands intwined with one another, with their host Jake on the top of the couch as he started the game, out flashing three women in the intro with a huge label on top—


“Their faces, their bodies, their…voices. They all sound so familiar…” Each of them thought, eyes darting about, hypnotized the strong estrogen presence radiating from the screen. Spinning and STOPPING! At their match.

Looking STRAIGHT at the babe in front of them, barely even caring about the other as their dicks rise with unwanted resistance. Pheromones causing their gayness to melt away, boyfriends getting more uncomfortable holding hands with one another side by side.

Subliminal messages running through their new sensations, stroking their brains with gentle touches that they have never experienced ever before in their lifetime.

‘He belongs to her, so he oughta be the man she desires.’

Their bodies swell with testosterone, reeking with it. Bathing in games of call of duty and warfare. That’s what true men play, all guts and glory, all-

KICKASS legs being FILLED with STRONG STURDY muscle each EQUIVALENT TO PURE MANHOOD. Tough thighs and calves get wrapped around with that typical jean material you see in heterosexual men.

Feet wiggling bare and strong, thicker and meatier like their arms. Pores oozing out testosterone and pheromones that can magnetise any girl and—

“Man She’s hot….!”

Being the first, Garett slowly loosening up and losing all that extra fat he once carried. Cheeks becoming less round and jaw line stubbled with manly aftershave rumble, becoming more refined than ever.

Lean Torso, Carrying a swagger a homo never had before. Wiry hair sprouts out in a true hazel brown fashion, prominently accentuating his facial features as his eyes narrowed in admiration.

“Yeah I agree….!”

Rick eyes went WIDE OPEN and VISIBLE. Beard sparse over his changed face as his forehead and hairstyle gained a lighter brown shade. Nerdy features disappeared, he can’t disappoint his wife.

Undergoing masculinization, as his ethnicity melted away. Losing all the yellow to a pure Americano Caucasian white, filling up those sleeves with thick American muscle


The two former boyfriends’ shirts morphed and HEAT PRESSED into an greyish-blackish gamer tee. Proud with initials styled at their new-ever so manly back, and a gamer logos at the front.

Their unsatisfied expressions smirked up, as they separated from one another into their own individuality. Not as a pair but as strong sturdy gamers who just wanna…LET GO! Of homosexuality and PUMP their fists and—


J.D. Witnessed his best bros turning from Gay to Straight in an instant, forever changed and posing in their new lives as Gavin Free and Ryan Haywood. Proud heterosexual men who have wives they oughta be Fuckin’, you ain’t no pansy either!

Barely even resisting, RIPPING off those puny sleeves with his KILLER BICEPS! Torso being filled with brown bear hair that sticks out of his ACHIEVEMENT HUNTER tank top.

Jeremy Dooley ain’t gonna let the competition, standing UP! For his GIRLFRIEND! Fist pounding as his hair SNIPPED AWAY those bangs, browning up into brown curly locks and a studly beard that dons his now masculine bear features.


Individual Wedding Rings materializing on all their fingers, Eyes and reality wrapping in front of their girlfriends chatting through TV skype. This ain’t a drill, its the real thing. Not a simulator , but their reality as they PUMP OFF!