we are only children

So what you’re telling me is that the lieutenants are okay 👀👀👀👀 

When I was nine, possibly ten, an author came to our school to talk about writing. His name was Hugh Scott, and I doubt he’s known outside of Scotland. And even then I haven’t seen him on many shelves in recent years in Scotland either. But he wrote wonderfully creepy children’s stories, where the supernatural was scary, but it was the mundane that was truly terrifying. At least to little ten year old me. It was Scooby Doo meets Paranormal Activity with a bonny braw Scottish-ness to it that I’d never experienced before.

I remember him as a gangling man with a wiry beard that made him look older than he probably was, and he carried a leather bag filled with paper. He had a pen too that was shaped like a carrot, and he used it to scribble down notes between answering our (frankly disinterested) questions. We had no idea who he was you see, no one had made an effort to introduce us to his books. We were simply told one morning, ‘class 1b, there is an author here to talk to you about writing’, and this you see was our introduction to creative writing. We’d surpassed finger painting and macaroni collages. It was time to attempt Words That Were Untrue.

You could tell from the look on Mrs M’s face she thought it was a waste of time. I remember her sitting off to one side marking papers while this tall man sat down on our ridiculously short chairs, and tried to talk to us about what it meant to tell a story. She wasn’t big on telling stories, Mrs M. She was also one of the teachers who used to take my books away from me because they were “too complicated” for me, despite the fact that I was reading them with both interest and ease. When dad found out he hit the roof. It’s the one and only time he ever showed up to the school when it wasn’t parents night or the school play. After that she just left me alone, but she made it clear to my parents that she resented the fact that a ten year old used words like ‘ubiquitous’ in their essays. Presumably because she had to look it up.

Anyway, Mr Scott, was doing his best to talk to us while Mrs M made scoffing noises from her corner every so often, and you could just tell he was deflating faster than a bouncy castle at a knife sharpening party, so when he asked if any of us had any further questions and no one put their hand up I felt awful. I knew this was not only insulting but also humiliating, even if we were only little children. So I did the only thing I could think of, put my hand up and said “Why do you write?”

I’d always read about characters blinking owlishly, but I’d never actually seen it before. But that’s what he did, peering down at me from behind his wire rim spectacles and dragging tired fingers through his curly beard. I don’t think he expected anyone to ask why he wrote stories. What he wrote about, and where he got his ideas from maybe, and certainly why he wrote about ghosts and other creepy things, but probably not why do you write. And I think he thought perhaps he could have got away with “because it’s fun, and learning is fun, right kids?!”, but part of me will always remember the way the world shifted ever so slightly as it does when something important is about to happen, and this tall streak of a man looked down at me, narrowed his eyes in an assessing manner and said, “Because people told me not to, and words are important.”

I nodded, very seriously in the way children do, and knew this to be a truth. In my limited experience at that point, I knew certain people (with a sidelong glance to Mrs M who was in turn looking at me as though she’d just known it’d be me that type of question) didn’t like fiction. At least certain types of fiction. I knew for instance that Mrs M liked to read Pride and Prejudice on her lunch break but only because it was sensible fiction, about people that could conceivably be real. The idea that one could not relate to a character simply because they had pointy ears or a jet pack had never occurred to me, and the fact that it’s now twenty years later and people are still arguing about the validity of genre fiction is beyond me, but right there in that little moment, I knew something important had just transpired, with my teacher glaring at me, and this man who told stories to live beginning to smile. After that the audience turned into a two person conversation, with gradually more and more of my classmates joining in because suddenly it was fun. Mrs M was pissed and this bedraggled looking man who might have been Santa after some serious dieting, was starting to enjoy himself. As it turned out we had all of his books in our tiny corner library, and in the words of my friend Andrew “hey there’s a giant spider fighting a ghost on this cover! neat!” and the presentation devolved into chaos as we all began reading different books at once and asking questions about each one. “Does she live?”— “What about the talking trees” —“is the ghost evil?” —“can I go to the bathroom, Miss?” —“Wow neat, more spiders!”

After that we were supposed to sit down, quietly (glare glare) and write a short story to show what we had learned from listening to Mr Scott. I wont pretend I wrote anything remotely good, I was ten and all I could come up with was a story about a magic carrot that made you see words in the dark, but Mr Scott seemed to like it. In fact he seemed to like all of them, probably because they were done with such vibrant enthusiasm in defiance of the people who didn’t want us to.

The following year, when I’d moved into Mrs H’s class—the kind of woman that didn’t take away books from children who loved to read and let them write nonsense in the back of their journals provided they got all their work done—a letter arrived to the school, carefully wedged between several copies of a book which was unheard of at the time, by a new author known as J.K. Rowling. Mrs H remarked that it was strange that an author would send copies of books that weren’t even his to a school, but I knew why he’d done it. I knew before Mrs H even read the letter.

Because words are important. Words are magical. They’re powerful. And that power ought to be shared. There’s no petty rivalry between story tellers, although there’s plenty who try to insinuate it. There’s plenty who try to say some words are more valuable than others, that somehow their meaning is more important because of when it was written and by whom. Those are the same people who laud Shakespeare from the heavens but refuse to acknowledge that the quote “Some are born great, some achieve greatness, and some have greatness thrust upon them“ is a dick joke.

And although Mr Scott seems to have faded from public literary consumption, I still think about him. I think about his stories, I think about how he recommended another author and sent copies of her books because he knew our school was a puritan shithole that fought against the Wrong Type of Wordes and would never buy them into the library otherwise. But mostly I think about how he looked at a ten year old like an equal and told her words and important, and people will try to keep you from writing them—so write them anyway.

Popular headcanon: Nursey starts shit to upset Dex

Reverse headcanon: Dex does the lion’s share of the shit stirring.

Dex: Hey is that your notebook?

Nursey: Please do not touch my things.

Dex, who has no sense of boundaries, already leafing through it: Yeah, what?

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I don’t think that kids need a father and a mother necessarily. I think they need male and female role models. But I don’t think that means that we shouldn’t have kids because we’re two guys. We don’t encourage our children to only play with Barbies. But if our son picks up a Barbie doll and wants to play with it, okay. Parents need to be more accepting of who their kids are and less concerned about who society thinks they need to be.
—  Neil Patrick Harris

Watch: These adorable kids in China performed a full-fledged live-action version of Mulan’s “Bring Honor to Us All”

Apparently, there’s a show on Chinese television that involves children re-enacting scenes from famous movies. We only know that because these kids absolutely crushed a live-action version of “Bring Honor to Us All” from Disney’s Mulan.

Gifs: Disney Power


Highly gifted children benefit from explanation as much as their peers

When children have tests at school or when their learning abilities are assessed, they don’t always show their full potential. Exam stress and/or lower metacognition - knowledge that makes learning easier - can cause a child to underperform. This problem can be countered using dynamic tests, where children receive training during the test and their progress is measured to give a better image of their learning capabilities. ‘The general assumption is that gifted children always work to their full potential in such tests and that they don’t need training or explanations,’ development psychologist Bart Vogelaar explains. ‘I’m not sure that assumption is correct.’

Measuring progress

For his PhD research, 522 children aged between five and ten years - 173 highly gifted and 349 averagely gifted - took part in dynamic testing with a so-called learning potential test. The children had to solve analogical reasoning tasks, comprising four boxes with different geometric figures. The first three boxes were filled with figures that changed from one box to the next according to a particular rule, for example, in size or in position. The children had to use analogical reasoning to draw the figure in the last box.

Starting assessment

The test comprised an initial assessment based on a series of tasks, after which the children were given a training session followed by a further set of tasks as a post-assessment. Vogelaar: ‘This kind of test gives a better insight into how well children learn because we are able to measure not only how much they progress on a new task, but also how much and what kind of help they need to achieve this progress.’

Training helps

The test showed that all groups of children made progress, from the starting to the post-measurement, with major individual differences. 'It confirmed that highly gifted children also benefit from explanation and training, and that they don’t always show their full potential in tests.’ Vogelaar concludes from this that dynamic testing gives better insight into the reasoning capabilities and learning process of children - whether or not highly gifted - than conventional testing, such as with an IQ test.  

Equal training and instruction

What really surprised Vogelaar was that the two groups of children were not very different from one another. The test showed that highly gifted children have the same need for instruction as averagely gifted children, and that they exhibited the same degree of progress from the starting to the post-assessment. The highly gifted children started at a higher level of reasoning, but made the same amount of progress as their averagely gifted peers.’ These findings suggest that they learn just as much from the training and instruction as averagely gifted children.

Highly gifted children also need extra support

Schools tend to assume that highly gifted children can manage by themselves and that they do not need any extra support. As a result, they sometimes seem to be forgotten. Vogelaar’s research shows that highly gifted children also need extra learning support. 'The fact that these childen are clever does not mean that they always perform to maximum capacity.’

anonymous asked:

*curtsies* Duke, I need some help here. Just noticed that I have a huge lack on my character creation. I only write the "warmey hearted and happy" characters. How can I... "fix" that? I have interest in writing different characters but... I just... can't. It's like I didn't understand them enough. How do I write a cold and calculist character? Without making it either a "happey heart" or unrealist, or even the "completly feelingless stereotype"? Please help me!!! I have no idea of what to do!!!!

*Curtsies* First big rule of writing that Tumblr brainwashes out of people because we tend to balk at anything ‘problematic’: 

You need conflict in fiction. 

If everybody is nice to each other and agrees about everything and never miscommunicates, you don’t have a story. You have slow-burn fluff fic and that’s fine if that’s what you’re trying to write, but if you aren’t, you need to spice things up. You need problems. You need conflict. You need more than one personality type. 

Writing good characters is hard. You are literally inventing a human being from scratch, and that kind of complexity takes months (if not years) of work to create, so that’s the first thing I want to be clear about: 

There are no shortcuts to good character.

Writing is, in every sense, an iceberg type of art form, and what a reader will eventually see on a page is only about 1% of the work you actually have to do to make that 1% worth reading. Character, like plot and setting and everything else in fiction, requires long hard nose-to-the-grindstone hours of work. It also requires research. You can’t skimp on any of this or your characters will come out feeling like paper dolls. 

As for how to actually excavate a character: I’ve talked a lot about this under the character development tag and especially this post here, but here is what I think should be the first step for everyone who’s trying to turn a paper doll into flesh and blood: 

Start with the moment where your character first appears in your story, and work backward through every remotely significant event of their life until you get to their birth.

By ‘every remotely significant event’ I don’t just mean when their mom died or when they lost their virginity. I mean every event that was remotely significant to them, even if it was just getting their braces off or listening to their favorite band for the first time. If you really commit to this, it’s going to raise a lot of questions along the way. How long did they live in Kenosha? Where did she get that dress? Why did her dad lose that job? Who introduced her to that author? Here’s the crucial thing: 

Nothing you learn about a character is insignificant. 

Even if it’s just what their least favorite vegetable is. 99% of this information will not end up in the final manuscript, and that’s fine. What’s important is that you know it, because a character (like a real human being) is the sum of their parts, and even their childhood aversion to cooked carrots will contribute to who they become. I recently got a question on my author blog about why I can spit out so many random trivial details about each of my main characters. And the answer is because none of it’s random and none of it’s trivial. If you’re trying to bring a person to life with prose, you can’t afford not to know every little thing about them. Want to know why? 

It is a hell of a lot easier to write a character you know as well as you know yourself than to write a character you only know as a player in your story.

Characters have lives before and beyond the book you’re writing, just like real people have lives before and beyond the moments you interact with them. Our life experiences shape who we are and how we behave, so if you don’t know everything that has occurred in this character’s life prior to this moment, how could you possibly know how they would respond to a question even as simple as “How are you?” So. Spend the time. It will not be time wasted. Writing requires patience. 

Writing also requires research. Because you can’t just write a bunch of characters who are vague avatars for yourself, you will have to venture out of your comfort zone. If you do that thing I suggested where you plot each person’s life all the way back to their birth, you will inevitably stumble across things you don’t fully understand–and that’s where the research comes in. You have a hard time writing cold, calculating characters? Start with the basic questions: Why is this person this way? Coming up empty? Find some real-life examples. If you’re writing a serial killer, go buy every biography of real-life serial killers you can get your hands on. Watch Making a Murderer. Take a criminal psychology class. Writing about a chef? Read chefs’ memoirs. Follow chefs’ blogs. Go to restaurants. Learn to cook. Don’t steal any real person’s personality wholesale, but pay attention to patterns and details so that when you create your own character, they feel real. 

Use the real world for research. Learn from life.

The most important lesson you can learn from life is that very few people can be easily categorized. Most exist somewhere on a moral/behavioral spectrum that doesn’t fit neatly into those Myers-Briggs boxes everyone here on Tumblr loves so much. People are complicated and often conditional. A character who is warm-hearted and loving is much less interesting and much less believable than a character who is warm-hearted and loving but only towards children, because we immediately want to know more about her and why she doesn’t have the same sympathy for people her own age. And let’s be honest: no real person is warm-hearted and loving all the time. Figuring out exactly how this person’s life has gone will help you decide how they behave in any given situation.

We all have quirks and idiosyncrasies and learned behaviors that may, at first glance, defy explanation. We have hopes and fears and secrets and none of that is stuff you’re going to discover by taking another MBTI test on a character’s behalf. Rifle through the stuff of their life until you know not only exactly which magazines are lying under their bed but also why they have five credit cards they aren’t telling their wife about. When it comes to character, you can never know enough, even though writing in broad strokes might look a lot easier at the outset. Nothing about writing is easy, characters included.

People are messy. Resist the urge to simplify them.

Put the work in. I promise you, doing the digging and the research and learning who a person is before you try to put them on paper will make every word you write about them come more naturally and make more sense. And though a reader may never see those notebooks crammed full of every minute thing you learned about their life, they can intrinsically tell the difference between paper dolls and characters who are three-dimensional and fully formed and have been turned inside out by their author. 

Really all this advice comes down to one thing, which is that you can’t half-ass character. You’re creating a person. 


I need to share what I found in my attic last night

By reddit user A10A10A10

I’m an old man living alone in an old house.  My wife and I bought it 10 years ago, just before she passed.  I don’t know how old it is.  If I had to guess, I’d say at least 150 years.  It’s your typical old house in back country southern United States, surrounded by forest and far from the closest neighbor.

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anonymous asked:

What now, open borders advocates?

I have an anon who asks this after every terrorist attack in Europe that was sponsored or claimed by ISIS and associated organizations. At this point I can only presume it is because anon likes hearing my answers.

Most people are compassionate. We hate to see others suffer, even if we never knew them; we hear about what they were doing when their lives were interrupted by deadly violence, and we empathize, imagine ourselves there, imagine our families there. We learn the victims were children and we hug our children close. 

Terrorism only works because of this. Terrorism doesn’t work through its effect on the people targeted; it works by causing pain and grief and anger and fear in all the rest of us. 

It will not surprise you that I do not think the solution is to stop being compassionate. In fact I think the solution is to be more resiliently compassionate, more stubbornly compassionate. To grieve for everyone killed in senseless violence in Manchester and everyone killed in senseless violence in Syria and everyone killed in senseless violence anywhere. To declare that compassion is the best thing about us, and that we will not be incited to turn it off no matter who is suffering. To declare that we will not change.

Everyone deserves a good life, no matter where they were born. If that was true this weekend, it is still true today. No one deserves to die violently as a child, or watch their children die. If that was true this weekend, it is still true today. ‘what now, open borders advocates?’ implies that of the hundred fifty thousand people who die every day, ISIS should have the right to add twenty-two of them  and demand all our compassion be directed there, with none to spare, and all our policy shift around ISIS and the agenda they want to achieve with violence. 

We have enough compassion to spare. We can grieve those deaths alongside all of the others. We can continue to push for whatever immigration policy does the most to make everyone in the world safe and free and happy. We can be sad and angry and horrified without letting murderers set our priorities. 

(When a month goes by peacefully, do you go ‘what now, immigration restrictionists?’)

Birthday Cake

Summary: Being Childhood friends with an idol is one thing, not being an idol yourself another. Will your ordinary birthday gift be up to par with the fancy gifts his friends have given him?

Originally posted by suhomysuho

Pairing: Kim Junmyeon x Reader
Genre/warnings: angst, lots of fluff at the end
Words: 2.2K
Notes: Requested by my love @oh-beyond to celebrate Junmyeon’s birthday.

The lobby of your building is oddly quiet upon your arrival. Having just endured an arduous day at work you couldn’t be happier with the absence of yelling and crying that usually greeted you. Treading your way into your apartment, you are about ready to collapse on your couch when a box on the counter catches your attention. It had completely slipped your mind that today was Junmyeon’s birthday.  Looking at it now, you remembered how you took the box out of your cupboard that morning fully intended to start making it. However, after a call from your boss informing you that the upcoming meeting had been advanced you scampered around your apartment to get ready on time and forgot all about it.

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YOU NEED TO GO SEE “LOGAN” (and here’s why)

Comic book heroes function, more or less, the same way the old gods do in mythologies around the world. Their stories are told over and over again, changing according to the teller and the times. They may die but they never really die. They’re immortal…until they’re not.

Even gods have their end. They usually meet that end when the society which created them evolves, splits, gets conquered. When the values they represent are no longer the values held by the people who once revered them.

So what do you get when a Canadian superhero must take a young Mexican girl and an English nonagenarian across the breadth of the literal and figurative American landscape? You get an American film which feels as if it has been written yesterday, it so poignantly represents the current struggles of our nation. You get a superhero film in which we mourn the old ways, the old gods, and strive to find new and betters ways. In the fight for their place, we fight along with them to discover - and define - our own.

You see, most of the Americans who appear in this film are the bad guys. They’re powerful: rich, educated, connected, heavily armed and armored. They’re going after old men and children with all their might and who cares about those caught in the crossfire? But we Americans watching want our Canadian and Mexican heroes to prevail, to outfight and outsmart our countrymen because in those characters we recognize who and what we used to stand for. In the enemies we recognize who we have become.

This movie is going to be held up alongside The Dark Knight and Captain America: Winter Soldier as the best of its genre.

Let me explain:
(so many spoilers under the cut. all the spoilers)

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GASTER: While she lived with me, because my font has hands in it she gave me the nickname “Man Who Speaks in Hands”. Though I was far from a man back then…we were both only children…in the midst of a war. I don’t remember too much of it. But I certainly remember her.

*Gaster doesn’t remember much of the bad stuff from the war. He also barely remembers his parents. Now that he thinks of it…what happened to them…?


‘Lord Almighty, now that You have our beloved Dussolier in Your arms, I pray to You, remind him of that afternoon when we ran away together from the orphanage. Remind him of the fear and freedom we felt on that rainy afternoon. And reassure him there’s nothing wrong, freedom and fear are always together, like an old married couple, each willing to die for the other. Remind him of Sister Mary at age twenty, her hair flowing and blonde and drenched in sunlight as she ran and sank baskets. Remind him of that indelible, archaic picture of beauty that so stirred us, in silence. Now I know very well that neither he nor I will ever forget that picture. Remind him, Lord Almighty, of all our endless late-night conversations, in that big one-room dormitory, under the blankets, how we whispered in secret about our one and only, inexhaustible topic of discussion: our future. We were children then, and that’s what children do: they paint the future in colours that reality can never know. Remind him not to grieve over all our shattered dreams. We wanted to live the lives of the great baseball player, the elderly gas station attendant on the county road, the heroic soldier, the lowlife New York musician, the fireman, the blue-water sailor. Remind him not to weep when he remembers that instead we lived only the simple, drab life of the priest, such a strange life, a life of hope and prayer that You, Lord Almighty, really do exist and might think about us.


She maybe a woman, but she is much stronger than anyone else in this world. She is willing to suffer, risk herself just to show someone how beautiful the world is. She’s not asking for anything in return. She is there whenever we are at our worst, guiding us, cheering us up, and bringing back the life to our faces. She is willing to do everything just to give what’s the best for us. All that she wanted till the end is our happiness. A selfless woman like her is much greater than any superheroes out there. And if forever exist, that will be a mother’s love to her children. There is only one of her we can have in this world.
—  j.n // MOM
Proving her wrong

the reader and Ivar are childhood friends and she finds out what happened between Ivar and Margarethe and proves to him she was wrong plus puts Sigurd in his place about tormenting Ivar  

warning: smut/fluff it gets explicit and VERY light BDSM and some cussing


Ivar x reader

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I Am An Alpha Ch 1: Boy Soldier

Summary: Insoo has lived her life as boy since the age of 7 when she was forced to join the Blood Army under her brother’s name with the help of a young alpha. Being a female omega in a army full of alpha isn’t easy especially when none of them can know what she is. On a mission with her new pack she finds her mate, who just happens to be part of the most feared pack in Asia. But it isn’t as romantic as she thought it would be. Especially when she finds out he isn’t her only mate.

We’ve all done bad things in our life, some worse then others but still, there is always something. To say that I’ve done something bad doesn’t my sins justice. I would like to say that I didn’t have a choice in it, but there is always a choice. I stare at the scene in front of me, young boy in tears, sword in hand. He’s making his choice right now with his parents on their knees in front of him. His mother is bawling while the father tries to stay strong and convince his son to save himself. I watch without much sympathy for the boy or his parents. Their deaths are inevitable but this way at least their son will live on.

“Please,” The mother begs me. “There must be another way.”

I shake my head, my poker face strong as stone, “There is no other option other than for the two I have offered you. I’m getting impatience with this though, I will give you one minute to decide before I decide for you.” I know this isn’t easy but if I don’t return to the village center soon I will receive a punishment and I don’t feel like being beaten tonight.

The mother continues to cry, glaring at me with disgust on her face, “How can you be so cruel? He is only a child!”

“We were all children when we made this decision. None of us wanted this but in this world it is kill or be killed. Now choose.” I spit. I have no patient for people who think we would want this life. I wanted to be a normal child, to grow up with my parents and my brothers. I did not want to have to choose between slaughtering my parents and saving myself or dying along with them. But here I am, years later forcing others to do the same to avoid punishment.

I’m brought out of my thoughts by the sound of someone screaming. Blood splatters on the floor followed by the now silent mother. The father roars at the death of his mate but that is short lived before the boy does the same to his father. Suddenly it’s silent. The young boy, probably about 8 or 9 the same age as me when the same happened to me, is crumbled on the ground crying. He discards the sword and curls tighter around himself.

I sigh, “I know that was hard but this isn’t over yet. We have to go now before we both get into trouble. Lets go,” I grab his arm but he shakes me off before glaring up at me.

“Don’t touch me!” He screams. “How can you be so calm when people just died in front of you? Doesn’t that effect you all?”

“No kid, it doesn’t. You are not the first person who I watched do this. I’ve seen thousands of people slaughtered, I got used to it. You will too, and before you get hostile with me I want you to know I am one of the nicer people in this army. If you are going to be a part of it you are not going to want to be alone so accept my kindness before I change my mind.”

“You call this kindness?”

“I’m offering you some place to belong in the new world you just signed up for. Those wolves out there will eat you alive out there now stop being a bitch, get up off your ass, and follow me.” I turn on my heel to leave when suddenly there is an explosion. I’m blown back on to my ass on top of the kid. Without hesitation I grab his wrist and quickly scramble to the far wall of the small cabin. The wall across from us is gone, leaving chard wood and a scattered body parts outside.

They’re using the bombs? What the hell is going on? With a firm grip on the boy I quickly drag him along out of the cabin into a surprising battle field. Another bomb is thrown causing more debris to fly. Gun shot echoes through the village as we run through in search of my closest friend.

“Jin hyung!” I yell when I finally find him with the others gathered together behind a cabin. I can see the relief on the older man’s face when he sees me. He accepts me in his arms and kisses the top of my head, surprising me. Jin and I are close but he rarely shows me physical affection when we are on a mission.

“What is going on? Are Jaebum’s people throwing bombs? I thought this village was good spot to find strong alphas. Why are we bombing?” I wonder when he releases me.

“We aren’t alone. The Black Dragon’s are here. They started attacking the other team while we were trying to recruit. I lost my two in the blast and so did the others. I see that you got one,” Jin explains as he eyes the young pup up who bashfully hides behind me the best he can. His hands are clutching mine as if I’m grounding him. “I don’t know if he’ll be able to make it back with us. We are going to scatter in about five minutes.”

“I take responsibility for him, don’t worry.”

Jin’s eyes narrow on me, “Insoo,” he starts in his fatherly voice that is quickly cut off by the sound of another bomb and a familiar voice calling out.


That one word turns me on autopilot. Jin gives me one last look before turning and running in another direction while the others do the same. The boy and I are the last to move, heading to the south end of the village where we began. He is breathing heavy already when we reach the edge of the village, he stops in his tracks, pulling me back like an anchor but we can’t stop, not yet.

“A mile.” I tell him.

“What?” He groans threw his heavy breaths.

“We need to be at least a mile a way before we can stop.”

“But I can’t run anymore,” He whines.

I groan internally and for a moment consider leaving him. I push that idea away before turning my back to him and demand for him to climb on, “Do it quick.” He hesitantly climbs on to my back, much lighter than he should be for a boy his age but I have no room to talk. With him settled on my back I begin running through the forest. I can’t smell anyone or hear anything following us, I think we are in the clear. Thank god. I don’t have the strength to fight against a real alpha right now.

That relief is short lived when suddenly I’m taken down by a massive black wolf. The boy flies off me and lands in the bushes while I land on my back with the wolf on top of me, a growl ripping threw his throat. The monster snaps at my face as he glares down at me. Our eyes lock and for a moment, the world freezes.


Why is he doing this? Can’t he tell it’s me? From the way he continues to snap at me I’m going with a no. Of course he can’t Jin made sure that no one would be able to catch my scent by burying it with his. But still I feel like my mate should know by just looking at me. I stare up into blood red eyes and am frozen but not with fear, I just feel overwhelmed. I’m seeing my mate, my one true love, but he can’t see past the scent of alpha all over me to realize that. I want to reach up and just hug him, to bury my face in his fur and inhale his delicious scent. Like fire wood and warmth.

There is a gunshot, knocking the massive wolf off me. My mate falls to his side, still growling but quickly begins to move away. I want to call to him, to beg him to come back but when I see Jin coming closer with a shot gun in his hand I want him to run.

“Hyung stop!” I demand as I quickly stand.

Jin pulls me behind him without lowering his weapon, “That’s the fucking leader of the Black Dragons and you are telling me to lower my gun? What the hell is wrong with you?”

“The leader?” I mumble out.

“Run,” Jin commands, “run Insoo. I’ll keep him distracted.”

“But,” I look to my make, hunched and teeth bared.


“Fine, where is the kid?” I scan the forest for the boy.

“Forget him!” Jin growls, “Get out of here!”

“I’m not leaving him!” I snap back as I slip past Jin to look where the boy had disappeared to. “Kid,” I call.

“Hyung?” He mumbles softly from behind a near by tree. I offer him my hand and pull him behind Jin along with me.

“I can’t believe you are taking him,” Jin rolls his eyes and glances at me over his shoulder. Bad decision. My mate jumps at us, taking Jin down and knocking the shot gun out of his hands. The boy and I stumble back, my eyes are wide with panic when my mate bites Jin’s shoulder, making the older yell out in pain. It’s an unfair fight with Jin in his human form and it’s not allowed for us to transform without a higher up’s permission. I quickly grab the shot gun and hold it up but realize soon after how stupid it is of me.

I can’t do it, I can’t shoot my mate. I least I thought I couldn’t. Jin screams once more and I prepare myself to pull the trigger, “Get off him!” I command my mate. The wolf releases Jin and glares up at me with those now terrifying red eyes. He takes a step toward me, ready to pounce at me. My body reacts on it’s own when the wolf launches itself at me. The sound of the gun going off registers before the fact that I had just shot my mate does. It feels as if I had been shot myself when a horrible pain spreads through my chest forcing me to my knees.

I stare at my mate who is lying on his back trembling. I killed him. I killed my mate! I try to rush forward to him but Jin grabs my hand and pulls me away, gripping his bleeding shoulder.

“We have to go!” Jin yells.

“But-“ I almost cry in relief at the sight of my mate rolling on to his side to glare at us. At least he’s a live.

“The rest of his pack will be here soon, we don’t have time!” With that Jin drags me through the forest with the boy holding my other hand. He’s trembling. I force myself the push the thought of my mate away to realize what I ‘ve just done. I endangered my pack. I almost got Jin killed in my daze, what the hell is wrong with me?

We reach our meeting point two miles away from the village, everyone is there waiting and jumps the their feet at the sight of us. Jin is healed but his shirt is still bloody and shredded from the bite. The others are quick to notice.

“What the hell happened?” Namjoon, our alpha, questions at the sight of his second in command in such a mess.

“We were attacked,” Jin explains shortly as he collapses to the ground in exhaustion.

“How the hell did that happen?” Jimin wonders.

“How the hell do you think?” Jin snaps back giving the pup cowering behind me a glare. Everyone follows his gaze. Poor thing. With all six alphas glaring down at him I know it can be hard. As a young pup whose rank hasn’t be decided yet, that much dominance can stress the body out. After being with these guys for years their dominance doesn’t really do much to me anymore, I’ve had to pretend to be an alpha for a long time, I had to learn how to hide my feelings. I stand strong against their obvious distaste for the pup.

“If this is anyone’s fault it’s mine,” I snap back.

“Soo-ya,” Hoseok sighs, “We know you would never do anything to put Hyung in danger, don’t take the blame for that brat.”

“It is my fault,” I repeat. “I hesitated when the wolf attacked him.”

“Lets just drop it,” Jin growls, silencing the group. “Lets head back to base.”

“We can’t,” Namjoon deadpans.

Everyone looks to him confused but Jin is the one to question it, “What do you mean?”

“I got a message from Jaebum before he was attacked, apparently the Black Dragons had stopped there first before joining us in the village.”

My jaw drops, “So you’re saying that everyone is gone?”

Namjoon nods.

“Is it wrong that I want to cheer?” Yoongi chuckles.

We all share a look before letting out a loud cheer. “They’re dead!” I cheer happily, “All those bastards are dead!”

“See you all in hell!” Taehyung giggles gleefully as he does a little dance.

“Shouldn’t you be sad?” A small voice wonders. I look over my shoulder to a trembling boy who now just looks confused.

Jimin scoffs, “About what?”

“They were your pack.”

“They were our slave masters,” Yoongi corrects with a disgusted look on his face.

“We are like you kid, we weren’t here because we wanted to be, they just didn’t give us very good options. This is my pack,” I explain gesturing to the guys in front of me. “They are my family.”

“Speaking of that, what are we going to do with the kid?” Jimin wonders.

The boy tenses but I try my best to calm him, “Can’t we just keep him? He has no where to go, no family left, please?”

“Seriously Soo?” Jimin scoffs, “Do you think this kid can do anything for our pack?”

“I’m pretty sure I thought the same thing about you when Hoseok hyung saved you. We all questioned Yoongi when he saved Taehyung and I know Namjoon, Hoseok and Yoongi hyung all thought Jin was insane when brought me back. Now look where we are.” I finish with a smug look on my face and my hands on my hips.

Namjoon sighs, “I hate when he is right. Fine Insoo, but you know the rules, he’s your responsibility now. That can be a hard thing to deal with.”

“Tell me about it,” Jin clicks his tongue as he rubs his shoulder.

I chuckle and walk over to do it for him, “I know Hyung, you got a lot more than you were hoping for.”

“We should probably do introductions before we welcome him,” Jin sighs. “Hello, I’m Seokjin but you call me Hyung. I’m basically your grandfather since my problem child has taken you on as his own.”

Namjoon gives him a small smile, “I’m the head alpha of this pack, Namjoon.”

“Yoongi,” Short and sweet.


“I’m Taehyung, nice to meet you,” The silly boy greets.

Jimin just nods at him, “Jimin.”

I try to seem as warm as possible to stop the boy from shaking. “And I, your lovely guardian, am Insoo. I respond to Hyung. What is your name little wolf?”

“I’m Jungkook.”

“Well Jungkook, welcome to the pack. You seem to bring trouble with you,” Jin mocks.

“If the Black Dragons is something you drag along I will not hesitate to kill you,” Yoongi warns. “I have no desire to fight with other alphas over stupid things.”

“Don’t mind him,” I half whisper, “He’s harmless.”

Yoongi shakes his head, “You are the exception to my cruelty Soo, don’t think others will be so special.”

“I know, I’m a very special case.”

“What do you mean?” The pup wonders.

I smirk, “Trust me, you’ll find out.”

First chapter done! Sorry you only get a glimpse of EXO but don’t worry they will come.