#it's theirs to cherish and mangle

[see-arcane]

Why did Dracula "save" Jonathan for the very last night until his journey? We know from how he fed on Mina for three days she was pale and weak, but not dead, so he could have been feeding on him for a few days/week until he succumbed.

But he kept him unbitten until Jonathan's final letter was written and only then Dracula declared that "he is mine tonight", and the rest is history.

Dracula prefers foreplay over the climactic act when he's enjoying himself rather than pressed for time. He likes playing with his food and/or future conscripted vampires. With Jonathan, he gives the superficial reason of wanting the Englishman around to learn how to speak in the same way. Which might be part of it! But to have him prisoner and literal captive audience for two months implies the more likely desire of just enjoying the cat-and-mouse of it all. Teasing things out until the last possible night and what Dracula assumes will be Jonathan's last night as a human being full of terror before the Brides have their turn with him, forcing him into inevitable vampirism.

Even with the Demeter crew, we see him playing. None of the men aboard strike him as anything other than another revitalizing meal in potentia, so the only fun he has is playing the torturous game of picking them off one by one in the dark, but the play is there.

You mentioned how different his MO with Mina was--how brisk. I'd say it's because it was all business. And petty vengeance. Not only was he striking at an enemy by trying to conscript her, not only was he violating her and her husband in what played out very much like a rape and a hovering promise that in time she will very literally be another of his pretty undead pets like the Brides. It was also to (unsuccessfully) give him eyes and ears on the group using her borrowed senses. He was on the clock with Mina, which is why she gets the quickest treatment.

Though I think there is something else worth mentioning in how he preys on Lucy; the character we're meant to assume is the template for how he hunts out new undead members to the Dracula club. And what do we learn from her case?

We see that if it weren't for Mina, Van Helsing and the suitors' intervention, his playtime with Lucy would have been far, far shorter and had even less impression on him than the book already showed. Lucy has friends. Lucy has people giving her new blood to stall her undeath. Lucy's conscription keeps getting stalled--and that is what keeps Dracula interested. It's a matter of engagement, pride, and, most likely, the only reason he really bothers to play more extravagantly with her. Hence the theatrics of getting poor Berserker in on it.

And after all that back and forth and bleeding and biting and Bloofer Ladying? He immediately loses interest and starts sniffing after the Pretty Girl in Piccadilly. Which, while indicative of him being a glutton for beauties, shows another very lopsided treatment compared to how he toyed with Jonathan.

I've pointed out before how Jonathan is the only character in the book Dracula goes out of his way to have whole conversations with. Mina gets one villain monologue, the group gets some fist-shaking and moustache-twirling at the Piccadilly house, but even when he has no reason to, Dracula really does go full gothic horror 'courtship' mode with Jonathan. Chatting, cooking for him, maintaining the whole castle charade; true, with increasing acts of abuse and psychological torment, but he actually engages with Jonathan.

This, when Lucy doesn't get so much as a 'Hey xoxo ;)' and Mina is given a traumatic speedrun to get her into vampire mode ASAP.

Dracula shows minimal finesse with Lucy, none with Mina, and devotes two months to Being Very Intimately Weird with Jonathan. Which means the question is less 'Why did Dracula wait so long to bite Jonathan?' and more 'Why is Jonathan's treatment so different from every other victim of Dracula's period?'

[xeno-aligned]

copy & pasted under the read more in order to have a local copy.

A Brief His and Herstory of Butch And Femme

BY: JEM ZERO 16 DEC 2017

When America’s LGBTQ+ folk started coming out of the closet in the 1950s, the underground scene was dominated by working class people who had less to lose if they were outed. Butch/femme presentation arose as a way for lesbians to identify each other, also serving as a security measure when undercover cops tried to infiltrate the local scenes. Butch women exhibited dapper and dandy aesthetics, and came to be known for being aggressive because they took protective roles during raids and other examples of homophobic violence. The image of the butch lesbian became a negative stereotypes for lesbians as a whole, leaving out femme lesbians, who are (pretty insultingly) considered undetectable as lesbians due to their feminine presentation.

In modern times there’s less need for strict adherence to these roles; instead, they become heritage. A great deal of political rebellion is wrapped up in each individual aesthetic. Butch obviously involves rejecting classically feminine gender expectations, while femme fights against their derogatory connotations.

But while butch/femme has been a part of lesbian culture, these terms and identities are not exclusive to queer women. Many others in the LGBTQ community utilize these signifiers for themselves, including “butch queen” or “femme daddy.” Butch and femme have different meanings within queer subcultures, and it’s important to understand the reasons they were created and established.

The Etymology

The term “lesbian” derives from the island on which Sappho lived—if you didn’t already guess, she was a poet who wrote extensively about lady-lovin’. Before Lesbos lent its name to lesbians, the 1880s described attraction between women as Sapphism. In 1925, “lesbian” was officially recorded as the word for a female sodomite. (Ick.) Ten years before that, “bisexual” was defined as "attraction to both sexes."

In upcoming decades, Sapphic women would start tearing down the shrouds that obscured the lives of queer women for much of recorded history. Come the ‘40s and ‘50s, butch and femme were coined, putting names to the visual and behavioral expression that could be seen in pictures as early as 1903. So, yeah—Western Sapphic women popularized these terms, but the conversation doesn’t end there, nor did it start there.

Before femme emerged as its own entity, multiple etymological predecessors were used to describe gender nonconforming people. Femminiello was a non-derogatory Italian term that referred to a feminine person who was assigned male—this could be a trans woman, an effeminate gay man, or the general queering of binarist norms. En femme derives from French, and was used to describe cross-dressers.

Butch, first used in 1902 to mean "tough youth," has less recorded history. Considering how “fem” derivatives were popularized for assigned male folks, one might attribute this inequality to the holes in history where gender-defying assigned female folks ought to be.

The first time these concepts were used to specifically indicate women was the emergence of Sapphic visibility in twentieth century. This is the ground upon which Lesbian Exclusivism builds its tower, and the historical and scientific erasure of bisexual women is where it crumbles. Seriously, did we forget that was a thing?

The assumption that any woman who defies gender norms is automatically a lesbian relies on the perpetuation of misogynist, patriarchal stereotypes against bisexual women. A bisexual woman is just as likely to suffer in a marriage with a man, or else be mocked as an unlovable spinster. A woman who might potentially enjoy a man is not precluded from nonconformist gender expression. Many famous gender nonconforming women were bisexual—La Maupin (Julie d'Aubigny), for example.

Most records describing sexual and romantic attraction between women were written by men, and uphold male biases. What happens, then, when a woman is not as openly lascivious as the ones too undeniably bisexual to silence? Historically, if text or art depicts something the dominant culture at the time disagrees with, the evidence is destroyed. Without voices of the Sapphists themselves, it’s impossible to definitively draw a line between lesbians and bisexuals within Sapphic history.

Beyond White Identities

Another massive hole in the Lesbian Exclusivist’s defenses lies in the creeping plague that is the Mainstream White Gay; it lurks insidiously, hauling along the mangled tatters of culture that was stolen from Queer and Trans People of Colour (QTPOC). In many documents, examples provided of Sapphic intimacy are almost always offered from the perspective of white cis women, leaving huge gaps where women of color, whether trans or cis, and nonbinary people were concerned. This is the case despite the fact that some of the themes we still celebrate as integral to queer culture were developed by Black and Latinx LGBTQ+ folk during the Harlem Renaissance, which spanned approximately from 1920 to 1935.

A question I can’t help but ask is: Where do queer Black, Indigenous, and other People of Color fit into the primarily white butch/femme narrative? Does it mean anything that the crackdown on Black queer folk seemed to coincide with the time period when mainstream lesbianism adopted butch and femme as identifiers?

Similar concepts to butch/femme exist throughout the modern Sapphic scene. Black women often identify as WLW (Women-Loving-Women), and use terms like “stud” and “aggressive femme.” Some Asian queer women use “tomboy” instead of butch. Derivatives and subcategories abound, sometimes intersecting with asexual and trans identities. “Stone butch” for dominant lesbians who don’t want to receive sexual stimulation; “hard femme” as a gender-inclusive, fat-positive, QTPOC-dominated political aesthetic; “futch” for the in-betweenies who embody both butch and femme vibes. These all center women and nonbinary Sapphics, but there’s still more.

Paris is Burning, a documentary filmed about New York City ball culture in the 1980s, describes butch queens among the colourful range of identities prevalent in that haven of QTPOC queerness. Despite having a traditionally masculine physique, the gay male butch queen did not stick to gender expectations from straight society or gay culture. Instead, he expertly twisted up his manly features with women’s clothing and accessories, creating a persona that was neither explicitly masculine nor feminine.

Butch Queens Up in Pumps, a book by Marlon M. Bailey, expounds upon their presence within inner city Detroit’s Ballroom scene, its cover featuring a muscular gay man in a business casual shirt paired with high heels. Despite this nuance, butch remains statically defined as a masculine queer woman, leaving men of color out of the conversation.

For many QTPOC, especially those who transcend binary gender roles, embracing the spirit of butch and femme is inextricable with their racial identity. Many dark-skinned people are negatively portrayed as aggressive and hypermasculine, which makes it critical to celebrate the radical softness that can accompany femme expressions. Similarly, the intrinsic queerness of butch allows some nonbinary people to embrace the values and aesthetics that make them feel empowered without identifying themselves as men.

Butch, Femme, and Gender

It’s pretty clear to me that the voices leading the Lesbian Exclusive argument consistently fail to account for where butch and femme have always, in some form, represented diverse gender expression for all identities.

‘Butch’ and ‘femme’ began to die out in the 1970s when Second Wave Feminism and Lesbian Separatism came together to form a beautiful baby, whom they named “Gender Is Dead.” White, middle class cis women wrestled working class QTWOC out of the limelight, claiming that masculine gender expression was a perversion of lesbian identity. The assassination attempt was largely unsuccessful, however: use of these identifiers surged back to life in the ‘80s and ‘90s, now popularized outside of class and race barriers.

Looking at all this put together, I have to say that it’s a mystery to me why so many lesbians, primarily white, believe that their history should take precedence over… everyone else that makes up the spectrum of LGBTQ+ experiences, even bi/pan Sapphics in same-gender relationships. If someone truly believes that owning butch/femme is more important than uniting and protecting all members of the Sapphic community from the horrors of homophobic and gendered oppression, maybe they’re the one who shouldn’t be invited to the party.

As a nonbinary lesbian, I have experienced my share of time on the flogging-block. I empathize strongly with the queer folks being told that these cherished identities are not theirs to claim. Faced with this brutal, unnecessary battle, I value unity above all else. There’s no reason for poor trans women, nonbinary Black femmes, bisexual Asian toms, gay Latino drag queens, or any other marginalized and hurting person to be left out of the dialogue that is butch and femme, with all its wonderful deconstructions of mainstream heteronormative culture.

It is my Christmas wish that the Lesbian Exclusivist Tower is torn down before we open the new chapter in history that is 2018. Out of everything the LGBTQ+ community has to worry about already, petty infighting shouldn’t be entertained—especially when its historical foundation is so flimsy. Queering gender norms has always been the heart of butch/femme expression, and that belongs to all of us.

[picturetoburnnn]

Of Hearts and Diamonds | Michael Clifford x Reader

Pairing - Michael Clifford x Reader

Word Count - 1.4k

Rating - PG // implications of anxiety and depression

A/N - honey this entire thing was written between the hours of midnight and four in the morning. Somehow I went from thinking about a card deck to creating this.

In a typical deck of cards, all the kings hold swords, except for the King of Hearts. He stands proud yet shy with a single flower in his hand.

The flower is his way to end the conflict, not the sword. He's willing to take the chance, to face the opponent with love rather than hatred.

That's how Michael felt at this moment. He would lay down every weapon in his arsenal, every defense he had just to hold her one time. He would go to her with nothing but love, taking a chance against her scorn.

But if he was the King of Hearts, then she was the Queen of Diamonds, once in love but no longer. She took all her soft edges and honed them into sharp points, defending herself from any pain that could be brought. The Queen who can't be, who won't be loved again.

The Queen who had once been kind and gentle and loving, had given all her soul to a man who didn't understand the gift she'd bestowed upon him. A man who had taken her love and corrupted it, keeping her in the dark.

But after all, it can be difficult to see the difference between love and lust when the lights are off.

In a game of emotions, you can't move your piece without hurting at least one person in the process. And the Queen had slowly stopped caring who was caught in the crossfire of her advance. When each day feels like a struggle, you forget what freedom tastes like. The freedom to care, to sympathize, to be free.

Perhaps the King of Hearts was a fool for falling for someone as sharp as her, when he is so soft and loving. She contradicts him in every way - harsh where he is smooth, suspicious where he is trusting. But he wants it and he wants it so bad, to be taken into her embrace, to be gifted with her heart as she’d only done with one other.

Perhaps the Queen of Diamonds was an enchantress, calling the King under her spell when she knew nothing would come out of it. Or perhaps she was innocent, and all this came to be against her will, and she wanted no more part in this than anyone else.

The King convinced her that he could be worth her time, that he could love her properly and fully, as she deserved.

“My love, you must let me try,” he called from across the world. “Let me try to know you right, try to hold you softly without being cut, try to love you in a way you've never been.”

“I have no way to deny you again,” whispered the Queen. Across the continents, he heard her quiet voice, and he listened closely. “You have one chance, and one chance only. If you do it right, your reward is my heart. If you are unsuccessful, you walk away.”

The King took up her challenge, head held high. First chance he had, he ran to her across nations, into her domain. He wrapped his gentle arms around her deadly sharpness, and found himself unscathed, even as the guarded body against him clung to him like a lifeline.

And the Queen found herself wondering if maybe this was what she needed. Maybe deep down beneath the surface were the remains of her aching heart, begging to be put back together again.

And slowly she softened. Slowly, oh so slowly, the jagged sharp ends of a Diamond became the soft curves of a Heart. Slowly, she bare herself to the King as an equal, and let him love her. Slowly, she fell too.

And the King had known no such joy, no such ecstasy as he did when with her. She wasn't his sun, she was too beautiful for such a  normal thing. Perhaps others looked at her as the sun - they basked in her presence but couldn't look her in the eye, they missed her when she was gone but always expected her return.

No, the King looked at her as he looked at the moon. He gazed at her and wondered how no one else saw the radiance, when she stood out so clearly against the boring world.

How could someone break this beautiful woman who was so clearly destined to shine? How could someone take something as precious as her heart and mangle it until there was close to nothing left?

The Queen had her own questions though, too. How could a man such as this King of Hearts possibly be the one to hold her together? How could he take a ruined girl and turn her back into the trustful person she was before the destruction of her past?

How was it possible that she fell for a man who had the same ruination in his life, a man who knew exactly what to say and how to say it and meant every single word?

The answer, my friend, is forgotten to the wisps of time. The name of the feeling is forgotten to the world, yet it still winds its it's way through the strands and fabrics of everyone's lives.

The Queen of Diamonds became the Queen of Hearts, and gave the King his prize as she promised. He held her heart dearly, and promised to cherish it as long as he lived. He gave her a ring and she gave him one in return, and they called each other theirs with the strength of a thousand suns.

Now in this tale, forget the titles and names. Forget the positions and the kingdoms.

There is a lie in this story, and I've told it from the beginning.

He was not a King, nor was she a Queen.

He was boy, reckless and foolish in love. His hair had been wild, his voice loud with laughter. He played the guitar, and sang with the voice of an angel. He wasn't a King, not by title or by blood. He was a boy from a city with nothing to his name, yet he became a man who played his heart out every night with songs that told the story of his life.

She was a girl, forgotten by the world and given too many bad memories. She kept herself alone, afraid of being scarred by someone who meant something to her. She had been beaten and bruised by invisible fists and left with invisible wounds that even she didn't know how to heal. She had trusted once and it had been her downfall. She was a girl with a past as painful as sin, and she would do anything to prevent that from becoming her future.

He found her and she slowly found him, and they each found their happiness in each other. When he asked her to marry him, she was speechless. Never before had anyone loved her this fiercely, and here he was asking if he could for the rest of his life. And never had she let anyone know her as he did, let herself love someone in return - and with him, she knew she could easily do it until the day she died.

She nodded her head quickly, not trusting her voice to convey the right emotions. He rushed up to hold her again in his arms, pressing his mouth to hers and kissing her as if he would die if he didn't.

“I love you, I can't imagine my life without you,” she whispered when she broke away, her eyes closed tightly.

The boy Michael wrapped his arms around her waist, holding her body flush against his own. He knew he was hers, that he had mended her heart and softened her edges. He knew she had his heart, mind, and soul, and he trusted her with his life.

This is the story of a King of Hearts with a flower instead of a sword. This is the story of a Queen of Diamonds who changed from a deadly self-poison to a woman who gave herself and others the love they truly deserved.

This is the story of Michael Clifford and Y/N Y/L/N.

This is the tale of love.

I TAG YOU IF YOU LET ME KNOW YOU WANT TO BE TAGGED

@cxddlyash

[easkyrah]

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. Magic. 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. Decaying. 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. 

FIN

[hollowpages]

Your Biggest Fan 3 (Commission)

The following is a commission. Mature content is within.

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Your Biggest Fan - Part Three Gary poured himself a fresh cup of coffee from the station’s new coffee pot. His mind was ablaze with a variety of different thoughts and feelings, so much that he didn’t notice his cup was overflowing until he felt the burn of hot coffee on his hand. But he hardly reacted, save for bringing the cup to his lips and downing a big swig of the warm, bitter liquid. It burned the inside of his throat, but he showed no external signs of discomfort. Without even really looking, he wiped the excess coffee up and carried his cup to his desk. The Fan. He hadn’t heard that name in a while, though he hadn’t exactly forgotten it, either. You don’t forget serial killers that easily, especially the serial killers that haven’t been caught for the past four years. Gary closed his eyes, searching his memories. Four years ago, when he and Erik had been partners, when Irene was still a detective at the precinct with her own partner, that was when The Fan first struck. Now, when it came to serial killers with nicknames, most of the time, they tended to relate to the activity or the preference of the killer themselves. The Fan was no different, no less twisted, although some might scoff at the name – even question how someone titled ‘The Fan’ could be all that dangerous. Considering they had at least eight victims under their belt, however, The Fan was no laughing matter. The first time Gary had stumbled across The Fan – prior to them receiving their moniker, of course – was four years ago when he and Erik had been called in about an apparent homicide in, oddly enough, a hotel room. They had walked in to discover the mangled, slashed up body of Russell Jameson, a retired actor from the 70s and 80s, with the same set of slash marks – and most disturbing of all, his hands completely cut off. Pinned onto his neat, untouched suit – which had been carefully hung on a coatrack, posed beside the body – had been a note that read: ‘I’m your biggest fan.’ That had been it. No other identification, very little evidence. But the MO was the same as it was now, and had been the same for the other murders, because Russell Jameson was only the first. Over the course of the three year time period – during which, things fell apart for Gary and those around him, thus forcing him to take a brief leave of absence – The Fan had struck numerous times, leaving behind the butchered bodies of famous men and women. Each time, the bodies would be discovered, posed, with notes left on them with the same phrase. And each time, the bodies had the same sort of damage done to them. Slash marks, cuts, all across the bodies, often at random points, as if the killer was making tally marks on them. And yet, it was never the slash marks that killed the victims – it was always something else, and the marring of the bodies was performed post mortem. But there was one other detail: each victim was missing a body part. Russell Jameson was missing his hands. The next victim, Cynthia Rogers, a singer and songwriter, had been missing her ears. The list went on, but each time it was something different, something random. The fourth victim discovered also had missing hands – a famous pianist and actress in her late 30s. There was no rhyme or reason behind it, either, and with each victim, it was always performed post mortem. The Fan had received their moniker after the third victim was found. The media had a field day with it, labelling The Fan as a killer of famous people. For months on end, security details had shot up when it came to any sort of famous outing; celebrities young and old would be surrounded by bodyguards, the police were called in a handful of times to ensure that no one got too close, fans were arrested for looking even the slightest bit suspicious… it had been a genuine clusterfuck of a time. And then, for a little over a year, nothing. No victims. No police reports, at least not about crazed fans or stalkers. The media lost interest, as it so often did, and The Fan, though never forgotten, went silent for a time. But Gary hadn’t stopped looking into them. None of the LAPD had, in fact, because no one around liked the idea of letting another serial killer stay out there, knowing they could still be alive and kicking, ready to strike at any moment. There had been whispers a few months back about someone with a similar MO in different states – Alabama, Minnesota, Wyoming. But these turned out to be either false, fabricated, or someone else who didn’t quite fit the MO. Gary sucked in another swig of coffee, opening his eyes. The Fan was back, then. He wondered who the victims were this time, what body parts were missing. He shuddered to think of what Rei would find, but he knew he had to see for himself. “So.” Erik’s voice broke his thoughts, and Gary finally noticed Erik leaning against his desk, his expression one of worry. “The Fan.” Gary nodded. “You heard?” “Of course,” Erik said. “Caught the tail end of your conversation with the kid, but I heard enough.” He shook his head. “Shit, man. I had hoped we’d never see that sick fuck again.” “You and me both,” Gary said. “But you know that isn’t how it works.” “Never is,” Erik said, parroting Gary’s statement from before. There was no humor in his voice, though. Hard to be humorous with a situation like this. Gary set his now empty coffee cup down and stood, shakily. His clenched and unclenched his hands into fists a few times before turning toward the direction of the stairs, which led to the medical examiner’s room, where Rei was. He pondered if now was the best time to see her, to see what she had uncovered, because knowing her, she had discovered at least ten different details she hadn’t seen at the crime scene. That was her way, usually. “I’ll talk with the Captain,” Erik said. “Got to grab Carter, first. He just got in.” “Do that,” Gary said, nodding without looking at his old friend. “Where’s Lisa?” Erik pointed to the interrogation room. “Getting some one-on-one time with the bellhop, I think. She got a phone call, so she missed the whole thing. Girlfriend or something.” He shrugged. “Probably best if you fill her in on the details, though.” “I will,” Gary said. Erik brushed past him, and Gary peered over his shoulder to see Erik’s partner, Davis Carter, only now entering the precinct. Normally, he would’ve greeted Davis, but right now, he had other things to do, so he turned his attention back to the interrogation room. A few steps later, Lisa was walking out. “Wanted to see what I missed,” Lisa said, nodding to Gary. Gary motioned her on, and the two started toward the medical examiner’s office. “Ever hear of The Fan?” Gary asked. “Vaguely,” Lisa said. He opened the door to the stairs, and ushered her in. Lisa took about two and a half steps before stopping. “Who is he?” Gary closed the door. “I’ll give you all the files on them when we’re done with Rei. But.” He paused, mulling over his words for a moment. “To put it into simple terms? The Fan’s been around for, as far as any of us know, at least five years now. We know of at least eight victims of theirs, which might very well have become ten if Rei confirms my suspicions. We don’t know a damn thing about them, either. Age, gender, ethnicity… Nothing. We only know that The Fan has a thing for murdering famous people, and best I can guess, taking ‘trophies’ each time.” Lisa made a face. “Trophies?” “Body parts,” Gary said. “First victim’s hands were missing when we found the body. Wish I could say that was the end of it, but each time, there’s always been something. Hands, ears, toes. Seventh victim was probably the least disturbing, since The Fan had taken the time to cut her hair off and took it with them, far as I know.” “That’s… weird,” Lisa said. “And fucked up. But mostly weird.” The two of them started down the stairs, though Lisa kept talking. “So you never caught the asshole? Never any leads?” “Of course there were leads,” Gary said. “But they never panned out. And no, before you ask, we didn’t give up the search, either. Half the damn precinct looked into The Fan at one point or another over the past few years, but any lead someone found would always run cold, or worse, it would just lead us in circles.” He shook his head, his jaw tightening. “Whoever The Fan is, they’re either really damn lucky, or really good at covering their tracks. Practically a ghost.” “Sounds like something out of a book,” Lisa said. Gary almost chuckled. “Yeah. I felt that way at first, too.” He opened the door to the medical examiner’s office and walked in, Lisa following behind. Rei was busy as always, hovering over and studying the bodies of the victims, now unclothed and occupying two tables. It was then that Gary saw what body parts were missing. Lisa made a noise behind him, a mix between a gasp and a grunt of pain. Gary could only nod in agreement, since she more or less echoed his own sentiments: both victims, male and female, were missing their breasts. “Fucking Christ,” Lisa muttered under her breath. “Watch it,” Rei said. She indicated the cross dangling from her neck, one of her most cherished possessions, and one of the things she was the most anal about. Still, Rei didn’t seem as irritated as she might’ve normally been about that sort of thing, but then, Rei was like that when it came to being on the clock with dead bodies. “So,” Gary said. He wasn’t sure what else to say at the moment as he eyed the two victims. “You get an ID on them?” “Marissa and Lenny Thompson,” Rei said. Gary’s eyes went wide. “You’re shitting me.” “If I was shitting you, I’d be in the ladies’ room, Gary,” Rei said, in a way only she could – that was neither funny, nor unfunny, somehow. “The Thompsons?” Lisa said. Her voice was both incredulous and had a hint of shock to it. “I remember them.” She walked up to the tables, her gaze shifting between the two bodies. “Shit, I grew up with these two…” Marissa and Leonard ‘Lenny’ Thompson were – or rather, had been – actors since the 80s. Child stars in the late 80s, teen stars in the 90s, and during the 2000s, the two had been in all kinds of hit movies with the likes of Tom Hanks, Leonardo DiCaprio, Angelina Jolie, and more. They were rising stars at the time, and so far as anyone knew, they were always gracious to their fans, and always kind and giving to people. Donating to charities, visiting people in need, operating at homeless shelters, and hardly ever did they make public spectacles of these things. Brother and sister. Best friends. That had been what the tabloids referred to them as. Gary took a moment to breathe in, then out. “Give it to me straight, Rei. You’ve been here since The Fan struck in the past. You examined all the bodies, all the files. Is this the same person?” Rei met his gaze, her lips twitching only slightly. “As far as I can tell, yes. Same MO. Same patterns. Same everything.” Gary nodded. “Keep me posted on anything you find. I have to see the Captain.” He turned and started toward the stairs. It took a moment for Lisa to catch up to him. “That’s it?” Lisa asked. “You’re not going to ask her anything else or look at the bodies?” “Don’t need to,” Gary said. He had seen all he wanted – all he needed. Right now, all he could think about was one thing: catching the monster before they could strike again.

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