whilst trying to not lose ones mind and appreciate the beauty around them

Wide Eyed

A/N: i hope everyone enjoys this one as much as Dusk Till Dawn and keep your eyes peeled at the end for a surprise ;) aesthetic is made by me as always so if you’re gonna steal it, at least credit ya girl please. thanks to @sensualshawn for always helping me write. i try my best to get rid of all typo’s but there are probably some still hiding in there. please bare in mind that i am british and some spellings may be different to american spelling. enjoy!

- word count: 1,887
- warnings: none, kinda smutty
- blurb: shawn frustrates his new housemate with his annoying habits but end up getting a little too close during a house party

You slammed the toilet seat down for what felt like the millionth time this week. Sighing and adjusting the towel at your chest, feeling somewhat frustrated and even a little angry. You marched your way from the bathroom along the short corridor into the open plan lounge and kitchen where you set your eyes on your new housemate.

“Shawn,” You began, running a hand through your wet hair, sighing as though you wondered why you were bothering telling him off again. “For the umpteenth time, when you use the toilet - would it kill you to put the seat back down?”

He looked at you sheepishly as he scoffed a piece of toast, a mug of coffee in his hand as he brought it to his lips, sipping it quickly. The smirk behind the small ceramic piece of crockery was clearly evident.

“Sorry,” He chuckled, shrugging his shoulders with a smile as he dried his damp hair with a towel and he gave you one of those looks you’d become accustomed to over the last week.

Gross, you thought. Boys are gross.

you were also lying to yourself, you wanted to think he was gross but quite frankly - seeing him stood in the kitchen wearing nothing but a pair of grey sweats, his skin still damp from the shower, smirking at your the way he did, he was definitely not gross. Anything but gross.

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Imagine #18 Charles Xavier - Part 2 (Request)

Requested by Anon: hi! so can i request a charles x reader one shot that ive been thinking of? ok so first of all y/n and charles were super close as teens but y/n died at around 19(got mixed up in smth), charles was devastated and hes still not 100% over it as an adult so when the xmen find a mutant who can control time he ends up asking them to go back and try to save y/n? and they try and they have to convince her to stay safe bcs ‘theres some1 who needs her’ or some cute shit like that?..but if u do this thx!

Not my gif

Words: 1552

Warnings: typos, fem!reader, time travel (?)

A/N: This is part 2 out of 3, the last one will probably be up some time next week. Enjoy! xoxo

Part 1 - Part 3

“Y’know, I wonder”, Peter said in a singing voice, skipping down the sidewalk next to a way more serious Jean. “I wonder, why they picked us.”

“Probably, because they know, how much we care about Charles.” “And you do care a lot for him, don’t you?”, Peter teased and shoved his elbow into her side. Jean blushed slightly. “Don’t be absurd, you know that I’m with Scott, you jerk!” “Oh, this isn’t about Scott or no Scott, I don’t know a single person, who doesn’t have a crush on the professor. And I’m not even gay! Or am I?”, he laughed out loud.

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Attention (Sam Drake x Reader)

Requested by @loludontknowmyname.

A/N: Hey guys! Finally managed to finish off this slightly short-ish fic, whilst eating some delicious pineapple on the side. It’s been a long time coming so once again I’m sorry that this took so long. The reader is meant to be fluent in more than one language, so I kept the fic pretty general in that sense, so you are able to apply any language you want. Well, I hope you enjoy reading, and sorry again if it’s not up to scratch!

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Requested: Spencer Reid x Reader, where Reid is on the Autism spectrum. It’s painfully obvious how much he likes her, but when she asks him out, he begins to panic.

It’s noisy in the bullpen, where a million things are going all at once. If he focuses, he can make out the individual sounds. Computer keys clicking, pens tapping, teeth grinding, papers and pages being shuffled, people humming and talking, cell phones pinging. The air conditioner runs. The faint buzz of human life echoes all around.

It used to drive him mad, all of the sounds and sights.

He’s long since found ways to ground himself. Losing himself in his work is the easiest way. Drown out the noise. Focus on the letters. Each word he reads, each one he writes.

Unsub. Tampa. Power-assertive rapist and serial killer. S-T-R-A-N-G-U-L-A-T-I-O-N. Strang-yuu-lay-shun.

One two three four. ABCD.

Letters, numbers, places, lined up in a row. The repetition is soothing, the routine familiar. Overtime the people around him have become familiar too, and they don’t feel like a distraction anymore. They haven’t for a long time. Here are his friends. His family.

“Spencer!” And someone who feels much more than that. She takes a seat at the edge of his desk, smiling. “Hey there, Doctor. What’re you up to?”

When she smiles, his heart races, a tempo trying to keep up with his fast-moving mind. Onetwothreefour onetwothreefour. “Paperwork,” he answers, gesturing to the page he’s currently working on. “And you?”

“I just wanted to say hi. So, hi, you. Tell me something I don’t know.” It was a common request of hers, to hear something new. It seemed she never grew tired of hearing him talk, never found listening to him to be boring. Y/N is a communications liaison for the Crimes Against Children unit, filling a role not unlike JJ’s previous position. Their paths overlap from time to time, and he’s always happy when they do.

As he combs through information stored in his memory, he watches her wave to passing agents, greeting friends. So many of them know her by name. She’s so good with people. So much better than he could ever hope to be.

“Did you know that you can cry in space, but your tears won’t actually fall?” he asks. Though he’s well aware she doesn’t. Nevertheless, the pleasant expression of perplexion and intrigue that crosses her face makes him happy. “In outer space, water floats. Usually in bubble or sphere-like shapes. It can actually be quite dangerous, as the water will cling to a surface – in this case, one’s face – until they’re dislodged. When as astronaut’s space suit developed a leak, water that came in from his helmet clung to his eyes and ears until he could return to the Space Station.”

She raises her eyebrows. “So you shouldn’t cry in space?”

“W-well,” he stammers, “you could, but I would hope there aren’t too many reasons to cry whilst in space.”

“Everyone cries. Astronauts are only human, after all.” The words aren’t dismissive, but meant with sympathy. The small smile accompanying them warms his heart, and he wants to reach out and touch her, just take her hand, but he can’t seem to find the confidence to.

What he wouldn’t give to be close her.

“I bet you know all about the stars,” she says.

He does. There are countless facts he could rattle off about outer space, but too much space in his mind is devoted to her. He has studied the stars in her eyes, the way they light up when she’s excited or delighted or surprised. He could go on about the way she lights up his days like his own personal sun. Or explain that she doesn’t give him butterflies. She creates in him the sensation of weightlessness, makes gravity feel irrelevant. Galaxies grow in his heart. Constellations all connected by a mutual feeling of adoration.

All too often the world feels too real, and he is too aware of his surroundings. The pressure of his watch over his sweater (the cold metal is so much more unbearable when it’s against his skin), the floor beneath his shoes beneath his socks beneath his feet. The tie hanging a little too loose and a little too crooked around his neck. Sensations. Sounds. Colors. Lights.

It’s elevated when he’s nervous. Elevated when she is around to make him feel nervous. How can one person do both – make him comfortable and put him on edge? There’s a scientific explanation. Attraction involves a chemical reaction in the brain. When neurotransmitters such as dopamine, adrenaline, and serotonin are released –

But that’s not important. What’s important is the girl sitting before him, grinning at him. Her fingers only centimeters from his. She is lovely. Beautiful. Beautiful girl. Byuu-tih-full girl. One two three four. Her gaze lingers on him with such intensity, such… onetwothreefour onetwothreefour.

Reid has the urge to fiddle with anything within reach. He crosses and uncrosses his legs. His fingers tap out patterns on the table. He nods, pressing his tongue to the roof of his mouth. Onetwothreefour onetwothree – four. One two three four.

“I suppose I do,” he says. “They’re not to difficult to learn about. If you visit the observatory, they do a whole show. It’s meant to be easy to follow, even for those who aren’t extremely interested in the science of space.”

To appreciate something, understanding isn’t required. Beauty is easy to identify. Though the understanding doesn’t detract from a thing’s loveliness; rather it makes it all the more incredible.

“I’ve never been,” she muses. “Have you?”

A million thoughts fly through his brain. All at once. A million possible answers, some of the questions as well. Yes, all the time. A few times. Maybe. No. Never. Would you like to go? Go with me? Yes, I could show you around. No, we should go together sometime. Do you want to go? I’ve only heard about it.

He tucks his hands beneath his arms. Fingertips tracing over the soft fabric of his sweater. “Yeah.” The word comes out much higher than he expected. “It’s really nice.”

Y/N leans in slowly, gauging his reaction. When she lifts a hand, he doesn’t flinch away. It has taken months of friendship to reach that point. He doesn’t let just anyone touch him. Trust must be earned. Physical contact isn’t easy for him. He shies away from handshakes and hugs and pats on the back.

There are exceptions to the rule, as there are to every rule. His mother. His team. A few people he idolizes and wouldn’t mind shaking hands with. And now, her.

Touch from strangers is altogether unwelcome and unpleasant. The gentle pressure of her hand on his forearm is reassuring. Familiar. Nice. When it’s her, he very much enjoys the sensation, despite the way it makes increases the tempo of his heart even more, makes his face flush, steals away his ability to focus on nearly anything else.

“Maybe you could show me some time. It’s not as much fun to go alone.”

The invitation remains hanging as a hypothetical for weeks. Another possibility he could calculate the outcome to, if he so wished. The thing about Y/N is that she doesn’t seem to fit within the parameters of his calculations. She is unpredictable. A wild card. Variable. Vaer-ee-uh-ble. V-A-R-I-A-B-L-E. Always a surprise, the very best kind.

For weeks they trade long conversations, witty banter. When she comes around, he lights up, his posture and expression transforming entirely. He speaks faster, with much more enthusiasm. He gathers the courage to touch her hand. To stand and sit just a little closer to her when he can. It must be painfully obvious, how much he likes her. Surely she has noticed. But then, if the observation were one that made her uncomfortable, why then has she continued to come around?

JJ drops heavy-weighted hints. Garcia’s are even less subtle. Outright suggestions. Questions. Wiggling eyebrows. Morgan teases him, Rossi will ask unspoken questions with his eyes. Emily has started a betting pool. Only Hotch stays silent on the matter.

Every time he sees her, the world bursts into color. It’s in the best way. Never so bright it hurts his eyes, never so overwhelming that he cannot enjoy it. Colors can be seen as a result of the wavelengths of light they emit, reflect, or transmit. Human beings see color with cone cells in the eye. Most mammals have two cones, allowing them to see green and blue and everything inbetween. Humans have three, allowing for the addition of red to the spectrum. Bumblebees, fish, and birds also have trichromatic vision. Pigeons have five cones. The mantis shrimp has sixteen.

In his eyes, she is a rainbow. A Technicolor starry night. Sound and motion and light. She comes straight to his desk, saying hello to others as she does so. Always making a beeline right for him, though. It makes him feel special. Important. Wanted. In anticipation, he shoves his hands in his pockets, trying to keep from fidgeting too much.

What can he tell her about today? What new little lessons will she want to learn? Maybe today will be a morning where they simply talk about life. He’s never felt quite so comfortable just talking to someone before. There is no judgment from her. All the rambling and stuttering and jumping from topic to topic never seems to phase her. When she perches on the surface of his desk, it feels right. Natural, as though she has always belonged there. Always belonged with him. He wants to belong with her. Wants to be worthy of her.

Could he ever be? Does he dare to hope that high?

Love. One. Not enough.

I love you. One two three. Nearly there.

I love you so. One two three four. Yes. That feels right.

Instinctively, and without words, she reaches for his hand. Her fingers curl around his, and the touch travels straight up his arm, bypassing his shoulders and his neck. Connects, somehow, impossibly, with his mouth. His lips turn upwards in a smile, one that mirrors her own.

I love you so, I love you so, I love you so. Reid repeats it like a prayer. Like a mantra. One two three four.

“Good morning, Doctor. Listen, I can’t stay long, I have some work to attend to.” His heart sinks a little bit. No, but wait, she’s still here. That means something, doesn’t it? That she came, if only to say hello? “I wanted to come by though. I was wondering…” Y/N trails off, and her thumb spins small circles on the back of his hand. One two three.

Abruptly, she pulls away. He puts his hands together and makes a fourth circle, as she tucks her hair behind her ear a few times. Everyone stims. Even if they don’t realize, all people tend to engage in some form of self-stimulating behavior. In those on the Autism spectrum simply do it much more. The compulsion is stronger. Those little comforting coping mechanisms, the movements ingrained in muscle memory serve as a calming repetition. Humans tend to do them when stressed, bored, or nervous.

Why is she nervous?

“I um, well I was wondering if you wanted to get coffee sometime?”

Reid doesn’t understand. He tilts his head slightly to the side, a near-universal gesture of confusion. “There’s coffee at the office,” he offers. It would take mere minutes to walk over to the kitchenette and brew them each a cup. Would that make her stay?

“No, not like that,” she clarifies. Her cheeks are red, she can’t meet his eyes. Y/N, ever cheerful, always steadfast, Y/N has suddenly become shy. It’s a mystery, her behavior. “On the weekend, I mean. I was hoping maybe it would be, like, a date?”

Date. The word hits him full force. His mind short-circuits. How to respond? A date? She wants to go on a date? With him? Answers, answers, questions. He’s running on autopilot.

“Y-yeah! Sure. That would – that would be really nice.” Nice doesn’t even come close to describing how it feels.

The smile returns, her shoulders straighten. “Great! Okay, well, I’ll text you? We can figure out the details later. It’s a date,” she repeats. “I’ve got to get going. Have a really good day!”

He watches her go. I love you so. I love you so.

It’s a date. A date. He forgets how to breathe.

It’s a date.

Reid taps his foot, squeezes the paperback book on his desk a few times. Bites his lip.


Onetwothreefouronetwothree -

anonymous asked:

Hi there! Could you please explain why JB fandom freaking out over Widow's Wail? I didn't read ASOIAF, but it has something to do with books, right?

Hi anon!

Sorry, I am typing this up more in a rush, I am extremely fangirling right now.

Why we are freaking out over Widow’s Wail…

Okay, the short reply that is shownly for the most part (so the very basic level) is that canonically, Widow’s Wail and Oathkeeper are twin blades forged from the same greatsword (Ice – Ned Stark’s sword reforged upon orders by Tywin).

Now, what does that tell us?

A lot of things.

For one thing, this would mean that our favorite OTP would both come to wield one part of the sword Ice, would wield twin blades, two swords that inevitably are connected (as they are connected to, name has it, Ice, you know, the Song of Ice and Fire and all). So the implication is not just about JB forging important bonds between each other, but embeds this in the larger focus of the North.

So the metaphor of it is already very intriguing on a very basic level of reading this.

The idea being, the two who wield these swords together belong together, like the twin blades do.

Now, if we are taking book canon into account, this gets even more delicious for a number of reasons.

One of the primary reasons that instantly come to mind is:

Jaime’s Weirwood Dream.

For matters of a very brief summary: In the books, Jaime, after leaving Harrenhal without Brienne, has a dream whilst sleeping on a weirwood stump (which adds… a good amount of magic and hence prophetic significance to this dream, to be very brief here), wherein he dreams of being in some cave beneath Casterly Rock.

At first his family is there, holding torches, but all leave him, including Cersei (foreshadowing much), Tywin gives him a sword that starts to glow blue (very much like Brienne’s eyes… and so on), which gives Jaime some confidence.

Out of the water pops Brienne of Tarth, naked as on her namesday (like him… the sexual component of this dream is truly not subtle), wrapped in chains that he cuts with the sword, which “part like silk” (man, the sexual metaphooooors), she begs for a sword, and it appears beneath the water surface for her to pick up, and it takes flame as well. It’s the only source of light in the darkness, forming a little “island of light” in which Jaime appreciates her dream-like a bit more womanly (but not prettied-up, I insist on that) shape with the infamous line of: “In this light she could almost be a beauty, he thought. In this light she could almost be a knight”.

They hear strange noises (bear growling), a foreshadowing for what is to happen in the bear pit at Harrenhal later on.

Brienne offers him to climb on her shoulders to leave the cave, at first he is tempted, thinking about reuniting with Cersei (which gives him a boner… so many awkward boners for that guy, just like that awkward boner in the bathtub whilst seeing Brienne in her nudes, again, not subtle), but then his focus shifts back to Brienne and he decides against it.

Then ghostly figures riding on horses appear, folks like Rhaegar, folks who died, and blame Jaime for pretty much everything. Jaime wants to fight them, and is happy to have Brienne by his side, but then his sword loses flame, he passes out. We don’t know what the hell happens next, other than him waking up, drenched in sweat, fearing for his wench.

After that, he resolves to get his wench back and later on leaps into the bearpit.

Now, after that very brief and highly simplified summary of that dream, I hope the point becomes clear anyway: Two swords of magical properties, bringing forth light, are in the hands of those two characters.

The other thing on more general terms is plain as day symbolism. Swords are phallic, so yeah, they do stand for sex. Sex, sex everywhere. So when Jaime gave Brienne Oathkeeper, that also had these undercurrents other than this marriage-like vow to each other over that sword.

I would go into more detail now, but I think it would leave too far away, let’s just leave it at the more superficial level of: there are lots of metaphorical layers to this on sexual, marital, and even pregnancy levels in that dream and more episodes that make this truly marvelous in connection with Widow’s Wail and Oathkeeper.

Now, Widow’s Wail is a fabulous thing for Jaime to bear because this establishes the link to Oathkeeper and Brienne through a sexually charged metaphor of phallic swords.

In that same context, it’s noteworthy that swords are important to marriage vows. In some cultures (I think actually in early Viking culture, which is specifically interesting in the ASoIaF context because GRRM heavily draws on Norse mythology in many cases), swords are exchanged instead of rings. If I remember correctly (which I don’t call authority to, I just remember having read that in an online article maybe a year ago, please correct me if I am wrong), the idea is that family swords are exchanged, which points to matters of legacy in my humble opinion.

So marriages, legacy, sex… all united in two twin blades. Isn’t that just marvelous? Especially since they come to be in the hands of our OTP?!

Widow’s Wail, within show-canon can become specifically interesting with regards to Jaime wearing the sword that formerly belonged to Tommen. After all, part of his season 6 arc was trying to protect/reconnecting with Tommen as far as that was possible, even if he failed. Jaime using it to dedicate himself to a certain cause, say, the team Brienne of Tarth favors, say, the North, say… anything but Cersei and her self-interested causes… is a huge step because he takes a sword that relates to his legacy, a sword that relates to his family (and that of the Starks) and he (potentially - we are speaking hypothetical terms here, obviously) dedicates that newly forged legacy to a new purpose (and likely will forge a new alliance/legacy with Brienne… I hope you see the potential of this metaphor).

Another thing, on a larger, more global scope, is obviously the idea that Jaime and Brienne (Lannister and Lannister-in-the-making LOL) dedicate their swords and hence may vow to the cause in the North, hence bringing Ice back to the North, if in a new form, and use it to e.g. fight against the White Walkers.

That is a huge deal because it shows a necessary shift in the environment, where those ancient swords are reused and reshaped to meet new purposes, given to new people, given over to a new forging of legacy reaching beyond the singular one of being the ancestral sword of House Stark. The Houses mix, the Houses align, form alliances, fight for a common cause instead of toying around with the Game of Thrones whilst the White Walkers are having their fun.

That is alliance making symbolized by swords, which is a fabulous thing.

So, in sum, what gets us so hyped about this is that this relates to Jaime becoming his own character, pointing at further disentangling/coming apart from an incestuous relationship that gives neither one room of development or future and embracing his family’s legacy but to his own new conditions, namely by choosing the alliance he wants to make rather than just sticking to the one he is supposed to forge, or is told so by other characters, uniting him with Brienne in a very physical, symbolically heavily charged way, to form an alliance not just (but very importantly) amongst themselves, but simultaneous embeds it into the larger focus of the threat in the North and the apparent need for new, vital alliances among the three remaining Great Houses (Lannister, Stark, Targaryen) and those associated with them.

I hope that answered your question somewhat, anon.

3.  “I love you for you, don’t you dare think otherwise!”

@diving-down-to-wonderland requested: Hey :) can you do a Bellamy imagine where you both argue a lot at the camp but you have a secret crush for each other. Then one day you and Bellamy and a few other walk through the woods when you get attacked by Grounders and one of them is aiming at Bellamy but then you push him aside and take the bullet for him. You collapse and Bellamy catches you and carries you back to the camp where he never leaves your side till you wake up so he can tell you his feelings :) both povs maybe 😙 thank you
Anon request: Drabble No. 3 with Bellamy Blake ? :)

Longer than a drabble, but yeah :P Title fit very well so here you go! <3
Also, I think I messed up with the povs… But I tried…

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In Your Dreams, Princess: A Throne of Glass Series Short Story~Part 5

First, Happy Easter! Even if you don’t celebrate it, I hope this makes your day a little brighter:)

Second: Wow, I’m almost to 400 followers!! That’s crazy! I appreciate you guys so much, especially those of you who take the time out of your day to message me with your criticism or simply just to say hi or fangirl or whatever it is. It means a lot to me:)

Enough of my babbling 

Here’s part 5 to In Your Dreams, Princess. Hope you enjoy it!

Links to parts 1-4 Here:

Part 1:http://thelittleloverofbooks.tumblr.com/post/137319105273/in-your-dreams-princess-a-short-storypart-1

Part 2: http://thelittleloverofbooks.tumblr.com/post/139824732088/in-your-dreams-princess-a-short-storypart-2

Part 3: http://thelittleloverofbooks.tumblr.com/post/140091081593/in-your-dreams-princess-a-throne-of-glass-short

Part 4: http://thelittleloverofbooks.tumblr.com/post/140117130648/in-your-dreams-princess-a-throne-of-glass-series

Rowan Whitethorn pushed himself harder, his muscles were yelling, screaming and begging at him to stop but he could not. He would not. He would keep going. He would run until she was out of his head. Until he no longer had thoughts of her beautiful ivory skin, of her full, pink lips, of her eyes, a much peculiar combination…one he had never seen before.

Damn the Gods. His mind was still filled with thoughts of her even when he was trying to do the complete opposite. 

Rowan had told no one of these dreams he had been having for quite some time now. Last night, however, was the first night that he had seen her face, had heard her voice. Before, seeing her was like opening your eyes underwater. Everything was quite fuzzy and unfocused, and he could only make out very distinct features and characteristics like her height, her skin, her hair color. 

And in all those other dreams he had always felt a sort of…unusual attraction to her. A sort of curiosity. He had never in his life seen this woman, he would have known that immediately. One would not forget a face such as the mysterious woman in his dreams.

Rowan wanted to know who she was, where she came from, what in the gods names she was doing in his mind whilst he was unconscious. 

He shook his head to clear his thoughts. Enough of this nonsense, he thought. Rowan was to go on an assignment from Her Majesty with Gavriel and Lorcan in just a few hours and truly, he should be sleeping and saving his energy for what was certain to be an utterly exhausting day. 

But he could not. He could not sleep for fear of the blue and gold eyes that would be sure to haunt him should he dare close his eyes. 

The images that flooded his mind as he sped past trees and bushes and rocks and the stream and the occasional splash of pink or purple or yellow flowers mirrored his thoughts and he was so caught up in them that he nearly ran directly into the big, bulking figure that was Lorcan. 

“What do you want?” Rowan growled. Sweat was dripping from every inch of him, racing down his body. Even his breathing was labored, an obvious sign of his exhaustion.

Lorcan regarded him shrewdly. “What do you call yourself doing at this time of night?”

“And just how is this any of your business?”

“It is my business,” Lorcan replied in a clipped tone. “Because I am your leader. You are a part of the cadre; we all are despite what we may otherwise long to do.”

“Don’t come to me with some of your pep talk bullshit, Lorcan,” Rowan interrupted. “That may work on some of the others, but it does not work on me.”

Lorcan, whom Rowan had rarely seen lose his level-headedness, took a menacing three steps closer. “Interrupt me again,” he said lowly, “and you will very much come to regret it, Whitethorn.”

Rowan and Lorcan stared into each other’s eyes, both men refusing to be the first to back down. 

“There is something troubling you, Rowan. I can sense it. Now you know that I, out of all of us here, cares the most about everyone’s well being. Especially my cadre. And when I anticipate that one of them may be in danger, as leader I feel indebted to ensure that they are not alone in whatever battles they are walking through.”

Rowan swallowed his emotion. He would not show any weakness. Weakness was not allowed. Weakness was for fools, weakness got you killed. 

“I am fine. I assure you.”

Lorcan’s head tipped to the side. “Then what business have you—”

“I had a strange dream and couldn’t get back to sleep after it. I just needed to clear my mind.”

Lorcan was silent for a few moments and all Rowan could hear was the sweet melody that was the rushing stream, the birds, the rustle of the leaves. All came together in performance as if they were an otherworldly orchestra. 

His mouth opened as if to say something, but both men went deathly still as they both sensed something in the trees around them. Rowan’s elongated ears twitched. He needn’t ask Lorcan if he heard what he had heard, for the other man had already produced his bow and several wicked-looking arrows. Rowan, too prepared himself with numerous blades and knives that promised death and destruction to anyone who dared cross their paths. 

The two men, looking like death personified, glanced once at each other, an understanding look shared between them. 

And that was when the first demon pounced.


Celaena Sardothien had been in the palace’s grand library for hours. She had awoken in the middle of the night, panting and sweating so profusely her lungs ached and her clothes clung to her like a second skin. Nehemia had barely stirred.

Carefully, so as not to wake up her slumbering friend, Celaena dressed in a pair of shorts and a especially long t-shirt and was on her way. 

And now here she was, with two dozen or so books scattered about her paired with a headache and a stomach that was growling so vehemently at her she was grateful no one else was in the library with her lest they mistake the sound for a beast and be frightened away. 

Celaena had looked up and retrieved nearly every book on sleep and its patterns that could possibly be in this library and she still had not found anything that would explain why she was having these bizarre dreams. 

“Ah, I thought I heard the infamous Sardothien Stomach somewhere in here.”

Celaena’s head snapped up, she hadn’t even realized she had been dozing off again. She blinked rapidly for a few moments to clear her vision before she looked up and met the gaze of none other than the Crown Prince of Adarlan.

“How did you know it was me in here?”

“Well,” Dorian spoke, taking a seat directly across from her. “I didn’t, at first. I believed it to be some sort of creature and am none too proud to admit that I was scared out of my wits initially.”

“Yeah,” Celaena laughed. “It has that effect.”

“And then,” Dorian continued. “I heard swearing so violent I knew it could only be you. So, I went to the kitchens and brought you some breakfast.” It was at that precise moment that Celaena realized he was holding a decent-sized basket in his hands. Again, her stomach growled as the spices and sweet scents filled her nostrils. 

“Well, you certainly have secured yourself a spot in my good graces,” said Celaena as Dorian placed all the food and beverages on the table. He had to move quite a few of the books on the floor, but eventually it all managed to fit and Celaena beheld a most gracious feast before her. “Thank you, Dorian,” she gratefully expressed and placed a hand over his. 

For a moment Dorian did nothing but look down at their hands. And then he took her smaller one in his and—keeping an eye contact that made Celaena’s heart flutter—placed a tender kiss to each of her knuckles.

“It is my pleasure.” He flashed her one of his panty-dropping smiles.

What a tease.

Warily, he released her hand and picked up a piece of toast. He slathered grape jelly on it before shoving it into his mouth, soon followed by a piece of savory sausage.

Celaena chuckled. “And I thought,” she said while pouring both herself and Dorian a cup of orange juice, “that one of the many requirements of being considered royalty was strict table manners.

Dorian, clearly understanding that his friend was teasing him, said through his food, “Oh, does this bother you? I should hope that a lack of table manners should not offend a woman whose occupation includes killing.”

“Oh, please,” said Celaena as she raised her cup to her lips. “I always use manners.”

Dorian could not repress a chuckle. “Even whilst killing?”

Celaena shot him a haughty look. “Especially whilst killing.”

“Which brings me to my next question. Why are you in the library at such an early hour? And from the looks of it, you have been here for…quite some time.”

“I had another dream last night and couldn’t go back to sleep. I figured I may as well spend my waking hours trying to find out more so I can make sense of all this.”

“And have you found anything quite useful?” 

Celaena sighed. “Sadly, no.”

“Well perhaps I can be of some use. Tell me about these dreams you’ve been having.”

And so Celaena delved into the story of her dreams and the man that made numerous appearances in them. She talked and Dorian listened until together the two had eaten all the food and light had begun to stream through the windows.

“Hmm,” he hummed with a thoughtful expression. “I think you’re going about this the wrong way.”

“How so?”

“Perhaps you don’t need to look at sleeping patterns or sleep at all, really. I think that there may be something…otherworldly going on here, Celaena. And in order to look into that, unfortunately we’re going to have to look in the Hall of Restricts.”

“The Hall of Restricts? But I thought that—”

“My father had gotten rid of anything even loosely related to the M-Word?” Dorian shook his head. “That’s what he’d rather everyone thought. Lucky for me, I overheard a conversation he was having with one of the other lords. It did strike me as quite odd and I’ve been looking for a good enough reason to go down there. And now I have it.”

Celaena was quite speechless.

“So how about it, Adarlan’s Assassin? Would you like to get into a bit of trouble with me?


Rowan was unable to take half a breath before the first thing pounced on Lorcan, another one coming on him soon after. Luckily, the two men were prepared.

The creatures, Rowan took note, were nearly seven feet tall in height and looked to be little more than decomposing corpses. The stank of burnt and rotting flesh and had no facial features save for a hole which loosely resembled a mouth except for the two tongues and four rows of razor sharp teeth that dripped a slimy, clear liquid. When its hand swiped at the Fae warrior, he noticed that it had five inch long talons, covered in the same substance that dripped from the demon’s mouth. 

They both moved like the wind, silent and quick and lithely. 

Rowan heard a ghastly shriek behind him and as he did not have time to look, prayed to the gods that the sound had come from the demon and not from Lorcan.

“Little Fae warrior.”

Rowan knew immediately that the thing was speaking to him, though not verbally. He could hear it only in his head. The filthy creature’s voice sounded like nails being run across glass. 

“We know who you work for and we know what you have done. Your actions will not go unpunished.”

What was it talking about?

As if the thing read his mind—and it was quite possible it could—it spoke again, “I have not yet had the pleasure of having Fae blood. But I hear it is just like the best of wines…it only gets better with age.”

Rowan’s blade slashed out, catching the demon off guard and in a few moments he had cut off both its hands. Another shriek, and this time Rowan knew what the source was. He heard a thud behind him and moments later, Lorcan was by his side, hair sticking to his forehead and sweat dripping down his neck and face, into his eyebrows.

“He will kill all you love. He will find her, Fae Prince. And once he does, there will be nothing you can possibly do to save her…”

With a growl that was entirely not human, both of Rowan’s swords swung; one sliced off the head of the demon, the other, its torso in half.

Eyes closed, Rowan dropped to his knees. His lungs could not get enough air, burning as he heaved.

He knew. He knew exactly whom the demon was referring to. That girl, whoever she was. 

How it knew who she was, Rowan was certain he would never find out. Even more peculiar was the emotions running rampant through him. He could not explain it. He did not even know this woman and yet…

And yet…

The thought of losing her was unbearable. It left him with a physical ache in his chest. He felt a sudden urgency to find her, to be by her side and protect her. But that was impossible.

Because Rowan hadn’t the slightest clue who she was.

And he hadn’t the slightest idea where she could possibly be.

~End of Part 5~


Summary: You are in high school and a really great artist. Jungkook is really fond of your work and ends up falling for you through your art.
Member: Jungkook X Reader
Type: Fluff
Length: 1547 words

As an art student, I can go on and on about how art holds a special place in my heart. I believe that it’s something that’s ingrained in me and being able to put it in words was a dream come true. I wanted to make a narrative based on poetry alone but it took too much work so I just used the poetry I prepared here. This is a major fluff but enjoy!

- Admin Fits

Originally posted by ofzico

You have had always considered yourself to be very lucky. You heard the stories where people of your age were not only drowning in the responsibilities every time they turn a little older, they were also swarmed with questions posed by others. Questions that they too have no answer. You knew of the doubts that swam in their heads when they had too many options and sometimes when there were too little. Where the scariest questions started from ‘Could I really do this’ turning into ‘I can’t do this’.

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Not A Robot

I had a couple of anon requests and managed to (somehow) put them together and make this little thing. One asked for ‘Grace has a panic attack. Chester starts singing Lullaby.’, the other ‘first time she visited NYC during Rock of Ages.’
I hope this is okay!

Grace feels things. Grester. SFW. 1,815 words

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Word Count- 2,532.

Summary- Phil has cancer, Dan has been by his side ever since it got bad and they took him in to hospital. Today is what is predicted as their last moments together, but they don’t find out till much later on in the day. 

Authors note- I CRIED WHILST WRITING THIS. I suggest listening to this mix whilst reading because it adds to the story- 

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fic: Time Will Tell, p11

Part 1 ~ Part 2 ~ Part 3 ~  Part 4 ~ Part 5 ~ Part 6 ~ Part 7 ~ Part 8 ~ Part 9 ~ Part 10 

After taking Ridul back to his home planet and ensuring he wasn’t let off lightly for his attempts, the Doctor retreated to his bedroom and left the others to amuse themselves.

“Where’s he gone, anyway?” asked Mickey, as they convened in the galley for some food.

“He’s sulking,” sniffed Rose, pouring out their tea. “Just leave him.”

“Is he – should we not see if he is - ” started Reinette.


Reinette raised her eyebrows. “Oh.”

Opening a few cupboards and banging them closed again, Rose retrieved the ingredients for dinner, and lined them up on the counter. “There you go. Should be enough stuff there to make a decent couple of omelettes. See you later,” she said, grabbing her mug and making for the door.

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