darts live

Winter Rose

Originally posted by jynandor

Request: @smoothdogsgirl - Reader and Sam are dating and it’s serious enough that she feels comfortable introducing him to her kid. So a fic were Sam is maybe nervous meeting said kid and show how the meeting goes.

Notes: this was crazily fun to write, thank you for the request!

Pairing: Romantic Sam x reader

Word Count: 1.7k+

Warnings: mentions of drugs and previous addiction to them, a little angst, trust issues, fluff, Sam singing.

12 Days of Christmas Challenge. Day 9: Family + Dinner

Also an entry @winchester-writes Christmas Writing Challenge. I chose gingerbread men and the song ‘Frosty the Snowman’.

You carried your beloved daughter into your large house, Christmas decorations coating the walls in the most adorable way. Setting her down and watching her dart into the living room, immediately digging through her box of toys, a smile made it’s way across your face.

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A summer fling with Draco would include:

  • He’s the new boy; all white blonde hair and flinty gray eyes, a pointed jaw and pale, pale skin blurred by chlorine constellations as he lingers at the pool edge
  • “Who’s that?” you ask, press your elbow into Pansy Parkinson’s ribs as water splashes onto the pavement and music bangs against garage doors. “The new boy.”
  • And you swear that his eyes flicker over to yours, linger for a summer slick second on your skin before darting away again - all live wires strung between your ribs
  • “Draco,” Pansy says, lipstick smeared around her mouth in a blurred red cloud as she clutches a plastic cup to her chest. “He’s from England - I heard, goes to a really fancy private school.”
  • “Draco,” you repeat, words dulled beneath top-forty tremors
  • The name tastes like cherry soda in your mouth
  • The over-large watch on Pansy’s wrist reads three o’clock when you head home, heart heavy and the straps of your heels clutched between your fingers as the pavement scrapes against your bare feet
  • There’s a car pulling up behind you, all burnt wheels and Presley on repeat and a voice - all smooth syllables and a thick English accent - calls out, “Need a ride?”
  • You glance back
  • See the new boy - Draco - face blurred by headlights and stoplights, all blinking red
  • A smile playing at the edge of his mouth as he bites on the end of a cigarette
  • And maybe it’s the burn of vodka, the thrill of the night, the fucking shock at the base of your spine as he stares at you
  • But you’re saying, “Okay,” and his smile is being eclipsed by a smirk as you slide into the passenger seat, leather sticky against your thighs
  • “Draco,” he says, taps his finger against the stick shift
  • “I’m-” you start, are swiftly interrupted by the rev of the car and the green of the traffic light
  • “I know,” he says -
  • And it feels like they’re drag racing
  • So this is how it goes,
  • You see him again at the beach, waves crashing onto craggy shores and sunburn stinging on your shoulders
  • He recognizes you, ankle deep in spin cycle sea foam, raises an arm and rakes his eyes over your red-striped bathing suit
  • Fourth of July fireworks exploding between your toes and hazy days are melding into melancholy weeks; knees knocking as you sit on curbs with popsicles sticky against your fingers, the pink neon sign on the all-night-diner blinking like his smile, flashing like ambulance hearts as he holds a gun to your chest and demands your heart -
  • You never have had a firm hold on it
  •  and wilting like summer ghosts, lying on the road in the early morning with laughs thick in their mouths and music buzzing in their ears
  • Liquor stores and drive in movies, hands so close that they can almost touch
  • So this is how it ends,
  • Summer drowns at the bottom of a swimming pool and they watch from the top of a creaking ferris wheel
  • All Draco’s fingers on your jaw and his eyes on your mouth
  • All notebook hearts with your names drawn through the center and stitched through with an arrow as he presses his mouth to yours -
  • It’s a summer of dead hearts

dart-hfluffy replied to your post “AU Where Thingol takes little Luthien with him, and lives alone with…”

And then Luthien finds out she’s the lost princess of the Teleri…

Only she doesn’t consider herself as such.

But she would battle Melian for her father’s freedom (and win), and his rightful claim to Doriath. Whether or not Thingol gives Luthien ownership of Doriath is up to him—but going by speculation, and headcanon, it may not be rightfully hers. It would be Thingol’s first child’s (who many consider Eol, so for the sake of this, it’s Eol).

While Thingol establishes Doritah without Melian (in a less creepy, controlling way) and forms ties with Greenwood, Luthien (and Beren if you want) would search for Eol, and when they find him, attempt to convince him to reclaim his birthright and to make amends with his father.

I think there’s too much bad blood between Eol and Thingol though, even if Thingol was taken against his will. Eol Is too damaged to see past that, or he isn’t interested in Kingship. He’s too tired and obsessed with his craft.

So the kingship would go to Maeglin, who I think would be eager to take the crown.

(and I love this because Maeglin is rightfully high king of the Sindar and Noldor, and I’m a fan of Maeglin ending up anywhere else but Gondolin).

I think Luthien would remain by Thingol’s side, and try to get to know the real Thingol. Not the Thingol Melian made. And perhaps she’d convince Eol to forgive him. So the two siblings spend years knowing who their father really is (at the same time, Eol learns more of his mother), while Maeglin runs Doriath, and strengthens bonds with the Noldor (Due to his mother).

And Thingol finally lets Celegorm, Curufin, and Aredhel hunt in his woods.

 @moriquendii  and @verymaedhros thought you’d be interested!) 

dart-hfluffy  asked:

ChikaRiko call me

aye aye~

Even though Riko knew that Chika was sick, she was still excited to hear Chika calling her name from her window. She put down her sketchbook and stood, going over to her window and opening it. Chika was standing at her window as well, not out on the roof. Riko decided that that was for the best, anyway; Chika was obviously still sick, wavering in her stance and dressed in her pajamas. Even the way she opened her window as frail, exhausted.

However, her feverish face lit up with a smile when Riko shouted, “Why aren’t you in bed?”

“I kept having bad dreams since I haven’t seen you,” Chika replied. Riko could tell by the way she was talking that her throat was sore, and it made Riko’s heart ache. Riko wondered if she could crawl across the roofs and kiss Chika and take the cold from her. Or maybe she just wanted an excuse to kiss Chika.

“Well, you’ve seen me.” Riko’s voice was uneasy; she was unsure how to say what she wanted without hurting Chika’s feelings. Taking a deep breath, she said, “You know, I’ll feel really bad if your cold gets worse!”

“Fresh air is good for you,” Chika pointed out. As if to accentuate her point, she slid the window open even more, poking her head out. Riko poked hers out, too, and when she was a bit closer, she could see the bags under Chika’s eyes.

Riko scolded, “Fresh air may be good, but rest and some cough medicine is better.”

“Riko-chan,” Chika sang, although raspy and tired, “you’re all the medicine I need!”

At least she’s still got her sense of humor… “I’ll come over tomorrow, okay? Go to bed…and for God’s sake, stop yelling out of the window! Doesn’t your throat hurt?”

“Kinda,” Chika admitted, rather sheepishly.

“If you really need something, just call my phone, or text me…” Riko sighed, but managed to smile. “You’re so weird, Chika-chan. I’ll see you tomorrow, okay? Hurry up and get back in bed before Takami-san ends up blaming me for your fever.”

They shut their windows together, and Riko went back to her sketchbook. However, even after she picked up her pencil, she still could hear Chika’s voice echoing in her ears.

Honeymustard Collection #3

God I can’t stop writing this shit. I love them together so much.

Red’s head snapped up at the sound of Papyrus’s footsteps coming down the stairs. He darted into the living room from the kitchen, forgetting that he was still holding a spatula. He caught Papyrus just as the taller skeleton was tugging down his orange hoodie, hand already reaching for the door.

“Hey, uh,” Red said quickly, “You want breakfast or something? I make a pretty egg-celent omelet, heh…”

Not even a twitch of Papyrus’s usual amusement at Red’s dumb jokes flickered in the other’s eye sockets. He shook his head and shouldered open the door, the snowstorm whirling in around his shoes and tugging at his hoodie. “I’ll be in the shop. Don’t bother me unless it’s important.”


Red stared at the front door numbly and clenched his hands when he realized they were trembling. Shit. He stomped back into the kitchen. Dammit. The half cooked omelet in the frying pan splattered against the sink when he threw the whole lot off the stovetop. Fuck! The spatula joined the frying pan in the sink with a plastic thwack!

Red had fucked up. He didn’t know how yet but it must have been something pretty bad. Papyrus had barely acknowledged him for almost two days now, only offering curt responses and instructions on the few occasions Red had managed to intercept him between his bedroom and the workshop. The taller skeleton had even quit his usual ritual of napping on the couch – opting instead for staying behind locked doors. It was driving Red mad. The least Papyrus could do was rough him up or call him a piece of shit like Boss would when Red did something wrong in his timeline. This stony silence was almost worse.

The couch huffed when Red dropped into it moodily. He hated this…all this time alone with his thoughts. The pent up anxiety in his gut had grown so tight and sour he nearly felt sick. He couldn’t even walk it off since this damn snowstorm had basically snowed them in. Even the TV signal was knocked out. After a minute he began fiddling with the loose threads on his jacket, then he slid his sleeve up to the crook of his forearm.

Chipping was a gross habit Red had started not long after the first few resets in his timeline – but the pain got him out of his own head and sometimes that’s all he needed. Working the tips of his phalanges at the cracks in his ulna, Red began picking at the bone until little flakes and splinters snapped off into his lap.

It was weird, having Papyrus mad at him. Sure, with Boss it was normal – but Stretch? He was more likely to chuckle at Red’s stupidity than pull this kind of shit. Then again Red had only known him for a short while. Maybe “Pap” was more like Boss than he originally thought.

Red worked at the same spot for an hour or so, clenching his teeth and welcoming the small jolts of warning pain that stifled the nagging worry in his head. Eventually the bright pink of the marrow was exposed and thin lines of blood welled up to the surface. He was so absorbed in his task that he didn’t register the front door opening and closing until it was too late.

“What the hell are you doing?”

Red startled and jumped to his feet, “Nothing Bos – uh, Stretch. Just…”

Papyrus moved toward him faster than Red had thought the lazy skeleton capable of – and the look on his face, oh boy – he really did look like Boss with all that anger twisting his mouth like that. Red tensed for some sort of strike but Papyrus grabbed the hood of his jacket instead and yanked him away from the couch.

“Sorry,” Red said quickly, “Sorry, sorry, sorry…”

Papyrus all but slammed him up against the stair banister.

“I’m sorry…” Read tried to say but Papyrus grabbed his shoulders and shook him once, hard.

“Stop it!” Papyrus forced through gritted teeth. “Just…stop it, Red.”

His voice broke.

Red blinked in surprise. Papyrus’s anger-hunched shoulders slumped suddenly and his forehead dropped to the crook of Red’s neck. His hands fell from the shorter skeleton’s shoulders and his long arms looped around him. The breath left Red’s ribcage in a short oof as Papyrus pulled him against his chest. It was only then that Red noticed how much the other was shaking.

“Please, just stop.” Papyrus muttered into Red’s shoulder. His voice was low and Red shivered at how close it was. He could feel Papyrus’s breath on his bones. Red stood stiff as a board in the other’s embrace, his soul pounding. What the fuck was going on? He’d messed up again, hadn’t he? Any minute now Papyrus was going to throw him aside in disgust.

Papyrus let out a shaky breath and held him tighter.

“Red, promise me you won’t ever do that to yourself again, okay?”

Red nearly choked. The chipping? Papyrus was talking about the chipping?

“S’okay, Stretch,” Red stammered, “s’not a big deal. It grows back, see?”

Some kind of strangled laugh shook Papyrus’s tall frame and he lifted his head from Red’s neck, taking a small step back but keeping his hands planted firmly on the smaller skeleton’s shoulders.

“No, Red,” Papyrus said firmly, seeming to have regained his usual composure. “It’s not okay. You don’t hurt yourself like that. Not in this house. Not in my timeline. Got it?”

Red balked, hyper-aware of Papyrus’s hands on him. He hated being touched like this. Frustration violently usurped the anxiety roiling in the pit of his gut. Who the hell did this guy think he was? Ignoring him for two days straight then ordering him around like a fucking kid? So what if Red chipped at his own fucking bones! It’s not like he needed another fucking Papyrus telling him how fucked up he was!

Red jerked out from under Papyrus’s hands, taking the other skeleton by surprise.

“Fuck off,” Red said flatly.

There was a faint blip and Red was gone.

Panic jolted Papyrus’s hands to snatch at the place Red had been standing just seconds before, but the other skeleton had ‘ported clean out of sight. Papyrus spun around, hoping Red’s stunted magic hadn’t allowed him to ‘port outside the room but there was no sign of him. The wind screamed outside and the ice growing on the windowpanes made the glass creak. Something inside Papyrus screamed too. Panic. Guilt. Worry. But mostly it was just Papyrus’s own thoughts running like ticker tape in an endless loop.

You idiot. You idiot. Papyrus, you fucking idiot!

None of Strabismus

You want to follow my line
of sight like it’s not as hectic
as a family tree, some like plums
and others taut nooses, but leapt
onto a wind and gripping a bonnet
parachute, my vision is discord,

a ghost of your current self,
a doubled-up sea shelf all wrack
and corral of bled ink, a cross
reverence for the fuzzed,
multitudinous bushes. Then,
with a bee-like buzz, it rejects,

sorts one image into the bin,
all with sharp line-art and skilled
hands directing it like traffic.
So disregard the eye chosen for
blight, accept the dart of the live-wire,
and stop guessing where I look,

because I’m not looking at you.

- B B Pine

Panic (Villain!AU)
  • Genos: *Busy washing dishes while Saitama's in the living room with the little ones*
  • Saitama: OH MY GOD!! GENOS! COME HERE!
  • Genos: *Panics as he drops a dish in the sink, going into deadly mama mode as he darts into the living room* Master! What is-
  • Saitama: * crouched down next to a bundle of red fabric that is his hoodie, filled with sleeping little genoses inside of it* look, they all fit in my hoodie.
  • Genos: *Leans on the doorway with a sigh* Master, please.
Happy Birthday Britt!

Happy birthday to the amazing. the beautiful, the bae, comewhatanime!!!!! Hope you have/had an amazing day and that you get everything you asked for! I’m sorry this is a little short but hopefully proudtobeaginger‘s amazing art will make up for it! So, here’s your lil’ birthday drabble!

Halie’s amazing art

If someone had told Lucy when she met a certain pyromaniac in Hargeon all those years ago that one day she would be the mother of his children, she would have politely asked them what insane asylum they had escaped from. She’d been waiting for her Prince Charming, not some reckless boy with a knack for getting into trouble.

And yet, here she was, feeling the life the two of them had created kicking inside of her.

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Locations of Kushiel’s Legacy - Skaldia

I thought of the Skaldic tribesman who had taken me under his wing so long ago, a faded memory of a laughing, mustached giant. There had been no cunning in him, and much kindness. Alcuin sat wide-eyed on his couch. His memories of the Skaldi held only blood, iron and fire.