it's just one of those light subjects that does only harm sigh

empty eyes - 3/3 [KHR]

- Promise -

“Tsuna-kun, where did you get this jacket?” Nana lifts the jacket Ricardo gave him the day before up. Tsuna pauses mid-bite, suddenly remember he hadn’t given the man his jacket back before rushing inside yesterday. He should fix that today.

“A friend gave it to me yesterday,” Tsuna says. “His name’s Ricardo. He’s nice, Mom!”

“Well, I’m glad to hear you made a friend, Tsuna-kun. I’ll dry the jacket, and you can return it later on once you get Ricardo-san’s address, okay?”

“Okay!” Tsuna agrees. “I can ask him.”

Iemitsu, previously absorbed in his food, seems wary of the jacket as Nana tucks it over her arm and walks out to the clothes line. “Say Tunafish, what’s this Ricardo fellow like?”

Tsuna ponders the question. “Well… he’s really tough-looking. And he does this a lot,” he arches an eyebrow in an imitation. Iemitsu’s mouth twitches and he hastily covers the smile.

“What’s he look like?”

“Tall, long hair, pretty red eyes–”

“Red eyes?” Iemitsu interrupts, and there’s alarm in his voice. “Tsuna, are you sure?”

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How Do You Stay Awake?

The evening started normally enough, Kou relaxing in Kei’s room at the base, then tranquilizer darts got involved. Now the two young ajin are forced to try and stay awake until the drug runs its course. Slow dancing wasn’t on the list of suggestions, but that’s what happened and then it evolved into even more.

Tags: language, sex, needles I guess, KouKei, fluff and a speckling of angst maybe? Happy endings. Takes place before the final battle and lost of the Gulf team.

HAPPY VALENTINE’S DAY

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Journey to Spring (Tamlin)

Tbh I have a love/hate relationship with Tamlin. I loved him for the majority of ACOTAR, and had to force myself to keep loving the brute throughout the first part of ACOMAF. And though I am now irrevocably a Feysand lover, I still have feelings for Tamlin. He’s got some major issues going on, but I find myself really looking forward to his redemption arc. So as I reread the series for the ACOWAR release in May I am paying more attention to Tamlin, his struggles and flaws, and Feyre’s interactions with the High Lord of Spring. Anyway, when I read these lines I was immediately struck with the inspiration for a fic. Imo, this is the perfect spot for one, as this passage eludes to a transpired event we never had the privilege to read about. So without further ado, here is Journey to Spring.

All rights to the following content belong to SJM.

“He’d planned this entire arrival no doubt—keeping me unconscious so I didn’t know where I was, didn’t know the way home or what other deadly faerie territories might be lurking between me and the wall. I reached for my knife, but found only layers of frayed clothes. The thought of those claws pawing through my cloak to find my knife made my mouth go dry.” (ACOTAR pg. 48)

My mind was a whirling hailstorm as I exited the tight confines of the hovel these humans called a home. A tinge of sympathy swirled momentarily amidst the onslaught of information and emotions I was fighting to sort through. I could almost understand why she had been so desperate as to kill the wolf. Almost.

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I Need That Dark In A Little More Light

Summary : The time Phil finds out that Dan is afraid of the dark. For this prompt ^_^

((A/N at the end!!))

**

Dan considers himself well rounded enough for a 6 foot something existential crisis prone 22 year old guy. He isn’t one to believe in the supernatural, rolls his eyes and scoffs at Phil’s superstitious antics, but there’s one thing that makes his skin crawl - the dark. 

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anonymous asked:

Imagine Claire wakes up from a nightmare (maybe the car crash her parents died in?) and Jamie has to comfort her. I love your stories!

Dreams are funny things. Sewn from the cloth of past and future, they unravel their spools in the dead of night, slow-fingered but sure in the weaving of their tale. Tomorrow’s seeds plant themselves in the slumbering mind while yesterday’s weeds are plucked from its soil. What is memory and what is imagination when bygones sprout to life beneath the mists of dawn? When ghosts and birds sing the same tune?

And though these dreams can haunt you beyond the darkness – a voice in your head, a hand on your back – even then they are not complete. Fragmented images, maybe; a collage of fact and fiction. All vaguely familiar – but only fleetingly whole come the rising of the sun.


“What did ye see, Sassenach?” Jamie asked into the nape of my neck, arms engulfing me. His body absorbed the force of my trembling, and the two of us lay bound and moved by the small ripples of my fear. I sighed into his touch, warmth suffusing the icy fingers still pawing at my bedclothes. I swallowed, trying to gather my wits, but the visions of my dreamscape assailed me even now as they had in sleep: a man dancing at the foot of my bed, low-voiced and shadowed, keeping vigil over my sleeping form. And my parents just down the hall, alive but blissfully unknowing.

Taking a deep breath, I offered only a nondescript, “I – I’m not sure exactly.” I could only think to take stock of my limbs – each one was present, each one unmarred – to free my mind from the haze that fogged it.

It had been a night terror, certainly. Peppered with distorted figures and too-sharp angles, it belonged in a museum among Picasso’s geometric faces and Schiele’s contorted limbs. I could make no more sense of its shape or palette – entirely monochromatic, save the odd burst of saturated blue, red, or green – than I could the grip it had on me. For beyond the immediate strangeness of it all, lurked a nagging sense of déjà vu…Hadn’t I lived this scene already? Heard that conversation, known those faces? And the man, the mysterious sentinel – had I not met him once before?

A ghràidh,” Jamie said, sensing my anxiety. “Nothing will harm ye now; I’m here.” An affectionate hand rubbed my back. “When I was a just boy, my Da told me how ye might drive away the brollachan that torment ye. ‘To kill the brollachan, bhalaich,’ he said, ‘ye must bore them half to death.’”

The brollachan. The shapeless ghosts of the night – and our steadfast bedmates. For years, they had stolen into our bedroom and shared our pillows, working a darker magic than even the blackest November midnight. They left no evidence of their visits but for the sweat-soaked shirts and purple half-moons beneath my husband’s eyes.

“And how does one bore the brollachan?” I asked, undeniably curious.

“Why, by repeatin’ everything they told ye, of course! Over and over again until you canna even bear the telling of it yerself.”

“Oh. Naturally.” I replied, amused by the matter-of-factness with which my husband treated such age-old superstition. But his voice was serious, and his arms tightened around me.

I dinna ken if ye’ve met him, Sassenach, but do ye recall me speaking of a man called Arthur Gibbs?”

I did as a matter of fact. A miniscule stable-hand with a hunchback, what Arthur Gibbs lacked in stature, he more than made up for in conversation. Endless, bumbling and – for reasons unknown to me – passionate conversation on the subject of dung beetles.

I nodded.

“Weel, everyone knows that if ye say but a word to auld Artie, ye willna make it home to yer supper – or to yer breakfast, for that matter. He’ll talk yer ear off until ye either collapse w’ hunger or die of boredom.” He shifted me so that I faced him, pressed nose to nose. “And it’s much the same w’ the brollachan.”

“Hmmm,” I said, planting a light kiss on his jaw. The distress borne from my sleeping imagination had yielded to the immediacy of my reality – but still it hovered at the edges of consciousness, a ripped and oozing scab.

“It was…odd,” I said, struggling for an explanation. Where to even begin?             

“A dream, obviously. One minute I was standing on the stairwell, and the next I was flying backwards, lying in my childhood bedroom. A man was there.”

Jamie’s brows drew together, concerned.

“But it was a memory, too. I’m sure of it. Something I’d forgotten, but…”

Understanding softened the hardened planes of my husband’s face.

“Aye, Sassenach. Ye told me of such things before, when I’d wake from my own nightmares and feel as though I’d lived them once already. ‘Suppressed memories’, ye called them.”

I nodded absently, my mind still half-removed. 

An inherent defense mechanism, the human brain will shy away from the unbearable, pulverizing faces and words and sounds until not a trace of them remained. But now, teeming with the resurrected spirits of my past, I began to navigate the labyrinth of my denial. Key in hand, I gave it a name and I set it free.

You need not fear me. We were friends once.

With a sudden burst of electricity, lightning coursed through my veins. The missing pieces of the puzzle that had scattered upon my waking fell rapidly into place. A scene, previously broken, began to take shape, surging forward with an astounding clarity.

“Tell me about the dream as best ye can, mo chridhe,” Jamie encouraged. “And I’ll help ye scare the brollachan away.” We both sat up then, legs crossed and hands intertwined, as we faced each other and my demons together.

“Well,” I started, sinking into the rhythm of my tale. “I was four years old and listening from the stairwell…”

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Wherein Darcy cheats and Jane steals. (Out of Town)

Madalayna: I would love to see some “ordinary” Asgardians in your sequel. Jane and Darcy seem like they would be more into getting to know the regular people and not just the pompous royals. It would be interesting to see how they react to the princes of Asgard’s “friends” from Midgard. 

iamartemisday said: If you’re still taking prompts for Out of Town, how about Thor and Loki decide to take Jane and Darcy into town to show them around, and they all wind up getting separated.

samdram1: What about a drabble of Darcy and Thor bar hopping –or tavern hopping! 

QueenJin: Darcy decides to try and drink Thor under the table. Loki helps her to cheat.

helikesitheymikey: Loki goes bad ass on a couple of guys who were hitting on Jane/giving Jane unwanted attention.

*** 

(Some of this Ex-Pat!Jane-and-Darcy drabble is from a Dark World deleted scene. All the best Jane parts got taken out. Not to mention most of Malekith’s story. Plus extra Loki stuff. Where is our Director’s Cut, Kevin Feige?)

*** 

Kjell, son of Kjell, has not been the proprietor of Ǫlker Tavern for very long (only fifty years, as his father reminds him nearly daily). So he can be forgiven, in his own mind, for not exhibiting the sort of confidence that made the Ǫlker famous in his forebears’ hands. And if his mead is not yet worthy of Valhalla, his bilgesnipe dyresteg is developing a reputation of its own. (Kjell has always had more skill at the stove than the cask.)

Still, young though he may be, he has plans. Vision! Mead will come in time. The tales of his dyresteg will spread. His feather-light almond cakes will erase all memories of famous Alfheimian aphrodisiac confections. People will travel across realms to find out what delicacy he serves for the daily special. And Kjell will then be known only as Kjell, not Kjell son of Kjell.

(And Father won’t be able to say a thing about it.) 

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