#i rewrote this 3 times | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

jaegersdevil · 1 month

Text

die for you [dazai x fem!reader]

summary: you and dazai sort out your little dispute. w/c: 1.4k warnings: mention of suicide, swearing, arguing, angst a/n: posting from the deep dark depths of hell (aka class). i literally have no idea what possessed me to write this - i was given orders in the dead of night.....

Sighing loudly, you glance at Dazai from your desk, your head resting on your folded arms.

“If you want something, you gotta use your words,” he says without looking up from his paperwork. You scowl at him, suspicious of why he’s so focused on something he despises.

Turning your head toward Atsushi’s desk, where the teenager is deep in concentration, his forehead creased and eyes squinting at his laptop screen, you call his name.

“‘Sushi,” you whisper, summoning him over.

Desperate for a distraction, Atsushi responds immediately, rolling his chair over to your desk. His knees bump into yours, and you roll back a little.

“What’s up?” he asks, toying with his tie. The suddenness of lasers on the back of your head makes you snicker.

Closing your eyes, you sigh again. “I’m so tired.”

Atsushi’s eyes widen, concern glazing over his expression. “Oh! Why? Did you not get enough sleep last night?”

“Something like that,” you mumble.

“Huh,” Atsushi contemplates, looking around the office. “I can see if Kunikida still has his blankets in the storeroom. Do you wanna nap?”

“No," Shaking your head, the corners of your lips turn upwards. "All I want is for someone to apologise."

The volume of your voice pushes Atsushi into speechlessness, his eyes darting behind you momentarily. "This sounds domestic..."

You wave your hand in dismissal, scoffing.

"Have you eaten?" you ask, peering at the clock. "Wanna get lunch?"

Atsushi shakes his head but awkwardly throws his thumb over his shoulder. "I should finish this. Kunikida will kill me if I don't."

You nod solemnly, watching your colleague roll back behind his desk. Rubbing your eye, you reluctantly turn your attention back to the man at the table 6 paces away.

He's ignoring you, even though it's his fault. You contemplate asking Dazai to get food with you, but you're mad. So, you roll your eyes and stand, reaching down the grab your bag strap.

"Okay, bye."

The office is silent as you leave, Kenji the only one returning your bid farewell.

Stomping down the stairs because the elevator doesn't allow you to express your frustration, you imitate Dazai's voice as you descend. "Oh, how was I meant to know? Blah, blah, blah-"

But your frown deepens as you exit the stairs on the level of the cafe. "Chuuya."

The redhead straightens at the sound of his name and spins around. "What do you want?" His eyes narrow at the sight of you.

You tilt your head, eyes lifting to the ceiling. "You're in my building. Shouldn't I be the one asking you?"

Rolling his eyes so far back you swear he can see his brain, Chuuya huffs and crosses his arms. "Boss put me in charge of watching the Agency for the day," he sighs, looking you up and down. "So far, it's boring and agitating."

"Yeah, well," you shrug, stepping up to the cafe counter. "That's what happens when you're unbelievably paranoid."

You can feel the heat radiating off Chuuya when you turn back to him after ordering. "Got a problem?"

"Where is he?"

An exasperated sigh leaves your lips. "Dazai is none of your business, and he's none of mine either."

Chuuya physically jerks, his eyes popping out of his head. "What?"

Again, you shrug one shoulder and make your way towards a booth, sliding into it. To your dismay, Chuuya slips into the opposite side.

"Yes?"

He shakes his head. "You and Dazai-"

"Are in an argument right now," You rest your chin on your palm. "So what he does is none of my concern."

"Please," Chuuya scoffs. "That guy is weirdly obsessed with you, and you know it, has been since I met the bastard."

You don't reply, thanking the waitress when she sets your cup and saucer on the table.

Meeting his eye, your shoulders drop. "What are you? A couples counsellor?"

Chuuya taps his foot relentlessly on the floor, and the sound drives you to kick his shin. "Fuck off!"

"Why are you talking to me?" You ask, sipping your drink, eyeing him suspiciously. "If you want me to fix your hat again, sorry, I'm out of business."

Chuuya's lips press into a white slash, and you stop yourself from laughing.

"Chuuya!"

The familiar voice has you frozen. Chuuya's scowl deepens, and he stands, attention entirely off you.

"Dazai."

You don't dare look at the man standing at the end of the table, whose eyes are concentrated on you. "Whatcha doing here, slug?"

Chuuya replies, but you don't hear him. Dazai's gaze remains on you, blocking out his ex-partner's babble.

"That's so great," He exclaims to Chuuya. "Come with me," Dazai says, reaching his hand out to you. You inhale sharply and take his palm.

Chuuya shakes his head in perplexity, glowering. "You two are weird, you know that?"

Stepping out into the street, you squint your eyes against the glare of the sun. Dropping his hand, you stalk down the street.

Dazai makes no complaint and follows you, taking a few steps too many and bumping into you. Turning to face him, you glare.

Dazai sighs, his hair tickling your forehead as he looks down at you.

You lean back dramatically. "Why're you so close?"

Dazai's expression remains the same, his frown causing the crease between his brows to deepen. "This is a normal distance for us, bella."

Huffing, you reach to smooth out the groove, rubbing your thumb over his forehead. "You'll get wrinkles."

"We need to talk."

Dropping your arm, you feel your throat close and shake your head. You train your eyes on the fraying bandages on his neck, biting your lip in concentration as you try to remember if you picked up any at the grocery store yesterday. "You need to replace your bandages."

Dazai says your name sternly, running his hand over his face.

You glare up at him. "Well, talk then!"

Screwing his eyes shut, Dazai looks at the ground. "I can't!"

"Argh!" You take a step back, frustrated.

"My problem," you start. "Is that I can't do anything without you interfering."

Dazai's jaw is clenched when he looks at you.

"I'm a part of this agency for a reason, Dazai. If I can't go on missions, then what am I good for?"

"I don't want to see you hurt!" He yells, his voice echoing down the street. Your frown lessens but remains.

"Okay!" You counter. "And what of me then? Do I not get any say in what happens to you?"

"I deserve whatever comes for me, you know that."

You push your fingers into your closed eyes, hoping the tears will stay away. "4 years..."

Dazai says nothing, allowing you to continue.

"4 years since we left, 4 years since Odasaku died, and you still feel like you don't deserve anything good."

At his shaky inhale, you peer up at him. Dazai swallows thickly.

"God, Dazai," you cry. "When will you accept that I won't leave you because of who you are? What you did in the past doesn't matter to me! Hell, look what I did when we were tied to the mafia."

He sighs. "You're an angel-"

Laughing bitterly, you pin your stare on him. "You wanna say that to the girl who tortured thousands of people? Who gets a little trigger-happy and has to be knocked out to stop because she can't, for the life of her, allow anything bad to happen to you?"

Tears spill down your cheeks as you rant, hiccups cutting off your words. "I would die for you, Osamu."

With red eyes, Dazai looks down at you. He chews his bottom lip until it bleeds, and you wipe away the red trickle with your thumb.

Dazai brings his hand to your cheek. "I would die for you, too."

"I know you would. I don't doubt your love for me. All I'm asking," you whisper. "Is that you let me do things for the Agency, no matter the risk."

Dazai sighs softly, his breath fanning your mouth. "I can try, but there's no promise that I won't be right next to you every time."

"Dazai-"

"You can't stop me from tagging along," He smirks. "We're partners, remember?"

You roll your eyes. "Kunikida is your partner."

Dazai grabs your wrist to check the time on your watch. "As of an hour ago, he's Atsushi's partner."

Your jaw drops, and your hand freezes at his waist. "Really? You're my partner?"

"I can't let you die all on your own, can I?" Dazai chuckles deeply, wrapping his arms around you and pressing you against him, shoving his face into your neck. "It's my dream to carry out double suicide, remember?"

You shake your head, giggling, and pull him closer. "You're a menace."

"Anything to keep you safe," He whispers.

You pull your face back to look at him. "Now, you're gonna have me at your side telling you not to do stupid shit."

Dazai smiles. "And I will for the rest of my life."

"In life and death, my love."

#thinking about this #i rewrote this 3 times #and i like this one #so this is the one youre getting #osamu dazai x reader #dazai osamu x reader #bsd dazai #dazai osamu #dazai x reader #bungo stray dogs #bungou stray dogs imagine #bungo stray dogs fanfic #bungo stray dogs x reader #bsd x reader #bsd #osamu x reader #osamu dazai x you #osamu dazai bsd #— ann writes!

290 notes · View notes

defectivexfragmented · 2 years

Note

1-800-HOT-LAWYER but to quinn :3c

“Quinn, my advice to you is...to listen to the words coming out of my mouth! Telling you that I’m not in the mood for sex does not mean I don’t find you attractive. I had a rough day in court. I’m sore as hell. All I want is to have a beer and relax. It’s nothing against you. Please believe me.”

@bigidiotenergy

#hot lawyer advice #bigidiotenergy #i rewrote this 3 times #and I give up now

1 note · View note

aroacedavestrider · 8 months

Text

bonjour girl is that a rodent in your pocket or does y,our penis know how to make ratatouille

#ih #goodmofning. 3:14am #shoutout to gray . why are we awake #dave speaks #my post #<- tags i rewrote seven times each ithink #goodnigiht im going to bed

8K notes · View notes

chemicalarospec · 1 year

Text

how do you think Light Yagami was impacted by 9/11. he would have been 14 btw.

#edit: APPARENTLY IT DIDN'T HAPPEN CHECK THE NOTES #BTW guys it's a bad joke to say that he stopped it bc the manga is from 2003 so it is chronologically impossible xoxo #if he was impacted at all #he would have been 14 btw.#by my own estimation #death note #light yagami #light death note #yagami raito #I said this #9/11 #I rewrote this like five times. really in my 'trying too hard with post phrasing' era #now that it's famous i'm adding the 14 part to the original so my little observation is out there xoxo <3 #chem's death note arc

7K notes · View notes

goldfish-afterhours · 4 months

Text

Genshin Characters When They Realize They Love You

Characters: Kaeya, Childe, Zhongli, Xiao x gn!reader

Type/genre: Bulleted headcanons, fluff, slight angst

Warnings: Self-doubt/anxiety, not proofread

Kaeya

Knows he loves you when you tolerate his antics

You see through his flirtatious mask, and though you may roll your eyes in exasperation sometimes, you never lose your patience with him

Sometimes you even join in on his bits, telling tall tales to children or helping him convince the town that drinks were half-off at the Angel’s Share tonight

“If enough people believe it, then Master Diluc has to follow through, right? Can’t let his regulars down~”

Kaeya has been itching to say those three words. He can feel it creeping up his throat everytime you scold him for taking his tricks too far, everytime you smile at him

But for some reason, he finds himself holding back

What if you leave? What if you perceive it as weakness?

What if you don’t love him back?

He knows these thoughts are irrational, but he cannot stop his worst fears from creeping into his head

But the longer he waits to say it, the deeper of a hole he digs for himself

He loved you with his entire being. He was only trying to protect himself

So how come you were standing in front of him, hands covering your face as you sobbed that he didn’t love you?

Upon seeing you in that state, in a panic Kaeya forgets about the scared little boy in the rain, and the words come rushing out before he can stop them

“I’m sorry. I love you, I love you more than anything in this world, I promise. I…I love you. So please…don’t cry.”

Childe

Realizes he loves you just as you are beating someone up for information

Not surprisingly, Childe is addicted to the thrill that danger brings. And if the thrill comes in the form of you, isn’t it obvious he is addicted to you as well?

And what else could that be but love?

Also he’s just into people who can beat him up

No such thing as a bad time or place. The moment he realizes he loves you, those three words are already flying out of his mouth

Everyone in the situation was stunned—it was enough to make you stop punching the treasurer hoarder in the face, and the treasurer horder was staring at him dumbfounded through bloodied, swollen eyes

“Don’t mind me, I just felt like saying it. As you were, then?”

Zhongli

Knows he’s in love with you when you remember the things he forgets

As a god, there weren’t many things he had to remember to carry on his physical person, so he’s still getting used to it

After all, what use is food to an immortal being, an umbrella when his clothes were already soaked in blood, or mora to the God of Money?

But after leaving his archonhood behind, he has to start carrying such things around

He’s trying his best, but is still getting used to it so he frequently forgets

But you remember for him

You show up at his workplace, lunchbox in hand, chiding him for forgetting when you worked so hard cooking it this morning

You show up just as he clocks out for the day, a large umbrella held over your head to block the pitter-patter of the rain, saying how you didn’t want him to get his new suit wet

You chase after Zhongli on his way to the marketplace, scolding him between pants for making you run to give him his wallet

You could’ve let him suffer the consequences for his airheadedness, but instead you go out of your way to cover for him, and he loves you so much for it

The next time you give him something he forgot, he thanks you with a kiss

“Thank you for bringing it for me, my flower. I love you.”

Xiao

Realizes he loves you when you stay, despite it all

You’re not afraid of him. Even as a bringer of death and destruction, you don’t even hesitate to be around him

Even as the dark forces of his karmic ties suffocate him, you stay by his side, comforting him with quiet encouragements as he endures the pain

It’s not just because you’re the only thing keeping him sane. Even when the whispers grow quiet, you bring a sense of peacefulness and serenity to Xiao, one he hasn’t felt in thousands of years

You make him feel safe

You’ve made it clear to him that you’re not going anywhere, and he cannot begin to express how much he needed you to ground him

On one of the days the demons become head-splittingly loud in his ears, you cradle him in your arms, whispering sweet nothings to overpower the voices

Slowly but steadily, they grew quieter and quieter, until all Xiao could hear was your honeyed voice and the sound of his own harsh breathing

Overcome with appreciation for you, he opened his mouth to say something, but he was exhausted

All he could utter were three words that only began to dip into the reverence he has for you

“I…love you.”

#I rewrote Diluc’s 3 times and hated each one so I just took him out <3 #my writing #genshin impact #genshin impact x reader #genshin imagines #genshin headcanons #genshin fluff #Kaeya #Childe #Zhongli #Xiao #Kaeya x reader #Childe x reader #Zhongli x reader #Xiao x reader

548 notes · View notes

droodlebug · 6 months

Text

my phone camera is tje bane of my existence anyway wyll and blight. theyre in my brain

#droodles #bg3 #baldurs gate 3 #wyll #wyll ravengard #durge #blight #oc #ocs #i am not a writer writing makes me anxious. i rewrote the single sentence there like three times #bc i could not settle on a way i thought wyll would actually phrase that sentiment #my brain is made for pichers not worbs ✌️

235 notes · View notes

pippytmi · 1 year

Note

For the fake dating thing 11 with whomever you want!

“Do you always get into fist fights on first dates, or am I just lucky?”

There is a bruise already forming on Kara’s jaw, and her hand still has a phantom ache that won’t go away. There might be a touch of blood on the lapel of her shirt, too, but she has been unable to confirm without ready access to a mirror. But it’s this—the firm click of silver six-inch heels against pavement announcing Lena’s arrival—that brings Kara an instant sense of uneasiness.

“It’s kind of in the job description,” Kara shrugs off the rhetorical question. “You know, of being a girlfriend.”

Lena Luthor has an uncanny ability to make Kara feel completely, totally inept in any situation just with a quizzical quirk of an eyebrow and a ruby-red lipsticked frown. Not because she deliberately tries to, but because that’s just the Luthor™ way. Every member of that family seems to have mastered the ability to stare hard enough to make anyone squirm. Even though Kara has known Lena since they were kids—even though they know each other better than anyone else in the world—the effect is the same.

“That might be the most idiotic thing you’ve said all night.” Despite her stoic expression, Lena’s voice is surprisingly soft. “You should have walked away.”

“That would have been worse than not punching Mike Matthews, I think,” Kara says. “Really, I’m ninety-five percent sure I’m supposed to defend your honor, or… whatever the saying is.”

And the strangest thing happens; a glimpse of amusement cracks through Lena’s frown, visible in the ever-so-gentle upturn of the corner of her mouth. “Sorry, did I miss the part where we time traveled a hundred years ago?”

“It’s—you know what I mean,” Kara says. “If I was your real girlfriend everyone would expect me to punch guys in the face for you.”

“Or,” Lena counters, “it might be overkill, since everyone knows you are not inherently a violent person.”

Kara sheepishly tugs at her collar, unable to stop herself from flushing when Lena gazes at her so pointedly. “Does it matter if everyone who meets Mike wants to punch him? Because I’m pretty sure he could make a nun violent.”

“Wow,” Lena says. “I don’t think I’ve ever heard you say a mean thing about anyone before this.”

“Yeah, well…” Kara grimaces. “Mike Matthews brings it out of me. Or maybe this stuffy party does.” Her hand unconsciously goes back to her jacket, and she has to shrug it off all at once, suddenly feeling constricted in her suit. “I don’t know how you do it.”

Lena must be far more uncomfortable than Kara is, with those high heels and the skintight dress and the overall burden of familial expectations hanging on her shoulders, but she masks it remarkably well. “Practice,” she says—sighs. “And whiskey.”

“Gross,” Kara says, unconsciously crinkling her nose as she works at undoing her tie next. “I’m more of a Capri Sun girl myself.”

A short, stunned laugh emerges before Lena can likely quell it. “Right, how could I forget,” she says, and tilts her head in that curious way she does whenever she has a question she isn’t sure how to ask. But it must pass, because her actual question comes out in the form of: “Is there a reason you’re stripping in full view of the paparazzi?”

“Fan service?” It’s a weak joke, but it makes Lena roll her eyes in that mock-exasperated way that Kara knows would be a laugh out of anyone else. “I just need to cool off, maybe. Then I promise, I’ll be your doting girlfriend for all the cameras again.” She allows a beat before she adds, perhaps unnecessarily, “Without any violence.”

“Yes, I think my mother would very much prefer that.”

Kara laughs, remembering the horrified look on Lillian Luthor’s face with—admittedly—a bit of glee. “Yeah,” she says, “I’m sure she’s thrilled with how tonight is going.”

“Well, she does think it’s all part of a rebellious phase,” Lena muses. “She’s convinced I’m doing this just to spite her.”

Kara has felt the brunt of Lillian’s disapproval back since she first befriended Lena when they were kids, back when they were auditioning for the same movie. Honestly, there is no telling why Lillian has always disliked Kara. Maybe it was because she wasn’t a nepotism baby like all the rest of crowd, or maybe it was because Kara would sneak Lena out of the giant Luthor mansion to go to the movies, or maybe it was because when they were teenagers Kara had wrecked the Porsche (on a dare)...but that disdain has been steadfast ever since they were young, and it’s never once wavered. Everyone knows it. Lena knows it.

Which is why Kara is unable to keep the confusion out of her voice when she says, “Uh. Aren’t you?”

“Aren’t I…what?” Lena repeats, lost.

“Pretending to date me to spite her?” Kara prompts. “You know. Since she hates me?”

Lena’s brow furrows ever-so-slightly. “I didn’t mean dating you,” she says. “I mean dating in general. She thinks it’s a distraction.” She absentmindedly picks at one of the sequins on her dress, a nervous tic that she has never been able to shake. “God, it’s getting cold out here.”

The temperature is just right for Kara, but Lena has always run cold; Kara’s poked fun at her for it once or twice (or for their entire childhood, but who’s keeping track). An unbidden smile, fonder than it has any right to be, inevitably forms. “Well sit down, so you can leech some of my body heat. Besides, you make me tired just looking at you in those heels.”

“Then I’ll be colder,” Lena objects, eyeing the stone of the fountain edge that Kara is currently sitting on. “No way.”

“You’re the most high maintenance fake girlfriend ever,” Kara feigns annoyance. “Here, then. Sit on my lap. And you can put my jacket over your legs.”

It’s hard to exactly tell with the dim lighting of the streetlights, but Lena—blushes? Maybe? And immediately shakes her head. “I’m too heavy.”

“No such thing,” Kara retorts. “I’ll keep stripping if you don’t sit down, Lena. Then your mother will really have a reason to hate me.”

“You are trying to create scandal everywhere you can tonight, aren’t you?” Lena says, but doesn’t move, only crosses her arms and gives Kara an exasperated look. “It would be a hell of a front page.”

“Wow, Lena, if you wanted me naked all you had to do was ask,” Kara says, undoing the first two buttons of her shirt while Lena continues to glare. Then, for fun, she continues up until she hits the top of her bra and Lena’s jaw fully drops in alarm.

“Oh my God, Kara, stop!”

But the ruse works, because as Lena moves forward as if she’s about to button Kara’s shirt back up (or just push her into the fountain), Kara is able to wrap an arm around Lena’s waist and tug her down. Lena yelps in surprise, arms coming up to squeeze around Kara’s neck, and Kara has to hide a grin into the curls that hit her full force in the face.

“Geez, Lena, you’re like an ice cube. Don’t you own a sweater?”

“You asshole,” Lena says, but there is no bite in her voice, only annoyed defeat. “If I get glitter all over you, I’m not going to apologize.”

“I’ll let it slide, this once.” Kara doesn’t mention that there’s nothing in the world that she wouldn’t let Lena get away with. That’s the inevitable truth of being in love with this girl pretty much her whole life—Kara caves first, and she always has. Whether it was what flavor of Gatorade to get from the vending machine, or whether it was who got to sit down in the only remaining chair for a last minute casting call, or whether it was to tag along to Lena’s prom date so the boy wouldn’t try to kiss her, Kara always let Lena call the shots.

Lena exhales; Kara feels the warmth of Lena’s breath against her temple, feels the steady weight of Lena’s body as she shifts on Kara’s lap, feels the rough pattern of Lena’s dress sequins against her fingertips. “You know you’re my best friend, right?” Lena says suddenly.

Those words always make Kara’s heart skip a beat, like they’re right back to being fifteen and nervously holding each other’s sweaty hands while poring over crumpled scripts. “I’d better be,” Kara quips, if only to keep her sappiness at bay, “or I’m returning the BFF necklaces I brought as our first-anniversary gift.”

“I’m serious,” Lena huffs, and her grip around Kara’s neck tightens just a hair. “Will you let me be serious?”

“Okay, okay. One hundred percent seriousness from here on out, I promise.”

For a moment, the only sound is that of cars passing, of the trickle from the water fountain, of the faint music coming from the party. And when Lena speaks at last, it’s quiet. “I know my mom’s not the…easiest person,” she says. “And if pretending to be my girlfriend is going to make you uncomfortable because you have to deal with her, you don’t have to do it.”

“I’ve been dealing with your mother forever, Lena,” Kara says lightly. “She hasn’t been able to scare me off yet, for as much as she’s tried.”

Lena scoffs, but her hand is unmistakably tender as she fiddles with Kara’s shirt collar. “What happened to being serious?”

“I am serious! Do you or do you not remember that time we went to the water park? I swear she cut a hole in my water tube slide. And let’s not even bring up the whole prom incident, because I swear my hip has never been the same since falling out of your window.”

“She didn’t even know that was you.” Lena laughs, and it’s still somewhat hesitant, but just affectionate enough to reflect her feelings about that memory. “That feels like a lifetime ago.”

Kara inhales, shakily, both the sweet scent of Lena’s perfume and some much-needed air. “In a good way or a bad way?”

Lena presses her forehead into Kara’s jaw, her skin still cold enough that it makes Kara sympathetically squeeze her tighter. “Can you just promise to tell me if you don’t feel comfortable?” she asks, and ignores Kara’s question entirely. “Either with my mother, or…just the pretending part with me.”

“I feel plenty comfortable,” Kara tries, but Lena just reiterates,

“Promise me, Kara. I don't want to lose you.”

Something about the urgency in Lena's tone shifts the mood entirely; Kara swallows tightly and nods obligingly. “Okay. I promise. But you have to tell me, too, if anything becomes…I don't know, too much.”

“Fine,” Lena agrees readily.

“No, wait, but listen,” Kara presses. “Being friends is one thing, but dating is another, and—even if it's fake, we're going to have to do couple things. And I don't want it to ruin our friendship.”

“I also don't want to ruin our friendship,” Lena says. “Which is why I brought it up first.”

“Good. Okay. I just wanted to be sure.” Kara awkwardly shifts, all too aware that this might not be the ideal time and place for this conversation. Much less when Lena's still in her lap, clinging to Kara as if afraid to let go. “So on a scale of one to ten, how badly have I messed up the friendship by fighting Mike?”

Lema hums, considering. “That depends on what he said about me.”

“Um, nothing nice,” Kara says haltingly. “I'd rather not repeat it.”

“Then I'll let it slide…this once.” Lena's hands find their way up to Kara's face, fingertips gentle against the bruise on her jaw. “But you are still an idiot.” She thumbs warmly against the apple of Kara's cheek and gazes at Kara from underneath thick mascaraed eyelashes, then whispers, “And you're my favorite.”

“Your favorite idiot?”

“My favorite person.” Suddenly they're seventeen again, and Kara is sitting on Lena's bedroom floor still tugging at her tux because it itches. Suddenly they're seventeen again, and Lena is biting her lip and unable to catch Kara’s eye. Suddenly they’re seventeen again, and Lena is whispering I wanted you to make sure he didn’t kiss me because I want you to be my first kiss.

Kara blinks, mouth opening and closing for a pause, before she has to fall back on a safe feeling—fall right back to humor, so Lena does not comment on the way Kara’s body automatically tenses. “Aw, Lena,” she manages, “that sounded a lot like you like me.”

“I’m just a good actress,” Lena says mock-haughtily, but her eyes are searching as they lock onto Kara’s, expression softening the way no one else ever really sees. To the world she’s always been some cold, aloof superstar, but to Kara she will always be the best friend who wanted her first kiss to be with the person she trusted most in the world.

“Well for the record,” Kara swallows thickly, “you’re my favorite, too.”

There is a split second—a charged, electric second—where Kara swears Lena is going to kiss her. Her eyes are hooded like they’re about to close, and her face sways closer, her hand still resting on Kara’s bruised jaw. But then she sighs, and Kara can feel the distance before she sees it.

“We should go back inside,” Lena says, abruptly stumbling off of Kara's lap. “Sooner or later we'll have to do damage control.”

It takes a beat for Kara to catch up. “Right,” she says, hastening to button up her shirt and follow. “It wouldn't be a Luthor party without damage control.”

“It's the first time you're the cause, though,” Lena throws over her shoulder. “And don't forget your tie!”

“Got it,” Kara calls, undoing her tie entirely and tossing it into the bushes. “Hey, wait up! Come back and hold my hand.”

That makes Lena freeze in place. “What?”

“For—you know, the cameras,” Kara says, shrugging her suit jacket back on. “So we can show a united front.”

Lena gives her an inscrutable look. “You say the weirdest things sometimes,” she says, but she allows Kara to catch up and intertwine their hands together without further complaint.

“How else is everyone supposed to know you're not mad at me?” Kara reminds her. “Or that I'm the best girlfriend you've ever had?”

“I doubt they're going to make that assumption based on hand holding.” But as they climb up the steps to rejoin the gala, the low, golden light illuminates that dimpled smile of Lena's that makes Kara breathless. “What makes you think you're the best, anyway?”

“Just a guess,” Kara says, squeezing Lena's hand as they reach the entrance. “Am I?”

“Let's see if you end tonight without any more fights first,” Lena quips, and while her voice is teasing, her smile grows exponentially tender. “Ready?”

“Ready,” Kara echoes quietly, and allows Lena to lead her right through those double doors knowing that she would follow Lena anywhere.

#prompt was: 'aw that sounded a lot like you like me / im just a good actor'#i rewrote this a million times and finally settled on a childhood friends + celebrity au :)#supercorp #supergirl #i need a fic tag #i miss these two dramatic ''besties'' who just wanna kiss each other on the mouth #lyssa #as always ty for the prompt !! <3

412 notes · View notes

kimsohn · 1 year

Note

juyeon + calmly reassuring the other it’s okay when they drop a glass, gently checking their hands for any injury

stay . juyeon x gn!reader warnings . mentions of injury

you flick the light switch upward, turning on the dim lights in the foyer. the faint clicking of the clock signals that it's nearly three in the morning, but today you're not fast asleep like usual. instead, your mind runs heavy with littered thoughts and fast-paced memories that do everything but let you rest, and you pad toward the kitchen in resignation in hopes of seeking some form of solace.

however, instead of walking in to see the pristine marble countertops you'd always prided your apartment on, you notice the figure standing behind it. your initial reaction would be to scream at the stranger in your flat in the dead of night, but upon closer inspection, you realize it's your boyfriend, juyeon, drinking a cup of coffee while he scrolls on his phone.

"juyeon? what are you doing here?"

he doesn't startle at your voice, merely focusing his eyes on your tired and restless frame. you notice his bleary eyes and eyebags, and paired with the caffeine you assume he's had a long schedule and an even longer one to return to.

"your apartment was closer to the shoot so i came to pick up some coffee. i tried to be quiet and not wake you up, but i guess i failed," he whispers, scratching the back of his neck as if he was guilty.

juyeon frequents your place often like this, so often that you gave him a key to let himself inside whenever he needed to. you're used to his unexpected yet welcome presence by now, so seeing him in the kitchen doesn't scare you. if anything, you're just worried about the unhealthy schedules that bring him here at odd times in the first place.

"no, no, it's not your fault," you respond, walking toward him to plant your feet right in front of him, "i just couldn't sleep. i came to get a glass of water."

he takes a sip of coffee, and you watch his face morph into a frown. he reaches behind you to grab an empty glass, the wooden cabinet creaking open and shut to fill the empty silence.

"do you need me to stay with you? i have some time to kill before i go back to my shoot," he asks, filling the cup with some water.

embarrassment flits across your face at the thought of being so dependent on your boyfriend that you couldn't even sleep without him. juyeon grins at your expression, handing you the glass as a gesture to admit that you do in fact, need him by your side.

"yeah, i'd like that," you mutter, refusing to meet his eye as you take hold of the glass.

however, you seem to be too tired to function because you miscalculate the smoothness of the glass and watch it crash to the tile beneath you, the shards sprinkling into tiny pieces across the kitchen floor. responding quickly, juyeon carries you before you can step on the pieces, and you're lucky enough that juyeon moved quite some distance away from the shattering glass while you were too shocked to comprehend.

he places you on the kitchen counter, and the cool marble beneath you is a sharp contrast to the warmth of his fingers. he examines your fingers and then your feet to see if you have any shards lodged in your skin, but thanks to him and his fast reflexes, you're practically unharmed.

"you're okay, right? does it hurt anywhere? please let me know if you feel anything so i can take you to the hospital—"

"juyeon, love, i'm fine," you interrupt, grabbing onto his shoulders and forcing him to look at you, "thank you for helping me, otherwise i would've been seriously hurt. i'm sorry for dropping the glass in the first place. i'm just really out of it i guess—"

"hey, hey it's okay," he shushes you, grabbing onto your hands and squeezing them tight, "what matters now is that you didn't get hurt. if anything, this is just a sign to get you to bed sooner. i'll be right by your side, okay?"

you drink another glass of water, this time a steel cup, and watch your boyfriend clean up the glass pieces with a broom. as he dumps them in the trash, your heart swells with thankfulness at his mere presence and thoughtful nature. he was willing to protect you first before himself, and you feel yourself tingle with warmth.

as you settle into bed and juyeon tucks you in, you find yourself pulling at his arm to drag him alongside you. you know he can't be with you for long, but you plan to make use of your time in the best way possible: cuddling.

"thank you again," you whisper, cupping his face as he wraps his arm around your waist.

"don't thank me. it's my job to be here whenever you need me, whether it's saving you from a broken cup or tucking you into bed. i hope you know that even if i can't be here physically, i'll always be in your heart."

170 notes · View notes

i-eat-deodorant · 3 months

Text

But they were never scared before. They navigated Heket’s abandoned metropolis; they dove underwater to enter Kallamar’s temple; they braved the spider-infested caverns of Shamura’s stronghold. A god of death did not balk at mere darkness. They’d died every conceivable death and got up again to tell the tale, so why did something like this now spook them so much? The crown. It was always the crown. There was no curse-flame to light the caves, no weight of an ax in their hand to swing at a moment’s notice, no accelerated healing to get them out of trouble. And if they died, this time it might be permanent. No chance for a retry. Mortal, and fallible. For the first time in a century, Lamb felt like prey.

hey look who finally updated his fic

#rewrote this like 3 times and i'm still very unsatisfied with it #don't like it don't like how flat it feels don't like how i've paced it don't like the direction i've been going #but i don't wanna rewrite it a 4th time so you get this #i'm already 5k words into chapt 3 and it's. it's fun.#very fun.#narilamb

30 notes · View notes

silentreigns · 1 month

Text

I have been reading articles and watching videos and I can't remember where exactly I heard this information from. But imma ask about it regardless:

If Alain Prost said that he we was willing to continue his F1 career, but then they asked him about the possibility of teaming up with Ayrton again, why did I see a post that on here that said that Prost suggested that Senna join Williams (I could be making this up but I do remember a prosenna post going around with over 1k notes about this). Because in my mind, Prost wanted to continue his F1 career, so why would he go out of his way to put in a good word for Ayrton when that's like the one thing that would prevent him from continuing?

#f1 #formula 1 #classic f1 #alain prost #ayrton senna #prosenna #am i explaining this right?#i hope so i rewrote this post like 3 times

22 notes · View notes

philtstone · 5 months

Note

Aragorn/Arwen, 63

#63 -- tujhe dekha toh from dilwale dulhania le jeyenge ok so the soulmatism of it all had me going completely nuts (simrans waking dreams.....i need to lie down) & before i knew it i'd re-read their appendix had 3 literary analysis epiphanies and was neck deep in the wiki page on love death and meaning and the paradox of religion and nonreligion in tolkein i say all that like i didnt just write movie verse kidfic lol. ellie is a shortened version of "nethel" which means sister in sindarin. in a different time in my life i would have named every single one of canon girldad aragorns "many daughters" & also included 5 of them but alas, at this time i am Busy. so we'll pretend that the other 3 havent come along yet. arwen has magic powers she will be fine. enjoy!

“My lady Luthien!”

The words come into Arwen's dream in the common tongue, whispered and full of a child’s awe. He is speaking as if to himself — the text has surprised him, or perhaps absorbed him so that he does not realize his mouth is moving, disrupting the Sindarin read privately in his thoughts with an impulsive, delighted exclamation.

To Arwen it is just as mesmerizing. She cannot know why her dream has brought her here, to this garden of her father’s House she has sought refuge in so many a time. She knows him very little, this child, not ten in the years of Men and so very human about it, with lanky limbs folded up against himself to cradle the book and a mop of dark hair that falls down over his eyes and the very beginning of spots on his chin (of endless intrigue to Arwen, who has only ever seen skin unblemished).

She has not met him, but knows of him from her brothers’ letters: her father’s ward, sweet and grave and beloved amongst the Rivendell kindred as any novelty in the shape of a child might be. But Estel earns it, too. He is earning his presence in her dream in the same way, sat in the exact spot she always chooses, under bows of trees she has long considered friends. He earns it, though Arwen doesn’t quite know why he’s here.

Don’t you? ask her thoughts of her self, and she does not answer.

Years pass, and she is home again.

“My lady Luthien,” he says, as she comes toward him, and within his voice is a gentle embarrassment that still manages to tease.

Arwen, firm in her earlier, gentle rejection (he is far too young), cannot help but find this terribly charming anyway. It is just after dinner, and she has found him behind a pillar to the side of where they dine. He holds his cup in both hands. Until her appearance he was studying the carvings on one stone edifice to their side, and seems in every way his mortal age save one: there is a new and convoluted weight in his eyes that was not there in the early afternoon, when he called so clearly and sincerely to her. It seems to have entered like the broken branches of a sapling swept into a fast-moving stream after a storm.

“I should be greatly flattered, Estel, to be compared thus,” Arwen says, offering that weight a smile. Estel drops his eyes back to the pillar. He seems to start and stop a few times before actually opening his mouth, and when he does,

“I should like to still be called Estel, for a while yet,” and there is great vulnerability there, in his young man’s eyes. It sneaks into her breast and cups a hand over the breath she draws, and despite the glade, and his youth, and the Truth her father has now shared with him, she is compelled: Arwen’s own hand slides over his knuckles, and they are holding the cup together.

“I will,” she promises. “I do.”

On the edge of the last word do his eyes flick up to hers, canny in a way that sparks beneath her skin. He lives up to his name, she thinks then (not quite knowing why), and when she writes this to him after they have parted, in the letters they now share, he writes back: so do you.

Before Estel, her experience of Death was altogether different. She knew it first in abstraction and then in keen loss. Now she feels its imminance and urgency, in both grand and mundane ways.

For example, earlier this evening, Arwen thought she might die if she did not kiss him. It was a thought that crept over her swiftly, silent and keen as a fresh ice water brook spilling into open hands, very different from the thundering roar of the river spirits she had summoned to herself – until it was suddenly quite the same, roaring, and it must have shown in her eyes. In the late quiet of the night she came to her rooms and found him, there.

(She has long since known why.)

The employment of her tongue is not new, but pulls a murmur out of him regardless. “My lady Luthien,” he starts, speaking almost directly against her mouth, with a wry amusement that is not so unburdened as to be playful and not yet a warning, either, and then he is properly startled into, “Arwen —!” when her next kiss includes a bite. The rasp of beard against her chin is uncomfortable and delightful. She can feel the rumble of her small victory in his chest. Aragorn has always done so much with just the two syllables of her name.

When she has lost all breath she pulls away, and does not pant — sweet air made salty by urgency comes in and out of her lungs in discordant sighs — but her lips stay hot against his ear and she feels every press of his fingers against the slope of her waist, burning. She thinks of death again; she has fought it off. Twice in one week now, in very different ways.

Aragorn does pant, in his own way. He lets out a quiet gasp and drops his head against the side of hers, not trembling but finding some stronghold deep within himself that begets composure.

Slowly she begins to comb her fingers through the hair at his temple. In the dark alcove of her rooms (safe), they sway together.

“Tomorrow,” he murmurs, and she knows: tomorrow the council is held.

“I meant it, earlier,” says Arwen softly, into his hair. It has begun to grey, the strands too hidden yet to shimmer in the moonlight but there nonetheless. Every so often she will catch a glimpse of them and it will leave her wordless, and desperate to touch him. “Your fears are not the truth you think them to be.”

“Arwen.” She can hear the desperation that threatens to choke his own voice. Duty turns the peaceful twilight of her home into a foreboding shadow. There are two large warm hands on her face before she has noticed them move, and then she feels the wetness of her own cheeks: she had not realized she was crying.

“I did not know it would be so momentous to love,” she says, while he wipes at her tears with war-roughened, gentle fingers. So many things about Men are a paradox. So many things about this man.

“Meleth,” he says.

“I meant it.” She repeats herself. “I know who you are in my heart, Estel.”

“You do,” he allows her, and she is not certain he believes it to be enough. No matter, Arwen thinks: her own belief will sustain them. It must, long enough that he has hope for himself as well as for Men, and then they might cross through the door, to the other side of the Dark.

The Queen finds her husband in Faramir’s study, reading.

“My lady Luthien,” she is greeted, words threaded full of the subtle humour that has turned her head for over sixty years.

Arwen clasps her hands over the laden basket she packed without needing any kind of foresight and sighs thinly.

“I did expect, mel nin, that you had gone the whole day without food, but I had thought you would be found holding grave council, or visiting the head healer, or even – forgivably – in the stables. Instead, you are here, nose-deep in an ancient poem.”

“It did not come to you in a vision?” he asks, and raises his eyes just enough to catch hers from beneath his lashes. This does nothing to diminish the focus etched into his dark brow, nor the way he holds himself (always it calls to her – it does not matter the shape), nor the deep blue of his mantle sweeping against the floor; he has not paused to change since returning from the Southern Wall. Whatever peace he thinks his feigned innocence will win him, she cannot know.

“Your Steward told on you, my love.”

“Aaah,” his face falls, so dramatically it is amusing.

She holds up her basket. “I have lunch.”

“My beloved wife has developed the sensibilities of a Hobbit,” Aragorn says, in her people’s language.

“Hobbits are good and noble creatures,” she retorts. She always argues better with him in Sindarin anyhow, “and have traditions from which we might learn.” She arches a brow: “Estel.”

“I am eating,” protests Aragorn, somewhat weakly. “I mean – I will.”

“You might do so now. With me – there is no one else here.”

It is a potent suggestion, she does acknowledge. She watches him think about it, proud to note all the little tells which she has known since he was a barefaced and impulsive young man. The same canny look sparks under Arwen’s skin. Once, decades ago, she had met him in the wild woods beyond her father’s borders in a stolen moment between darkness and duty, and convinced him to bathe with her in the river. She remembers her joy at seeing his wet dark hair plastered all over his forehead. She remembers his own joy, and how it fought off the lonesome blanket of the gathering shadow.

“Your thoughts are of something I know,” Aragorn says now, suspicion arching his tone and narrowing his bright eyes, no longer that of a young man but still full of a life that thrills her. “Some joyful mischief that you’re going to coax me into again, no doubt.”

“There is sadly no river in the palace.”

“Aaah,” uttered in a very different tone from before. His eyebrows twitch out of their focused furrow and his face warms with the memory. He lowers his book a little. “Arwen …”

But he does not move from his spot behind the desk, so Arwen places her basket down and sweeps forward, intent. The silver in his hair streaks liberally now, and lines furrow down his cheeks when he laughs – often – but otherwise Aragorn remains mostly unchanged from the presence filling so little yet so much of the many years of Arwen’s memory. Affection rushes through her, swelling like the river, growing like the trees in Lorien. That glade, too, is a memory full of joy. He is much better suited to a beard, though. Arwen tells him this.

“So you have said many many times,” Aragorn says, chuckling. “I have no plans of removing it from my face, beloved.”

“I know,” Arwen hums. “I am only observing.”

Slowly she comes around the desk, on even steps, until they are very nearly touching and she can fold her hands over the top of his book. She takes a long moment to look at him, and though she in her chosen mortality no longer carries the same potency of power that Tinuviel’s blood held before, she conducts her habitual scan of his spirit, the truth of it ebbing through her fingers where they touch. Beyond her duties as Queen (of which there are many, and she both capable and willing) this is what Arwen knows most deeply in her heart how to do.

Finding Aragorn no more burdened than usual (though perhaps a little distracted) she leans in to whisper in his ear.

“Ah –” he clears his throat and touches two long brown fingers to her arm. Unexpectedly, then, Aragorn stage whispers, “We are not … as alone as it seems.”

“What exactly do you mean?” Arwen, paused very close to his mouth, is compelled to whisper back.

And then,

“It’s alright!” comes a familiar little voice from seemingly nowhere, and all at once Arwen looks down to see the outside shape of the King’s voluminous cloak wriggle. Her mouth parts in surprise. The whisperer continues importantly, “You may kiss Ada if you like, Naneth. We are not looking!”

“Ssssshhh!” materializes a second, equally familiar little voice.

Arwen tilts her head, mystified, as her husband sets his expression into something communicating exclusively the secrets and patient indulgences of fatherhood. Then he jerks his chin towards the door, eyebrows raised and everything, not a moment before there sounds the sharp cadence of what can only be a young boy’s footsteps (and Arwen would know this boy’s as she knows her own heart) and into the library bursts their only son.

At the sight of his parents, Eldarion comes to an abrupt halt, and tries very hard to compose himself.

“Ahem,” he says, straightening. She sees the way his body moves to mimic his father, and also the grass stains on his knees, and the disheveled mop of his curls that means he has definitely spent the last hour running around in the gardens. Arwen is unbothered by this. “Hello Ada, hello Naneth. Have you – have you seen my sisters?”

The front of Aragorn stays conspicuously still.

“Your sisters?” asks Arwen, clasping her hands demurely before her.

“I am afraid my attention has been elsewhere,” says Aragorn gravely, holding aloft his book.

“Indeed,” adds Arwen. “So much so that he has forgotten to eat.”

Minutely, the cloak quivers.

“Hmmmm,” says Eldarion, lost in focus. “I must find them to create an alliance with the brave rangers in the North,” he speaks, almost as though to himself – he is really giving this quite a bit of thought. He is so absorbed that she could be in Rivendell again, drawn by a dream into her beloved, occupied glade … “For we must defend the townspeople but I cannot do it alone.”

Arwen blinks. Her heart is filled with tenderness.

“They have assigned you the role of orc again?” Aragorn is guessing, sympathetic.

Eldarion droops only a little before springing back up with full confidence. “Yes! But I am determined that we will create an alliance. I am a good orc, you see.”

With hasty goodbyes, he rushes away, taking the excitable sound of his footsteps with him.

A moment of quiet passes. Aragorn’s cloak begins giggling, so he spreads open his arms and herds them out one by one.

“You must go quietly now, down the hall and into the gardens,” whispers their father.

“Naneth,” begins their youngest, halfway out the room, “Naneth, do you think if we formed a nalliance –”

“An alliance,” corrects Aragorn, still whispering.

“Shhh,” interrupts the other, “or Eldarion will find us!”

“But he must be getting lonely!”

“Oh, ellie …”

Their little voices trail out of the door.

“I believe an alliance would work,” Aragorn offers Faramir’s many inert books, speaking at a normal register once more. The study now empty, Arwen turns back to her husband. His eyes are twinkling. She does not say anything, but moves toward him, as she has done so many times before, and lays her head to rest against his shoulder. In moments the book is tucked away, and the warm hands she knows so well are cradling her arms.

After a moment he says, “You are well? Arwen?” a gentle question in her ear. Arwen nods. She can now say what she knows, and why they are here:

She sustained them, and there was hope to be found.

Aragorn’s fingers rub over the gauzy sleeve of her dress. “Did you have your heart set on lunch?” he asks quietly.

“I did,” Arwen says, and turns to hold his eye. “I do.”

#i rewrote the ending 3 times to procrastinate posting this bc i am so Nervous #ive literally written them before but never like Seriously you know?#Thee Blueprint from when i was 8 years old....#my writing #spotify wrapped prompt meme #aragorn #arwen undomiel #aragorn x arwen #the lord of the rings #the tale of aragorn and arwen #lotr #lotrweek

35 notes · View notes

krikeymate · 6 months

Text

Fictober 2023: Day 28: “I may not get another chance to say this.” - Sam isn't ready to say goodbye. Fandom: Scream Rating: T Warnings: None.

➖

The mask staring down at her looks like all the others, yet all Tara can see is a smirk, wide and grinning and euphoric.

And why wouldn’t they be? They’ve won.

They’ve actually fucking won.

You’d think she’d be used to this by now, the pain that sets her veins alight, how hot blood is as it seeps out of the stab wound and over her desperate clutching fingers.

No amount of pressure is going to stem this tide when she has only her hands at her disposal.

She wishes her sister was here, Sam would know what to do. Sam always knows what to do.

Oh Sam.

She’s going to kill her.

This is going to kill her.

Tara shifts as her body slips a little further down the wall.

Fuck.

If she falls, that’s it, she knows it. She’ll never get back up again.

Ghostface knows it too.

They laugh at the pathetic sight before them.

It’s uncomfortably loud, reminding her just how alone they are. How there’s no one to help her. No one to save her, not this time.

“Where are my manners?” they drawl, modulated voice controlled and calm.

An act. It’s only ever an act.

Some sociopath pretending to be a master of their own fate… or hers, until something goes wrong and the screaming child comes out to play.

She wishes it would, then she might have some sort of chance.

“Here,” they say, holding out a hand.

In their gloves palm sits her phone, screen flashing with notifications.

It feels too good to be true.

This is just another game, another way to toy with her.

Ghostface throws it at her feet.

There’s a crack, but the screen continues to light up with a fresh fracture down the middle.

All she can do is stare at it, tears welling in her eyes in frustration. It’s so close, but it feels a million miles away. She can’t bend down to reach it, she can only…

“Condemned prisoners get a last meal, don’t they? Well, I think we’re a little past that, so how about a phone call instead?”

Fall.

She drops to her knees, blood-slick hands uncoordinated and clumsy as they try to grip at her phone and answer the current call, Sam’s smiling face lighting up the screen.

“Sam!” she cries, falling forward, as the call clicks open.

She can barely breathe, through the pain, the dizziness, the relief.

“Tara? Tara where the hell are you?! We’re all worried sick, why the hell haven’t you been answering your phone?”

It’s all she can do to sob into the speaker, Sam’s frantic voice fading to a background noise as her vision blackens for a moment.

“Sam. Sam listen. Please listen.”

She pauses, breathing heavily, as the buzzing quiets.

“I may not get another chance to say this.”

Sam tries to interject, but Tara can’t wait. She doesn’t have time to comfort Sam right now.

“I forgive you.”

Tara squeezes her eyes shut. Somehow the tears burn worse than the blood.

Sam’s been asking for forgiveness ever since she returned into her life, and Tara’s never hesitated to give it. She didn’t need to hear that there was nothing to forgive, she needed to know she was forgiven, for whatever crimes it is that lurk in her mind.

Who’s going to absolve her sister now?

The thought hurts so much worse than any stab wound.

“Tara, where are you? Please, just tell me where you are.”

“I don’t know, I don’t know Sam, I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m–”

Tara screams as a boot slams down onto her hand, crushing the phone beneath it, glass and plastic splintering against her skin.

“Oops,” Ghostface hums, stepping back and tilting their head at her. “I’m so sorry, I’m so clumsy sometimes.”

She curls into a ball, one hand plastered against her stomach wound, the other clenched against her chest, wishing he would just shut up.

Inside her a part of her screams, telling her to turn around, to look at them, to never turn your back on an enemy.

It’s an easy thing to ignore, she’s been ignoring her own mind for years.

What more can this asshole do to her? She’s dying. Slowly. Just the way they designed it.

“Don’t worry, Tara,” the voice coos, a hand petting against her head. “You won’t have to die alone, I’ll be right here with you.”

For the first time in her life, she wishes she was alone again.

Across the city, Sam stares down at her phone at the call ended screen. It takes a few seconds to process.

The moment she does, she’s spinning around.

“Did you get it?”

“I got it, let’s go,” Kirby replies.

I’m coming for you Tara, she promises. Just hold on.

#/mp #fictober23 #Scream #Tara Carpenter #my writing tag #exactly 800 words. i rewrote this 3 times with 3 different ideas btw. stupid behaviour.

36 notes · View notes

e-wills-afterhours · 1 year

Note

Heeey. I have a request, Hiccup having phantom pains and Astrid taking care of him? Thanks!

A/N: Sure thing, Nonny. I think I wrote this very oneshot years ago, but I cannot find it, for the life of me. Might as well do an updated version!

And who doesn't love a little Hiccstrid tenderness, amirite?

Our beloved OTP is 17 here. I also seem to be writing a lot of Hiccstrid from the 5-year gap between HTTYD 1 and 2 lately minus RTTE...

Aaaaaand, I'm kind of okay with that right now. I hope you are too.

Rating: T (all of my work pretty much is unless I rate it otherwise)

Just One of Many Things

-------

If Astrid was asked to list all of the things she appreciated about Hiccup Horrendous Haddock, it would be long. Perhaps, equal in length to all of the things that aggravated her about him. Some qualities even held spots in both categories. His stubbornness, for example, could be quite the asset when he was in the right; but just as much a headache when he got stuck on some new harebrained idea.

She loved him, regardless.

Growing up amid dragon raids, she did not understand the old adage "opposites attract." It seemed counterintuitive. What held two people together who could not see eye-to-eye on anything? In those days, there was no one more unsuited for each other's company than she and Hiccup.

But then the fog of war lifted, and she finally saw him for who he was. She came to realize that they had more in common than she dared to imagine. They wanted the same things, from the world and each other; albeit their approaches were drastically different. Therein lied their beautiful counterbalance. Everything she needed was within his capacity to give.

He was patient and kind, slow to anger, and remarkably intelligent--almost frighteningly so. Generous with his resources and abilities, she seldom had to ask him for anything he hadn't already thought to provide. He was the calm to her storm.

But true to form, some of his other admirable qualities irked her as much as they endeared him to her--and in that moment, his fierce independence was the bane of her existence. He had a pesky habit of refusing to ask for help, even if he needed it.

The more she pressed him for the truth, the more he denied the extent of the problem.

"Just because you can suffer in silence, doesn't mean you have to," she huffed, arms folded. "You're not winning any prizes."

"I'm fine," he insisted, through gritted teeth as he limped toward the hearth, all but dragging his prosthetic along.

His gait was always the slightest bit uneven, ever since the Red Death took his left leg. One needed a keen eye to notice it; he had adapted so quickly. It made his exaggerated lurches all the more pronounced and worrisome as he braced himself against the mantle.

"You're in pain," she said, frowning deeply.

"It's just a little burning," he replied with a feeble smile, the faintest edge in his voice.

Astrid could make out the beads of sweat glistening on his brow and upper lip from across the room. The crackling fire illuminated them clearly.

"Hiccup, there's nothing there to burn," she retorted, pointing to his metal appendage.

He let out a dry laugh. "Really? I hadn't noticed."

Astrid clicked her tongue. Unlike him, she was prone to impatience. She strode across the room and grabbed him by the shoulders. With a sweep of a well-placed boot to the ankle, she kicked his good and steady leg out from underneath him. Looping one arm beneath his, she guided his fall and avoided further injury as he crumpled to the floor.

"Frigg og Eir!" Astrid, he hissed when he landed. "You don't have to kick my leg out from underneath me! I only have just the one!"

She crouched down in front of him, her expression flat. "At least your sense of humor's still intact."

"Are you going to be kicking that out from me next?" he asked, indignant.

She sighed and sat back on her knees. Her face softened when she considered his labored breathing and clenched fists. His mouth was a tight, thin line as he tried to force the pain down where she wouldn't see. But the suffering was plain in his eyes.

"Please, let me help you," she murmured, placing a hand on his knee. "I want to do this. Just...tell me how."

He paused for a beat, then said, "You really don't have to--"

"Hiccup...," and his name was a soft plea on her lips; one he never could resist.

A drop of sweat trickled down from his temple. He stared at her. There was obvious tension in his neck and shoulders. His left leg jutted out stiffly in front of him while he leaned back. It was as if he thought distance from his metal leg my improve things.

He finally relented with a shuddering exhale.

"Okay." He sat up a little straighter and repeated with more conviction, "Okay."

Astrid gently unfastened his prosthetic and set it aside. Not too long ago, he would have never allowed such a thing--to spare her from his indignity, or some such nonsense. But she never cared, and he had come to accept that. A quarter or more of the adults on Berk had some sort of fake extremity: battle scares of a bygone era. Nothing about Hiccup could ever repulse her. After all, she had grown up alongside Snotlout and the twins; and nothing was sacred anymore.

"When was the last time this happened?" she asked as she rolled his pantleg up over his knee.

"Months ago," he replied, teeth clenched. He breathed through the pain, nostrils flaring. "I don't remember. It's been that long."

"What now?" she asked, holding what remained of his lower leg in her hands.

He betrayed himself with a small whimper, then gestured vaguely at the kitchen. "There's a cloth or a rag. Boiled water on the pot on the table. Should just be warm now."

Astrid filled in the blanks, which wasn't difficult. She got up at once to fetch the rag and took it over to the pot of water that had more than likely been boiled for tea, or some other herbal concoction. With caution, she tested the temperature of the water with the knuckle of her pinky finger. Deciding it was no longer scalding, as Hiccup had said, she dunked the rag in. The excess water, she wrung back into the pot.

"Do I lay it on, or do I wrap it?" she asked, returning to where her boyfriend sat on the floor.

"Wrap it," he replied. Then, with a weak grin, he added, "Please."

Astrid nodded and wrapped the warm rag around the stump of his leg with great care, covering as much of the residual calf muscle as possible. She gave his leg the tenderest squeeze.

He let out a groan, head falling back as he supported his weight on his hands.

"No good?" Astrid asked in alarm. "Is it too hot?"

"It hurts, but it's perfect."

She wrinkled her nose. "What?"

"Do...that again," he said, making a kneading motion in the air with his hands.

"Massage?"

"Yes. But it sounds better when you say it."

She rolled her eyes playfully. "You're such a dork. I mean, truly-- the smartest dumbass I've ever known."

He flashed her a genuine smile then laid all the way back on the floor. She settled in a crossed-legged position and massaged the length of his lower leg, up to the knee, over the warm rag.

They stayed in comfortable silence apart from the occasional pop and hiss from the fire. Hiccup, lying down with his eyes closed, and Astrid, tending to the stump in her lap. It was peaceful and uniquely intimate. She'd keep at it all night to take his pain away, if he only asked, but she knew he never would. So, she did what she could for him in that late hour, running her thumbs to the bend of his knee with steady pressure. Followed by long, kneading strokes back down to the end of his limb, where thick ribbons of scar tissue and mangled remnants of flesh all came together, long stitched off. She wondered how much of her touch he could still feel. He had never told her.

She wondered vaguely if her parents were expecting her home. Time was of little consequence whenever they were alone together. The minutes either crawled or flew by; it didn't really matter either way. All Astrid cared about was easing some of the burden he carried. To help, to do something for him, was all she ever wanted.

Hiccup's breathing eventually evened out. His skin was no longer adorned with sweat, and all the tension had left his body. If she didn't know better, she'd think he was asleep.

"Hiccup?" she asked, cutting through silence, and it was almost jarring.

"Hm?" he replied, opening his eyes to meet her gaze.

"Does the pain always feel the same? Like your leg's on fire, I mean."

He thought for a moment, staring at the ceiling, then answered, "Yes. It happens far less often now than it did in the beginning. But the feeling is always the same. Maybe slightly less intense, but I can't recall."

Astrid shook her head. To imagine a sudden and unexpected sensation of one's own flesh burning was horrific.

"Well, that's awful," she muttered.

He shrugged. "Gobber told me this 'phantom pain' happens more often in the first few years. I might get to a point where it doesn't happen anymore. Or it could happen randomly and infrequently for the rest of my life. Who knows."

"I just...hate that it has to be you."

A silence fell over them again, much heavier than the last. He studied her all the while, his eyes appearing impossibly warmer in the firelight.

He sat up slowly. "I'm alright now. You can stop." When she shot him a skeptical look, he insisted, "Honestly, it's passed. These episodes don't last forever."

She sighed and handed him his metal leg, which he took after rolling his pantleg back down. The speed and finesse with which he reattached was always interesting--but what was more remarkable was that he never complained. Not once, that she had ever heard. Yet, he had brought peace to their island, and he saved the people that had chided him for years--but no one else lost limbs in that fight. Just one boy and his dragon, against an ancient monster, risking everything to stop the cycle of fire and death that plagued their people for centuries. The exchange seemed one-sided; that he should still experience echos of pain from that day, was a terrible injustice in her eyes.

"Do you ever regret it?" she asked.

He glanced up, brow furrowed, as if the question itself was confusing.

"The Red Death is gone. The dragons are free. Berk is safer for our people and our dragons. You're safer." He took her hand and gave it an affectionate squeeze. With the utmost assuredness, he answered, "No. I don't regret it. Not for a moment."

She closed her eyes and leaned forward until their foreheads touched.

"You're unbelievable, Hiccup Haddock," she said. "Completely unbelievable."

"I thought that's what you love about me."

"Just one of many things," she murmured against his lips, and he smiled.

#hiccstrid #hiccstrid fic #i rewrote this like 3 times #here you go i guess?#*jazz hands*

60 notes · View notes