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mymainwastoocluttered · 1 year

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Malleus and his Divorce (Malleus)

Honestly, just some silly to cheer up this sick girl. I don't even know how to write a summary for this one. Literally just blurting out the first words that come to mind.

NOTE: I only write for female reader but everyone is welcome to read it!

— (⁠ ⁠´⁠◡⁠‿⁠ゝ⁠◡⁠`⁠)

"Malleus, I want a divorce."

The feather pen almost drops from Malleus' hand.

He looks up from the paper he's been trying to read for the past ten minutes, not sure if the sudden dizziness comes from being snapped out of his thoughts of Yuu, or from hearing such outlandish words come from his wife's lips. He blinks a few times, questions stuck in his throat, while (Y/N) waits patiently for him to gather his wits, sipping her tea as if she just asked about the weather. Once he does, only one word leaves him.

“Why?”

“Because you are in love, and I have no interest in becoming your romance's villain.”

“... What?”

(Y/N) gives him a small, smug and playful smile, one very few have the privilege to see. (Y/N) Draconia, the Crown Princess of Briar Valley by marriage, is known for being the pinnacle of what Briar Valley nobility should be: A solemn, noble lady that remains calm and composed no matter the situation, like a beautiful and eternal statue. So very few people have ever seen her break the behavior and be playful or angry, with her husband of centuries being one of them.

That doesn't mean he's any good at reading her, though, as proven by the confusion that floods his mind right now.

“I was told by Lord Vanrouge and your attendants of the human you cherish, the human named Yuu.”

“Yuu is just a friend.”

“I am not accusing you of anything, Your Highness,” the sudden sharpness in her voice and the formal addressing makes him wince. “I am noting a fact. You are in love with that human, and I wish you were free to pursue them. After all… your time together is fleeting.”

Malleus feels like a searing needle just stabbed his heart. Right, who could ever forget the tragic romance between her father and his human lover? Who could forget Count (L/N)'s fall from grace as he cheated on his wife with a human that stole his heart? The Countess who then divorced him after finding out—the tale of their explosive fight is still brought up over tea—, only for him to come back one year later with a half-fae, half-human baby in arms, lover gone thanks to illness. (Y/N) had long forgiven her father, and her brother is a beloved young man, but that deeply ingrained in her two things: the terrible fear of being betrayed and sympathy for doomed romances between lovers with different lifespans.

And now Malleus is practically walking the same path as her father.

“I…” he's not sure what to say. That he is sorry for loving another? That he's sorry it is a human? Neither sounds good.

He might not love (Y/N) romantically, but he holds a considerable amount of affection for her, who grew up with him and went through thick and thin by his side, who accepted his selfish request and became the Crown Princess because he couldn't accept the idea of marrying some random noble. To say something like that, to put her through this heartbreak, it hurts tremendously.

“Can… Can this wait?”

“I have all the time in the world, Malleus, so don't think of me,” she warns, placing the cup down on the table and getting up. “Please give me an answer before you regret it.”

She offers him a last smile before leaving him alone in his office.

The rest of his winter break is spent in contemplation. Malleus doesn't tell anyone of her request, other than his mentor and his aides. Lilia's expression takes that melancholic hue; being the one who helped officiate the Countess' divorce and the best man of Malleus' wedding, it's understandable he's not happy with the situation. Silver looks conflicted, his loyalty to Malleus keeps him quiet, but his years of friendship with (Y/N), who never once treated him as nothing but an equal, make his unhappiness clear. And Sebek—Sebek for once is quiet, not one word comes from him as he thinks things through; he's yet another who (Y/N) had befriended to the point of openness, and he holds a special respect for her that goes beyond her married status.

Talking of her, (Y/N) acts like nothing happened, except she starts to distance herself more and more. Before, they'd sit almost glued together, but slowly she began sitting farther and farther away, and now they sit on opposing seats. Before, they'd walk arm in arm, her head many times finding his shoulder and his finding hers, but now there's enough space between them to fit about two of her maids. Before, she'd go spend time with him in his office while he did paperwork with a soft smile and a quip, but now he seldom sees her outside meals.

The bed feels incredibly empty once she gets her own room.

Malleus knew of the word “miserable” before, but now he knows it intimately, like a host knows a parasite eating away their life.

(Y/N) is not there to see them off when they return to Night Raven College after winter break. Despite Malleus being the one facing a possible divorce, all four of them look like they ate an entire lime, even Lilia who usually keeps his boyish smile.

The first night he visits Yuu in Ramshackle is cold and sharp like the blade of a sword.

Even the Prefect notices his gloom, placing that gentle hand of theirs on his arm and asking what's wrong with their soft voice. Before, it had felt exhilarating; someone who's not afraid of him, and a human at that! Someone who treats him like just another man, finally!

But he has always had that, didn't he?

“I have a wife,” he blurts out, not knowing how to start but not wanting to go all the way back to the very beginning.

He prepares himself for the reaction, not even knowing what exactly he's expecting, but all they do is laugh kindly and look at him with amused eyes.

“I know, you talk about her all the time.”

“I… do…?”

“Did you not notice?” they furrow their brows. “Almost every time you talk about your life in Briar Valley, you find a way to talk about your wife. It's pretty cute, actually. You're so loving despite the usually regal and distant air you have.”

“She wants a divorce.”

“What?”

Hard to tell whose eyes are wider as they look at each other. Yuu's face goes through a few changes, but the confusion remains the same, and if Malleus were a bit more expressive, he'd probably be mimicking them. A few seconds of that pass before the fae swallows the lump in his throat and tell his friend the conversation he had with his wife.

“So she's divorcing you… because you have feelings for me?"

“... Yes. Apologies that this is how you learn of said feelings, by the way.”

“No, no, it's fine, I'm just… me? You like me?” Malleus nods and Yuu frowns even harder. “But you're agonizing over losing your wife.”

And Yuu, brilliant, simple and lovely Yuu, brings clarity to his mind in one phrase. He says he's interested in Yuu, but his heart hurts at the idea of losing his wife. And when he thinks back at all the fleeting times he thought to himself he had an interest in Yuu, he sees they all happened whenever Yuu treated him as his wife does: as a friend, a companion, someone special not for his pedigree or his abilities, but for the relationship they share, the person he is.

“... I think I like what you share with my wife.”

“No Sense Thursday, huh? Ok, I can do that.”

“No, it does make sense, Child of Man. I miss my wife terribly and you treat me like her.”

“... Ok, now I'm offended, I'm not a replacement for your wife.”

“Of course, I'm not going to divorce my wife for you.”

Yuu blinks and it hits Malleus that he was terribly rude just now, but before he can apologize and correct himself, Yuu throws their head back and laughs. Laughs, laughs and laughs, until tears threaten to fall. The fae isn't sure what they're laughing about, but he's glad at least one of them is having a good time.

“Right, right, no divorces for you, mister.” Yuu sniffles, fanning their face with their hands, small giggles still bursting every now and then. “So, what are you gonna do about it?"

“I'll go talk to her!”

“Go get'em, tiger!”

Malleus pays no attention to the odd encouragement, probably another of those odd human sayings, storming away from Ramshackle. Convincing Crowley is easy, it's not everyday that the Briar Valley Crown Prince barges into his office in the middle of the night and demands he opens the portal. Malleus could just use his own magic to go there, but with Headmage Crowley as a witness and the Dark Mirror as a medium, any sort of bureaucracy trouble that otherwise could be born is annulled. Lilia will take care of it.

He finds her in her room, sitting by the window in her sleeping robes. Fae are naturally considered ethereal, but (Y/N) was made to represent the word.

And she is his wife.

And he almost lost her.

“My wife.”

“Malleus!”

Before she can ask him what he's doing in her room in the middle of the night, Malleus lunges at her, not caring about the closed window they bump on with the impact, or her startled shriek. No, all he cares about is pressing their lips together in a passionate kiss, a passionate kiss that he trills when he feels it being answered in the same intensity. Dragon fae vocalization is not something he indulges much, specially not when mingling with humans, but if there's ever a night for him to throw away everything but his truest, then it is tonight.

The kiss only ends when he feels his lungs burn, and he can tell she's the same by the greedy breaths she takes. He can tell she’s about to question him and following his unusual impulsiveness, he kisses her again before she can utter a word. The second kiss is shorter, but still just as passionate, and he trills again when he sees a rosy blush rise to her cheeks.

“You’re wrong, and so was I,” he blurts out—he’s been breaking all records tonight, huh?—, brushing a strand of her hair away from her face. “I do not love Yuu, I was taken by them because they reminded me of you.”

“... that’s so rude! You shouldn’t see them as a replacement for me!”

Malleus can’t help but laugh out loud, hugging her to his chest and telling her between his laughter that Yuu said the exact same thing. He’s not the only one acting uncharacteristically, for (Y/N) manages to show him a pout he hasn’t seen since they were much, much younger. A pout he kisses away.

“Come to school with me.”

“Malleus, there are so many reasons why I can’t–”

“I can change them, all of them.”

“What if one of them is my will?”

“... I can change that too, if you allow me, wife.”

She shivers in his embrace and he grins. To think he came so close to losing this forever. He’s determined to make up for that terrible slip up, by any means necessary. By all means necessary. Their honeymoon did happen quite a long time ago, it’d be a shame to miss a chance to relive it.

With luck, Lilia will actually knock on the door when he comes to fetch Malleus the next day.

#twisted wonderland #twisted wonderland x reader #twst imagines #twst x reader #x fem reader #malleus draconia x reader #malleus draconia

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sweetsweetjellybean · 7 months

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In a city the size of Chicago, Eddie should be easy to avoid. Or maybe the city isn't as big as you thought?

Masterlist Listen to Sour Girl Here

What to expect: Second Chance Romance set in 2012 Chicago. Eddie and Steve are in their 30s. Fem!Reader is given a pet name from each of the guys. No other name mentioned. No use of Y/N. No physical description. Reader does have a bit of personality, as I find it nearly impossible to keep her blank for such a long fic. You may find yourself at times making choices that you wouldn't normally make, but I hope you can put that aside and enjoy the ride. Sensitive Content. 18+ Mentions of DV. Smut Guaranteed happy ending. This is my love letter to Eddie Munson.

WC:6558 beta'd by @superblysubpar

Plink.

Plink. Plink. Plink.

The old wooden frame of your window groans against the track, burdened with too many layers of paint to make the slide smooth. The swirls of creamy pinks and oranges have faded hours ago into the star-lit summer sky. The boy is below, standing in your backyard, fist full of pea gravel taken from a neighbor's garden. A smile twisting his lips lifts his cheeks, putting dimples on full display as he looks up at you from the darkness below. You raise a finger, signaling for him to wait before you turn away. Tossing a few things in your empty backpack, you take a pillow from your bed, and your comforter is wrestled free from the mattress. With careful footsteps, you creep down the stairs, stopping in the kitchen. The light from the fridge casts a triangle across the floor as you take a few Capri Suns to add to your bag. Leaving through the slider, the end of your blanket trails behind you through the grass that was trimmed that morning. You slip off your flip-flops, leaving them beside a pair of larger, well-worn sneakers with a chain wallet tucked inside the right shoe. Eddie bounces on the trampoline, his sock-covered feet launching him into the air, arms stretched for balance. You toss everything on before climbing on with him. With a final bounce, he lands on his butt beside you, grinning.

“I got it,” you tell him, tossing the pillow behind you.

“Nah-uh.”

"My dad took me to Tower this afternoon." Rummaging in your pack, you pull out a Discman and over-the-ear headphones with the cord in a tangled mess. "I could only get two. I had to choose between Rage," you begin, ticking off album titles on your fingers, “Soundgarden, STP, and Pearl Jam.”

“And?”

Taking out the CDs, you press them against his chest, letting go as soon as his fingers go around them. His brown eyes widen as he examines what’s in his hands as you pick apart the knotted cord.

“Songs from the Vatican Gift Shop AND Down on the Upside? You haven’t even opened this one.” He holds up the Soundgarden CD before using his teeth to rip open the cellophane covering the plastic case.

“I waited for you.” You smile.

His face softens. “You’re a doll.”

He lies back, his head nestling into your pillow, hands clasped behind his head, gazing up at the sky. After putting the CD into the player, you follow him, pulling the comforter over you both and resting your head on his bicep. The headphone speakers are flipped out, tucked between you, as Chris Cornell's melancholic voice begins to seep into your ears, velvety and dark like the night itself.

"Listen to this transition," he insists, his voice filled with the same awe that it always does when he talks about music, "The shift from acoustic to electric guitar is seamless."

“I wish I could hear it the way you do.”

As you gaze skyward, a slender branch sways in perfect rhythm with the chords, green leaves fluttering with the bass. The stars multiply and shimmer as if they’re caught up in the flow of the song.

“You do,” he says, his head turning toward you, “You’re the only one I know who loves it as much as I do.” He studies your face, his eyes locking with yours. The music building until it’s too intense, and he looks away. “It’s lyrics that hook you. You’ve always got so many words floating around in that big brain of yours.”

The disc spins, and you both listen, the scent of lilacs wafting in on the breeze, and fireflies painting the sky with their gentle glow. Time passes in the slow way it only does for kids on a cool summer night.

“Eddie?”

“Hmm?” He answers, eyes closed.

“Are they fighting again?”

He doesn’t talk about it, but everyone knows—an ugly secret festering on an otherwise picture-perfect street. No one wants to get their hands dirty by getting involved.

“Why won’t she leave him?” A simple question in a world of black and white.

“I want her to,” his adams apple bobs as he swallows, “She says she loves him.”

“Just stay here with me tonight, okay?” Rolling to your side, you wrap your hand across his chest, offering him the only protection that you can.

“Yeah, okay.”

When you wake the following morning, the songs and memories you were reacquainted with last night have faded to a dull throb–much like the martinis. But remnants of their lyrics persist, crawling under your skin, irritating like an itch, a tune hummed without the words to accompany it. Your phone’s screen lights up with an incoming text, the short burst of vibration sending it skittering across the surface of your nightstand. It takes a moment for your bleary eyes to focus on the notification on your lock screen.

Unknown: I admit last night could have gone better. Let me make it up to you. Coffee?

After tapping in your passcode, you open the message app to reply.

You: Wrong number

Darkening your screen, you let your phone slip from your hand onto the bed beside you. With a sigh, you lean back, staring at the ceiling, seeking answers that remain elusive. The scent of brewing dark roast and toasting bagels rises up the stairs with the sounds of Steve moving around the kitchen. A cup of coffee (or five) and a shower is what you need to wash away the past and leave it firmly where it belongs– in your rearview.

It's the bottom of your second cup when Steve walks into your massive walk-in closet with a towel wrapped around his waist, fresh from the shower, his hair still damp, the freckled skin of his chest looking golden in the soft glow of the elegant pendant lights.

“Is that what you're wearing to work?” He asks.

“Um, yeah.” You finish buckling the strap of your chunky mary-janes. “Something wrong with it?” you ask, catching sight of yourself in the mirror, dark distressed jeans and a band tee recut into a fitted v-neck.

“Of course not,” he sighs, running his hand through his hair before sitting down heavily on the leather bench. His shoulders slump as he looks across to the cherry built-in shelves holding the rows of tailored suits hung by progression of color. “You always look beautiful.”

Taking your watch from the marble top of the large center island, you wander over to where he’s seated. He hooks a finger into one of the large holes in your jeans, tugging you over to stand between his legs, his big hands wrapping around the backs of your thighs.

“Guess I’m just missing the days of wearing jeans and a jersey to work,” he says, his smile not smoothing the faint crease in his brows.

“You traded that in for a car service and a big fat paycheck,” you point out, kissing the top of his head and moving back to your side of the closet to select a blazer.

“How else am I going to keep spoiling you?” He stands, dropping the towel and picking up the black Tom Ford boxer briefs he set out before his shower.

“Steve, I don’t need all of this,” your hand sweeps in the air, gesturing to the lit shelves holding more clothes and shoes than you could ever need. “Just take me to a concert every once in a while.” Your voice trails off as notification chimes on your phone.

Unknown: Nice try, doll. Robin gave me your number.

“Can you imagine if we were still in that cramped apartment in Lincoln Park?” He scoffs, pulling on a light gray pair of suit pants. “We were tripping over all our stuff.”

Steve found the three-bedroom, three-bath brownstone on a tree-lined street in the ritzy Gold Coast neighborhood just after he got promoted from Metro, marking the beginning of his rise up the ranks in Second City Media. He spent a year and a chunk of his trust fund on a meticulous renovation before the two of you moved in. It is beautiful—large air rooms with lofty ceilings adorned with pristine white crown molding and wainscotting throughout, giving a modern but classic feel. Living with so much space is lavish in a city of this size. But you would be just as happy back on that ratty couch in Lincoln Park, drinking beer straight from the bottle and eating pizza without the fuss of plates, working on your laptop while he watched a Cubs game. Steve is driven–determined to be a success, and he is, but with the money came the stress. And it’s taking a toll.

Your finger hovers over the block button, but you press add to contacts instead. “Hey,” you change the subject, slipping your phone into your jacket pocket, “Did you ever look into that sailing charter you wanted to book out at the lake? We could do that this weekend?”

“I wish I could, Ace. I’ve got those weekend meetings about the streaming radio we're trying to launch. Pick out a tie for me?” He asks, pulling off a starched black button-up from its hanger.

“Sure.” You walk over and spin the rack holding up dozens of ties on shiny brass hooks.

“What do you have going on today?” The well-defined muscles of his sculpted shoulders, earned from never skipping a day at the gym, flex before disappearing into his shirt sleeves.

“Not a lot.” You pull the silky slip of deep maroon fabric off its hanger. “Lola is put to bed for this year. I just have an album review to finish up and a meeting with my editor today. Maybe a series on the Fall tours?” You propose, mostly to yourself, as you bring him his tie.

“Maroon, huh?” One brow raises with the question, “I would have picked black.”

“I know.” The corner of your lips turn up in a sly smile before you rise to your toes and place a kiss on his mouth, “I’m gonna go.”

“You want my driver to drop you off?” He asks, looking in the mirror and adjusting his tie.

“Nah, I’ll drive myself. Argyle and I are going to the Subterranean for drinks. Santigold is performing. Do you want to come?” You throw out, picking up your ancient army green messenger bag you can’t bear to part with, straining with the fullness of your laptop and notes.

“I’ll pass. Not really my scene.” As he fastens his gold cufflinks, they catch the gleaming light.

“You never come to shows with me,” you sigh.

“I know, I know. I’ll try and catch the next one,” he says, sliding his feet into shiny Italian leather shoes. “I’m meeting Robin for lunch. You want to join us?”

“No. I’ll let you have your girl time.” You blow him a kiss before heading out the door.

“See you tonight, okay?”

“Love you. See you tonight,” he calls after you.

Passing through rooms decorated with rich creams and calming moss greens, you yell over your shoulder, “Tell Robin I said we don’t have any more room for paintings of flowers that look like vaginas.”

“They’re a good investment,” his voice fades as you jog down your stairs, grabbing your keys from the stained-glass bowl on the table beside the door, ignoring the buzz coming from your pocket.

The world is full of cliches. Many become so ingrained that we accept them as unwavering truths. Every cloud has a silver lining. Don’t judge a book by its cover. Actions speak louder than words. A rotten apple will spoil the bunch. Don’t spit into the wind. Well, that last one is just good advice, but there is one that has stuck with you. Love what you do, and you’ll never work a day in your life. Music is your deity, and working at Stax is where you worship at its altar, spreading the Gospel of John, Paul, George, and Ringo. It’s a place where your lifelong obsession is not only validated, it’s celebrated. Your journey leading up to this point feels like destiny, like the universe conspired to harmonize your two greatest loves—the lyrical power of words and the soul-stirring magic of music. Each day within these walls is a new chord, a different tempo, and you revel in the ever-changing rhythm of your life. One spent intertwined with the music and the people that create it. The magazine's pages are your stage, your canvas, and with every keystroke, you paint the stories of the music, offering them to those who care to listen.

Without taking your eyes off your laptop screen, you reach for your coffee mug only to knock over the tittering tower of CDs that you had stacked on the corner of your cluttered desk. The plastic jewel cases meet the cement floor with a shattering crash, the noise echoing off the walls of the open industrial space that houses the offices for Stax Magazine in the heart of Fulton Market District. Clapping comes from other desks as you chase the discs rolling on their sides in all directions. Pausing, you bend into a dramatic curtsey, earning chuckles as the applause dies out. The perpetual chaos of your desk has become an ongoing punchline in the office banter. Your phone begins to ring at the same time an IM pops on your screen - both from your editor, the enigmatic J. Hopper.

“Art Garfunkel’s house of pizza,” you say by way of greeting, trying to get the CDs back in their cases and toppling a pile of mail in the process.

“Where are you? Why aren’t you here? We had a meeting at 2,” comes the gruff voice of a man who's clearly not amused.

“It’s only one forty,” you reply.

“Get your ass in here now,” he yells, disconnecting.

Hopper's bark has always been more bluster than bite. The towering, older man has been a fixture in this building since its days as a "hard-hitting" newspaper. While the city has evolved and transformed, Hopper and this old brick building have remained resolute, like an immovable rock in the ever-shifting stream of time. He possesses zero patience, holds a disdain for people, and dismisses any music created after 1978. You love him as much as your own father. He offered you a position fresh out of college when other magazines wouldn’t take a chance. He's pulled out your best work, often sending you back to your desk like a pouting child, making you the writer you are today. The wisdom he’s imparted is beyond the reach of any professor or workshop, and for that, you’ll always be grateful.

With a gentle rap of your knuckles against the frosted glass, you step into Hopper's office. He's seated behind a substantial oak desk, buried beneath a mountain of paperwork. A hint of cigar lingers in the air, though you've never been able to catch him smoking. He remains engrossed, squinting at his desktop screen with a furrowed brow. Settling into one of the vintage leather club chairs, you wait for his acknowledgment, your gaze drifting across the framed magazine covers and photographs lining the walls. One of a much younger Hopper clad in a tattered flak jacket catches your eyes. His face smeared with dirt and grit, standing amidst the ruins of a war-torn Kosovo street, a city reduced to chaos.

"Where’s my album write-up?" He asks without looking up.

"I emailed it to you before lunch," you reply, confirming on your phone.

He pushes back from his desk, propping up his feet on the edge, and offers you a soft smile from under the bushy mustache covering his lip, "How are you, kid? Everything okay? Harrington treating you, right?"

"Of course, Hop. He knows he'd have to answer to you otherwise. What about you?" You ask, leaning forward, "Is Joyce looking after you? Making sure you're watching that cholesterol?"

"Yup, she's got me eating all these organic vegetables, no booze, no smokes. Kinda takes all the fun outta life." He laces his hands behind his head, stretching out his back.

"Oh yeah, does that include that bottle hootch you got stowed in your bottom drawer?"

He sits up with a quick move, pointing his finger in your direction. "You don't know anything about that. Are we clear?"

The only one who can scare Hopper is Hopper's wife.

"I don't know. What are you going to do if I give Joyce a call? Seems to me that's something she'd want to know," you tease, crossing your arms over your chest.

"You'd be out on that sidewalk before you hung up the call. Don't test me." He shakes a finger at you, "Now, what are you pitching me?"

"Well, I'm going to a club tonight, so I'll have a live performance review. And I was thinking of a piece on the bands touring this Fall. Kind of like a road map that the readership could follow and hit all the good shows."

"Those sound good, kid, but I got a feature for you to cover." He leans forward, narrowing his eyes, "You know this Eddie Munson character?"

The blood drains from your face. "No. Not-not really," you stammer, "we're from the same town, but I haven't seen him in years."

"Well, it's time to get reacquainted. I want a series chronicling the opening of CursedSound Recordings, and I want you to write it."

A featured series is something that other journalists fight over, and usually, you'd jump at the chance, but not this time. Not this series. Not Eddie Muson.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” you say, looking down at your lap.

“You don’t think–”

“Give it to Miles.”

“I’m giving it to you. Morales is busy with–”

“I don’t want it,” the words burst out of your mouth before you think better of it. Less than twenty-four hours after seeing Eddie, your world is spinning out of control.

Hopper's face turns to steel as he plucks the pen from behind his ear and throws it down on the desk. “I think that you’ve forgotten how this works. I give you an assignment. You write it.”

Your lips part before the protest in your brain is fully formed.

“If you’re about to tell me no again, it better be followed by a damn good reason.”

His eyes are locked on yours while he waits for a response, one brow raised in challenge.

“Listen, kid,” he picks up a stack of papers, shuffling through them as he talks, “I’ve looked into this Munson character. He has a good reputation in L.A. His name is in the credits for over half the multi-platinum releases in the last five years. And word is, his studio is booked out with big names for a year in advance.” He pauses for a moment to be sure his words sink in. “Establishing a good relationship with him is in the magazine's best interests. And what's good for the magazine is good for you. Are you hearing me?”

“Yes, Hop,” he answers for you when you remain quiet.

“Yes, Hop,” you repeat.

“Good,” he says, lacing his fingers together. "The printed word isn’t worth what it used to be. Everything's gone digital, the never-ending twenty-four-hour news cycle. The competition's cut-throat out there. Trust me, our friends over at Spectrum would eat this up for Chicago Lifestyles. Frankly, I’m surprised at you. I thought you’d be all over this. Especially since it was proposed by corporate. I figured you went around me and pitched it to Harrington directly.”

The mention of Steve’s name sets your teeth on edge. He hadn't breathed a word about this assignment earlier, and now he's reaching out to Hopper, painting a picture as if you're disrespecting your editor and exploiting your personal connections to secure a story.

“I would never do that,” you shake your head.

"Alright then. Call Byers at Metro," Hopper instructs, leaning back in his chair and folding his arms across his chest. "Bring him with you. His assignment is just wrapping up."

You nod, your blood boiling and your mind racing. Taking a deep breath to compose yourself, you finally reply with an outward calm, "Okay."

Hopper's eyes remained fixed on you, his brow furrowing slightly. "Now, why are you still here wasting my time? Get out."

You don’t need any more prompting. Swiftly, you rise from your seat and make your way out of Hopper's office, formulating plans to murder your fiancé.

With a heavy sigh, you sit back down at your desk. The Stax logo bounces off the edges of your laptop screen. Your phone lights up with a photo of Steve. You let it ring a few times before sending it to voicemail. A few colleagues linger nearby, mugs in hand, their idle chatter blending with the hum of printers and the rhythmic clacking of keyboards. Your to-do list sits on your desk with strike-throughs on only half the tasks, but the priority of the ones remaining isn’t enough to capture your attention.

Reaching down, you tug at the handle of your tightly packed bottom desk drawer. It sticks, protesting the overload. The bright yellow color of the Sony Sports Walkman stands out from among the other clutter. You hesitate when reaching for it, the beginnings of the ache already tightening your chest. But you can’t resist, your hand closes around it, pulling it and the headphones coiled around out from under a pile of old concert passes attached to lanyards.

Swiveling your chair away from the desk, you face the windows and slip the headphones onto your ears. A gentle press of your thumb produces a satisfying click, and a soft crackling sound fills your ears as the capstans start to whir.

The crystal blue of the cassette is dulled behind the transparent black window, but you can still make out the handwriting on the yellowed label.

For when you miss me.

“Did you ever listen?”

Everyday.

A bird's eye view of the stage is perfectly spaced in your viewfinder, with Santi downstage dominating the mic, her other arm outstretched to the fervent crowd. Your finger clicks the shutter as a text pops on the screen.

Eddie: Seems this city isn’t so big after all.

With a huff, you close the screen, pocketing your phone.

“What’s going on with you?” Argyle shouts over the crowd, handing you back your drink as you both lean over the black-painted railing on the balcony at The Subterranean.

"Nothing," you reply, your gaze returning to the stage where Santigold is Chasing Shadows.

“You’re moody,” he accuses, leaning closer to your ear to be heard over music.

“No, I’m not.”

“It’s true,” he shakes his head. “You’re moody. Moody dick.”

The corners of your lips lift as you roll your eyes.

“This wouldn't have anything to do with mister dark and handsome sound engineer guy from last night, would it?” He probes as someone bumps into you from behind, throwing you off balance.

Your eyes narrow as he steadies you with a hand on your elbow.

“Hey, I know things,” he says, sipping his drink and looking back out over the crowd.

“Oh, yeah?” You ask, turning and leaning on the banister to face him, “What do you know?”

He turns his head toward you, his thoughtful brown eyes connecting with yours. “I know you looked freaked the fuck out when he showed up for drinks and even more so when he said he was staying. And I’ve seen you tell off enough people to know that’s what was going on at the bar when you walked away from him last night,” he says, looking back toward the stage, gesturing with his hands, “Now we're here, with my future baby mama killing it on stage, and you’re sucking all the energy out of the room.”

The song ends with the crowd erupting in applause. “I love you!” Argyle shouts toward the stage with his hands cupped around his mouth as the bass starts back up with the opening of High Priestess. Santi looks up, throwing him a wink, her voice low and fast as the reverb vibrates under your feet.

“Future baby mama?” You laugh.

“Yeah. Do you think you could use your press pass to get us backstage?”

“No. I don’t think you need to add to the population tonight.”

"See, you're no fun,” he complains, sticking out his lower lip, “So you really used to crush on that guy?

Chewing on your lip, you throw him a sideways glance.

“Yeah, you did. You crushed hard,” he laughs, “So, tell me, what happened?”

“I don’t like talking about it,” you say, scrubbing your face.

“Keeping everything all bottled up ain’t good for you, little mama,” he pokes your arm, letting you know he’s not going to drop this, “I’m your boy. If you can’t tell me, who can you tell?”

“Circle of trust,” he says, stirring the air between you with two fingers when you don’t respond.

You lean against the rail, considering. “Alright, but this stays between us,” you threaten him with a pointed finger. His head nods as his fingers slide across his mouth like a zipper.

“There’s not much to tell,” you say, looking down at the sticky floor. “I had a crush, and he didn’t feel the same way.”

“I get it. The fury of a woman scorned. What did you do, go full bunny boiler?”

“No,” you chuckle, “Nothing like that. That part didn’t even really bother me. He was my best friend, my only friend for a long time. I thought there was something between us, that he cared about me. Maybe not the same way I cared about him, but you know, I thought we were close. I must have built it all up in my head because one day, he just takes off.” You swallow the sharp pain pressing into your chest, “He never even said goodbye.”

“Nooo,” Argyle’s eyes widen.

“It broke me,” you admit.

“Harsh,” he agrees, “And he never called you? Or gave you an explanation?”

“Not until yesterday. He asked me to lunch. You know, he actually had the nerve to say that Steve has me on a tight leash.”

“Typical.” He shakes his head, swallowing the last of his drink.

“What do you mean?” You ask, swirling the last of your ice into your watered-down drink.

His face turns serious as he explains, “It’s like surfing. We all want that wave that’s just out of reach. Especially if someone else is riding it.”

“How did you get so wise?” You ask.

“I don’t know. Must be all the weed,” he says with a hand on your shoulder, turning you toward the bar. “Let’s go get another drink.”

“You never told Steve any of this?” He asks as you join the crowd of people that constitutes the line.

“No,” you sigh.

“No?” He repeats in surprise, “This is bad news, man. Why wouldn’t you tell him? What are you going to do, just going to keep it a secret forever?”

“I guess. It doesn’t really have anything to do with him.”

“This is going to get messy.” He shakes his head as you move up in line.

“Well, I’m not real happy with him either right now. He went behind my back to Hopper, deciding that I’m going to cover Eddie’s recording studio's opening. He completely humiliated me in front of my boss. I look totally unprofessional.”

“Well, that's not cool,” Argyle sympathizes as he takes the plastic cup from your hand and tosses it into a trashcan tucked beside the bar.

“No, it was very not cool,” you agree, crossing your arms over your chest.

"Wait," he looks at you with sudden revelation, “Technically, isn't Steve your boss?"

“That’s not the point–”

“And isn’t your job to write about major happenings in the city, like when fancy L.A. sound guys open up studios?”

“You're not helping, Argyle.”

His hand lands on your head, offering a comforting pat like you're a child before the line begins moving again. "Cheer up, Bernstein," he quips with a grin, "I'll buy the next round."

Your anger hasn’t abated when you walk through the front door of the brownstone. Steve is already in bed, shirtless with the taupe velvet coverlet pulled up to his waist, glasses perched on his nose, not looking up from his laptop as you enter the room.

“Hey, Ace, how was your day? Did you write me–”

“Anything you want to tell me about, Steve?” You ask, your voice already coming out more heated than you intended.

He looks up at you, brows pulling together. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” you say, dropping your bag onto the blue slipper chair in the corner of the room, “Maybe about how you went behind my back?”

"What?” He questions, slamming his laptop shut.

“The story, Steve,” you huff, leaving the room through your closet. You’ve just put your shoes away when he appears in the doorway, padding across the carpet in his bare feet, wearing just his boxers.

“Munson’s opening, that’s what you’re mad about?” He demands.

“You totally blindsided me,” you complain, pulling a hanger off the rod and hanging up your blazer with enough force to have the other clothes swinging. “Why didn’t you say anything this morning?”

“Because I hadn’t thought of it this morning.” His hands run through his hair, tugging in frustration.

“So what, it just came to you in a flash of brilliance?” Popping the button on your jeans, you tug them down your hips, kicking them into the corner instead of putting them in the basket.

“No, it didn’t, and I hate it when you’re sarcastic. Robin wanted to stop by and see his studio. We had lunch nearby,” he informs you, crossing his arms over his broad chest, the gold chain he wears glinting in the low light.

“So the two of you just decided what I was going to be writing? Maybe that’s something you should be discussing with me.” You lay a hand on your chest before pulling your shirt over your head and giving it the same treatment as your jeans. “You know, your fiancée, not some old buddy that sold you weed a few times back in Hawkins.”

“The content Stax puts out is directly under my approval, just like Metro and the Newsdesk and every other division.” His voice, which has been steady and even until now, begins to rise, “I’m not going to call you and ask for permission every time I make a decision. Eddie and I have kept in touch. How do you think we landed that interview with Radiohead last year when they wouldn’t even sit down with Rolling Stone?”

“That’s another thing you kept from me. I had no idea Eddie was your best friend.” Your eyes narrow as your fingers yank at the delicate clasps of your jewelry and watch.

Steve's eyes roll in frustration as he shakes his head. "He's not my best friend. He’s a business contact. I know him through Robin. They were is band together, you know this."

"That feels like a lifetime ago, Steve," you remark, the clinking of your jewelry against the marble island adding a discordant scrape.

"Well, some people aren't embarrassed about where they came from," he accuses.

"I'm not embarrassed," you scoff and begin to pace as if you can outrun his words.

"Oh, please," he says, taking a seat on the bench, his knuckles turning white as he grips the edge, his gaze tracking your restless movements. "You cut off anybody we still know living there. You won't even go to visit your parents. They always come here."

“You never listen to what I’m saying. This has nothing to do with Hawkins or my parents.” You halt your steps, your hand slices through the air, punctuating your statements. “It's about you making me look like a fool in front of Hopper. Like I’m trying to go around him to corporate to get assigned the big stories. Like I’m sleeping with the boss. I’m not ruining my reputation so you can give free advertising to your friends.”

“You're being crazy right now,” he yells, wincing with regret as soon as the words leave his mouth. He stands, moving closer, making an effort to control the tone of his voice, “I gave you this assignment because you know Eddie, and it will make for a better story, not because I’m fucking you. We’ve been together since the day you started at Stax. We’ve been engaged for two years. If anyone was going to think that, they already would’ve.”

Your head shakes, rejecting his rationale. He throws up his hands in frustration. “I can't have a conversation with you when you’re like this.” He starts to walk back toward the bedroom but stops abruptly, spinning on his heel and pointing his finger in your direction. “But I'll tell you one more thing—you are going to write this story.” He waves a hand toward the bathroom. “Now, go wash your face.”

Your teeth cut into your bottom lip as you walk into the bathroom, slamming the door behind you.

A sliver of gold from the streetlights outside pierces the tiny gap in the curtains. You’ve been lying on your side staring so long that you can see its warm hue behind closed lids whenever you start to drift. You burrow your arm deeper beneath your pillows while your feet shuffle, searching for a cool spot on the sheets. Steve’s breathing hasn’t changed behind you. He’s having the same trouble falling asleep. He turns over, his weight rocking the mattress. He’s much closer now. You can feel the comforting warmth from his chest, filling the space between him and your back.

“Baby.” His breath caresses the spot just behind your ear before the wet press of his lips traces a path along your neck, latching on to the apex when it meets your shoulder. A gentle bite follows the swirl of his tongue as he moves even closer. The rough pads of his fingers glide over your shoulder and down your arm, coaxing the thin strap of your tank with them.

“Please,” he whispers between kisses, his fingers finding their way under the bottom edge of your tank top, the light scrape of his blunt nails against your ribs sending shivers across your skin. Your breathing is picking up, the fire from your argument morphing into a new kind of heat. His hips flex against your ass, his cock hard and ready. When you turn your head, his lips are there, a wet slide over your mouth until they pull back, floating just above you, lingering with a question. And when his hand cups your shoulder, urging your body to turn towards him-–you answer.

The sultry feminine voice drifts from the speakers in your bedroom, her smoky timber weaving through the air like dark tendrils intertwining with the high piano notes. Your hips rise with the flow, a slow, unchanging cadence, the stretch of his cock creating delicious friction against your velvet walls. You move higher until he almost leaves you before you start your descent, the angle finding all the hidden places that light you up beneath your skin.

"M' sorry," he murmurs.

Your eyes flutter open at his words as they carry you away from the depths.

"Hate telling you no." He gazes up at you with heavy-lidded eyes, his hair pushed back from his face, and a flush across his skin.

"I don't wanna talk about it." Your hands cover the ones wrapped around your thighs, guiding them up your body. His warm, rough fingers are eager to map out every contour. Your head falls back when they find their destination, cupping your breasts with a possessive grip.

The song shifts, the new baseline a drawn-out pulse lining up with your movements. The lyrics are raw and a little filthy, fueling the urgency of your rolling hips, your clit grazing the short hairs at his base.

"Don't like telling you what to do," he mumbles even as his hands drop to your hips, attempting to hold you still as he bucks up from underneath. "Just wanna take care of you."

"Steve," his name passes your lips in a low moan as you lean forward, taking his hand from your hips and pressing them into the pillow, "Stop talking."

Sitting up, you shift your position, leaning back, bracing your hands behind yourself on his hairy thighs. You set a new pace, bouncing harder, driving him deeper, taking what you want.

“Jesus, fuck, baby,” he groans, eyes hitting the back of his head while his hands slide across the sheets seeking any purchase as you ride him. The music surges, its tempo rising in perfect sync with the wet intimate sounds of your bodies coming together, the rhythm repeating over and over.

"So close…please," his fingers slip between you, adding pressure to the sensitive bundle of nerves that he finds there, "Need you to cum."

"No," you rasp out breathless, pushing his hand aside, your eyes locked on his as you bring your own fingers to your mouth. With a swirl of your tongue, you coat them with wetness before sliding them down to touch yourself, controlling your own pleasure.

The muscles in his neck strain with effort, his gaze darkening, fixated on you. “Goddam, so sexy like this,” he murmurs.

Your body tightens, taut like a bow-string, the tension building until the crescendo crashes over you. The music washes over your senses as you reach your peak, your legs trembling with the intensity. You push your body further over the edge, succumbing to the euphoria lost in the wave of sensations.

Floating back down, your eyes open to the sight of your ceiling, your body still arched, catching your breath. His fingers tighten on your ribs, reminding you he's there. Sticky wetness dripping between you is evidence that he reached his own climax. His hands gently urge your forward to collapse into his chest.

"Wow, that was…" He strokes the sweat-slicked skin of your back. "I’ve never seen you like that before. What got into you?"

"I think you did," you say, placing a kiss over his heart as your fingers smooth through the hair covering his chest. He chuckles, holding you closer.

The gentle croon of the music fills the quiet space between you as you lie entwined, drawing closer to sleep's embrace. With a fumbling hand, Steve reaches for the remote on his nightstand, silencing the stereo, returning the room to a restful hush. He places a final tender kiss on your temple, his eyes closing as his features turn peaceful. But for you, even in this stillness, another song lingers in your mind, its lyrics echoing like a secret.

AN: Thank you for reading and rebloging. Your comments are what keep me at my keyboard plugging away at this story. Please keep sending me your songs and asks! They have inspired so much of what's to come. xoxo- Jelly

Read Song 3 Here

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#stranger things #steve harrington x reader #eddie munson fanfic #steve harrington fanfic #eddie munson smut #eddie munson x reader #steve harrington #eddie munson #steve harrington smut #stranger things fanfic #torn #torn series #torn!eddie #Spotify

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ode2rin · 10 months

Text

JUST MAYBE .ೃ

pairing. isagi yoichi x gn!reader

genre. strangers to .. hopefully something more? | slow burn | chance encounter

in which: a cafe encounter with a stranger shows you exactly how well fate intervenes

💭 thank you for the request anon!

this is it. this is the last straw.

this is the last time you’re ever allowing yourself to be vain and believe empty words from a man.

sitting in a café, self-pity takes hold of you as regret washes over your being. the nagging feeling, the hollowness in your gut that you should have paid attention to, now mocks you with its undeniable presence. how could you have ignored it, brushing it off as if it were insignificant?

the bustling café seemed oblivious to your disappointment, the air thick with the laughter and whispers of couples lost in their own bliss. their happiness, a stark contrast to your own melancholic state.

you glance at your phone, the screen displaying a conversation that adds salt to the wound.

you: let me know if you’re on your way! [2:06 pm] you: hey, i’m already here :) is everything fine? [2:43 pm]

a heavy sigh escapes your lips, the weight of anger and embarrassment settling upon your shoulders.

dating in your early twenties has proven to be far more challenging than you ever imagined. while your friends effortlessly navigate the labyrinth of love, you find yourself trapped in a cycle of dashed hopes and unfulfilled connections.

here you are, once again left sitting alone at a table meant for two.

and you know it's destructive to point fingers at directions pointing to you, but for goodness sake, can anyone just tell you what's wrong with you? or can fate simply provide apparent signs, allowing both you and the divine to save precious time?

because it's becoming increasingly draining.

the cycle repeats itself relentlessly: falling in love, only for it to unravel into a cacophony of screams and tears. your heart shattered, you gather the pieces and muster the courage to try again, only to wonder what awaits in the next stage of this never-ending cycle.

and you can’t help but to wonder, when will it ever be your turn? if other people could experience a love so kind, why can’t you? why can't you have what they have? what makes you any less deserving?

is it really too much to ask for a love that doesn't demand a piece of your soul as collateral? can't there exist a love where vulnerability isn't met with heartache?

and coming from someone who has been gravely hurt in the name of so-called love, it’s impossible not to wonder if such love even exists in this world or if it's merely a figment of your imagination born from those contemporary romance books you read on your lonely nights.

well, there's no use crying over spilled milk. he wasn't all that anyway. besides, you had only agreed to this supposed date due to your friend's persistent nagging, urging you to break your self-imposed “man ban” streak and venture back into the world of romance. “why not?” you had thought at the time, only to be reminded why you even imposed such a ban in the first place.

“excuse me, is this seat taken? the place is kinda packed, so if you don’t mind..”

lost in your thoughts, you're momentarily startled as a soft voice interrupts your reverie. the stranger before you stumbles over his words, shyness coloring his demeanor.

you take a moment to truly see him— this man who has unexpectedly entered your sphere. and heavens, he is gorgeous.

“no, it’s not taken. please, feel free.”

with your response, the stranger settles into the seat across from you. as he takes a sip from his cup, your nose takes a whiff of the inviting aroma of his latte, which fills the air, adding another layer of warmth to the already vibrant café atmosphere.

taking a contemplative sip of your own drink, you savor the flavors that dance on your tongue. the comforting embrace of the warm liquid spreads through your body, soothing your senses.

his blue-eyed gaze drifts toward your own drink, curiosity evident within those pools. “what drink is that? it looks intriguing.”

you can't help but internally chuckle at his attempts at small talk. your drink is nothing spectacular, let alone intriguing, but the fact that he wants to make something out of it gives you a glimpse of his endearing shyness.

still, you smile, pleased by his interest. “it's actually their signature drink. i find it quite enjoyable. and your latte? it looks divine.”

well, you’re not any better than his attempts. seriously? what looks exceptionally divine about a latte?

the man in front of you nods appreciatively, taking another sip from his cup. “nothing grand, just a decaf latte. i find it soothing and energizing, especially on slow days like this one.”

you hum in response, seemingly out of attempts for small talk. but the lack of a coherent response from you doesn’t elicit an uncomfortable silence, but rather the opposite. a cozy silence settles between you, the ambient sounds of the café serving as a gentle backdrop to your now shared sphere.

after a few minutes of sitting in silence, you notice from your peripheral vision that he steals a few glances your way, as if waiting for the right moment to strike up another conversation.

cute.

it's an understatement, as a matter of fact. the guy before you is downright mesmerizing. if you could gaze at his face for more than two seconds without being called weird, you could map the entirety of how blessed this man’s face is — the way his eyes crinkle at the corners when he speaks, the subtle strength in his jawline, and the way his hair falls in a perfectly disheveled manner.

and his eyes. damn, his eyes. such a beautiful shade of blue must have taken the hand of god some time to create.

“so –”

“what –”

the two of you speak simultaneously, your voices overlapping in the air, prompting you both to take a moment and stare at each other before laughing at the coincidence.

“you first,” you offered.

“no, you go first.”

you offer a warm smile and motion for him to go first. “i insist.” the truth is, after seeing him laugh, you momentarily forgot what you were even about to ask.

it’s just a laugh. get it together.

were you this deprived of someone’s company to melt at their laugh? or is this stranger just so painfully beautiful that it’s now affecting your memory and ability to converse?

his lips curl into a shy smile as he hesitates for a brief moment. his eyes flicker with a mix of curiosity and intrigue. “alright, well, i was wondering... do you come here often? i don’t think i’ve seen you here before.”

you shook your head, a soft laugh escaping your lips. “not really. i'm actually a newcomer here. i work at a bookstore nearby, and i stumbled upon this place by chance.”

it was two truths and one lie. and as apparent as it was, you sure as hell didn’t “stumbled upon this place,” where in truth and fact, you were invited here by your supposed-to-be date who might have forgotten to reply to you two hours after your last message.

“the bookstore on the main street? it’s a huge place, that’s so cool. my friend, chigiri, has been meaning to visit there. maybe i’ll try to tag along some time.”

a blush crept up your cheeks, touched by his admiration. it was a stark contrast to the belittlement toward your job you had encountered in past dating experiences, and this wasn’t even a date. “thank you. i’ll be happy to help you and your friend when you drop by.”

“so, what do you do, mr…?” you asked, trying to delve deeper into the conversation.

“oh, pardon me for not introducing myself properly. i’m isagi yoichi, and i, uhm, play soccer for a living. it's not as impressive as being surrounded by books all day, though.”

isagi yoichi. soccer player.

so that explains the hint of a lean physique beneath his clothes – not that you were checking him out. anyone with eyesight could detect that this gorgeous stranger, isagi, is in great shape. yup, definitely not checking him out.

“and yours?”

“hmm? sorry, what were you saying?”

a soft smile tugs at isagi's lips as he repeats his question, “i was just asking about your name.”

you bring your attention back to the present, realizing you've momentarily lost yourself in his gaze. “oh. it’s l/n y/n.”

as the words of your name hang in the air, a sense of familiarity begins to settle between you. you and isagi engage in a comfortable conversation, effortlessly weaving in and out of topics. each exchange reveals more about your respective lives, forging a connection that feels too genuine for people who just met not even an hour ago.

isagi shares stories from his soccer career, the highs and lows, the challenges and triumphs. his passion for the sport shines through in every word, and you find yourself captivated by how animated he is in sharing his tales. it's a pleasant break from your previous experiences, where self-importance seemed to be the common thread among your dates.

with isagi, there's no trace of conceit hanging in every word.

in turn, you open up about your love for literature and the joy you find in sharing stories with others. isagi listens attentively, his eyes sparkling with interest as you speak about the power of words and the magic that exists within the pages of books.

while it becomes evident that he may not be an avid reader himself, there's a beautiful acceptance and respect in the way isagi listens. he never once made you feel as though your love for literature is any less significant than his passion for soccer.

amidst the lively exchange, you catch glimpses of isagi's gentle nature, his ability to make you feel at ease, and his genuine curiosity about your thoughts and experiences. it's a refreshing change from the superficial interactions you've had in the past, and you're left wondering if the man in front of you is even real.

you can't help but laugh at the thought of men being able to hold a conversation like isagi. and while that proves that the bar may be in hell, but damn, it is as if isagi raised it above his own head.

time seems to slip away as the conversation flows effortlessly, punctuated by laughter and genuine moments of connection. there are no awkward silences, no need for pretense or guardedness. it's as if you've known each other for much longer than a chance encounter in a café.

just when you think the moment might stretch into eternity, isagi’s ringing phone slices through the air, abruptly breaking the spell.

his eyes widen, a touch of regret flickering across his face as he retrieves his phone from his pocket. “ah, it's my teammate. i'm afraid i have to head out first,” he says with a tinge of disappointment.

your heart sinks a little at the prospect of parting ways so soon. “oh, it's okay. i had a nice time, isagi,” you reply, attempting to mask your disappointment.

“me too,” isagi responds, his voice filled with a hint of tone you’re feigning ignorance too. “i wish we could talk more.”

you can sense the hesitance in his words, the unspoken desire to extend the encounter. it's an opening, a moment of curiosity lingering between you. seizing the opportunity, you decide to tease him ever so slightly. “hmm, well, that call seemed important,” you remark, raising an eyebrow playfully.

you’re not dense, but you were curious to see how he would try.

isagi fidgets, shyly rubbing the back of his neck. “yeah, i think so. we have an upcoming match next weekend,” he stumbles over his words, clearly struggling with the invitation he's about to extend. “speaking of the match, would it be too forward of me to invite you to watch?”

wouldn’t it?

your heart flutters at the invitation, and for a brief moment, you contemplate the possibilities.

this day had been a rollercoaster ride of emotions. one moment, you were nursing the wounds of being stood up, wallowing in self-pity and contemplating the challenges of dating. and now, here you were, being invited by a complete stranger — a stranger who also happened to be the most captivating person you've ever laid eyes upon.

fate be damned, because it seems to have a wicked sense of humor, toying with your emotions from one extreme to another.

glancing down at your cup, you swirl the remaining liquid, feigning nonchalance to mask the racing thoughts in your mind. “depends on who you want me to attend as,” you tease, curious to see how he responds.

you raise your eyes, locking eyes with isagi, only to find him wearing a boyish grin that could rival the sun and staring at you with those damn blue eyes that put the oceans to shame.

“anything you can offer to be, right now.”

fuck it.

with a surge of boldness, you decide to take a leap of faith. “then i would love to be there.”

the energy shifts as isagi beams at your acceptance of his invitation. he bids you goodbye, only to hesitate and return to you with an endearing awkwardness. he offers his number, tripping over his own words as he suggests you can call him whenever you want. you can't help but laugh at his adorable awkwardness, finding it endearing beyond measure. you hand him your phone, and with hurried movements, he inputs his number before bidding you goodbye once more.

with a smile lingering on your lips, you watch isagi's retreating figure, feeling a warmth radiate through you. your gaze then shifts to the phone in your hand, where you see the contact name you've set for him.

maybe: isagi yoichi

why not, right? you're down to take the chance.

because maybe, just maybe, one more try wouldn’t hurt this time.

note. welcome to isagi mimi debut omg i kinda do not like it but huhu this trope is so hard for me to write, i’m not gonna lie. but i surprisingly had fun making this hehe. and i’m not really a fan of instant love soooo, here’s the best i could do ._. i think i would rather opt to make a sequel than a time skip so let’s leave it at that :>

thanks for reaching this far!

💭 back to: milestone event

#☁️ my ode to you #first milestone event!#writing: 002 #isagi yoichi #yoichi isagi #isagi yoichi x reader #yoichi isagi x reader #isagi yoichi fluff #isagi yoichi x y/n #blue lock imagines #blue lock x reader #bllk imagines #bllk x reader #blue lock fluff

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tired-teacher-blog · 5 months

Text

Characters : Tattoo artist Aizawa/ Florist fem reader

Featuring : Eri/ Hizashi Yamada/ Nemuri Kayama/ Oboro Shirakumo/ Emi Fukukado

Warnings and Genre : Fluff/ Romance/ Smut and Angst in future chapters/ Multi Chaptered Story

Summary : In a desperate attempt to get closer to the tattoo artist dominating every speck of your brain, you decide to pay him a visit one evening as a client seeking his service. This encounter will prove to be the beginning of something much bigger between you two, but will this new found passion be enough to stand against the difficulties your future holds?

Notes : Loosely inspired by this/ Art below is by the wonderful @/ael-draw who gifted me this gorgeous piece.

Masterlist|Second Masterlist|Third Masterlist

Chapter Count : Part 1 • Part 2 • Part 3 • Part 4 • Part 5 • Part 6 • Part 7 • Part 8 • Part 9 • Part 10 • Part 11

It has been a week already since that fateful day, and during the time nothing has really changed for you, you still get up early to go to work and spend the day relishing the happy smiles and cute stories of your customers as they rave about their dear ones who'd be receiving the fragrant blooms.

You still watch out the window for the locked tattoo studio across the street, breathing heavily as time nears his arrival.

You still roam the fictional realm you've built for yourself and the artist named Aizawa, your heart still skips a beat whenever your eyes meet with his black ones, and your mind still goes blank every evening when he greets you.

One thing has changed since then though, and it's the beautiful red rose traced on your skin.

You smile melancholically as you run your fingers along it, it's healing nicely but your heart is not, so maybe you will have to finally let go of your delusions, you -at least- have a reminder of him engraved in your skin now, and that's more than you can dream of attaining.

_ "Hello." a voice brings you back to your senses, a new costumer perhaps.

_ "Welcom.." you start as you shake off your innermost thoughts and prepare to receive the mysterious person, but this person is not mysterious at all, "Mr Aizawa." this person is him.

He stands a bit awkwardly at the door, smiling sheepishly while shoving his hands in his pants' pockets.

He looks almost cute, it's a new side of him that you're not used to seeing, but you love it.

_ "Please come in," you round the counter in a hurry to reach him, almost tripping over your own two feet in the process, "welcome to my humble shop."

You have never seen him under the illumination of daylight before, but now that you have, your amazement is only growing and your wish to take in every small detail of his handsome face is dominating your whole body.

_ "This place is beautiful, really soothing and serene." his eyes travel across every cozy corner of your little shop, lingering on the gorgeous flowers as they stood proudly in their vases.

_ "That's.. so nice of you, thank you, it really means a lot." never in a million years would you have thought to hear him mention your shop, let alone visit it, and it feels like a dream.

_ "So, you must be wondering why I'm here," he clears his throat before uttering, running a hand through his luscious locks as he continues, "I wanted to check in on you and see if you're healing well," he continues while glancing at your arm.

_ "Oh! Yeah.. yes, it feels so much better, it's almost completely healed actually," you are caught off guard by his statement, bringing your arm up slightly and staring at your new tattoo just so you wouldn't look at him, since the blush creeping up your cheeks is now too bright to hide.

_ "Great, and it looks good on you by the way." he replies softly, and you can clearly sense a smile in his words, but you're still too embarrassed to meet his eyes.

The air is strangely pleasant and comfortable around you, even though it probably shouldn't be, considering the circumstances, but you've always felt this way with him near, and you've always found it weird, that the mere thought of him is enough to calm your heart.

_ "Mr Aizawa!" your head snaps up abruptly, and your eyes sparkle as you call out his name -perhaps a bit louder than you have hoped- before running to the section of your shop where the dark pink roses are displayed, and leaving the stunned man behind.

His mouth falls slightly open, and his eyes blink in confusion while watching you skillfully cut the fresh blooms at a perfect angle and gather them in a stunning bouquet before walking back to him.

_ "These are for you," you hold out the roses for him, a shy smile appears on your face as you do, "the dark pink ones are a sign of appreciation and gratitude, and this is exactly how I feel right now," you lower your head again as your blush deepens, "you were so sweet and patient with me when I came to your studio, I will never forget that."

He takes the bouquet from your extended hands and holds it close to himself, but for once he seems lost for words as his eyes move between you and the sweet scented flowers, so you continue, "I know this is probably not something that would normally interest you, but I hope you don't hate them too much." and you giggle shyly while fiddling with your fingers.

_ "I love them, they're as beautiful as you are." his gaze is trained on you as he breathes out, and he does not miss the slight shiver shaking your body when hearing his words.

He pauses for a moment, contemplating what to say next before it turns awkward around you.

_ "So, there is something that I want to ask you," his tone turns into a serious one, prompting a hitch in your breathing as you eagerly await for him to continue, and he does, "would you like to go out with me for dinner sometime?"

He's asking you out, he actually is, this isn't a dream is it? What if you're misunderstanding? He can't possibly mean for it to be anything intimate or romantic like you hope it would be, right? There is no way..

_ "You mean.." you have to make sure, but the words refuse to leave your mouth.

_ "I mean, would you like to go on a date with me?" there, he said it for you.

A rush of emotions ripples through you as your mouth falls open and your eyes widen in sheer surprise, you have always dreamt of this moment and even built it up in your brain ever since you laid eyes on him, yet never have you ever thought it would come to be, but this isn't a fantasy anymore, this is real.

_ "Yes, yes I'd love that."

To be continued..

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hanniejisungies · 3 months

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Same Scent

I made this while listening to Same Scent by ONEUS, inspired me to make this fanfiction.

Pairing: CHOI BEOM GYU × FEMALE READER

Genre: angst, heartbreak, romance that was once there.

Raindrops fell softly on the windowpane as Beomgyu stared outside, lost in the rhythm of the melancholic weather. The room felt heavy with the weight of unspoken words, and the air was thick with sadness. You, who had brought color to his world, were now a memory.

It had been months since you left, and Beomgyu couldn't escape the haunting echoes of your laughter. The warmth of your presence lingered in every corner of his life, a constant reminder of what he had lost. He missed the way your eyes sparkled when you smiled, the gentle touch of your hand, and the sound of your voice that once brought him solace.

The pain was a relentless companion, a shadow that clung to him no matter where he went. Beomgyu tried to bury himself in work, throwing himself into the demands of the industry, but success brought no comfort. The stages felt empty without your cheers, and the crowd's applause only highlighted the silence that now consumed his heart.

Late at night, Beomgyu found himself scrolling through old messages, replaying voicemails, and staring at pictures of the two of you together. Each memory was a bittersweet dagger, cutting through his soul. He wished he could turn back time, and erase the mistakes that led to your departure, but life had no rewind button.

The rain outside mirrored the storm within him. Beomgyu's tears mingled with the raindrops, a silent symphony of sorrow. He couldn't escape the regret that gnawed at him, the what-ifs that haunted his thoughts. The world had moved on, but for Beomgyu, time stood still in the echoes of a love that slipped through his fingers.

As he traced the contours of your face in a faded photograph, Beomgyu whispered words that would never reach you, hoping that somewhere in the vastness of the universe, you might hear the fragments of his shattered heart.

HANNIEJISUNGIES 2024™

#beomgyu smut #huening kai smut #taehyun smut #soobin smut #yeonjun smut #txt smut #txt post #txt fanfiction #sad fanfiction #angst #txt angst #beomgyu angst

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edens-passing-if · 10 months

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Eden's Passing is a 16+ game made in Twine by me, Doc, and is my first attempt at making an interactive fiction game!

Genre: Primarily Fantasy and Comedy focused with a smidge of Mystery and Horror elements. Do tell me if a separate catagory fits, please!

Warnings: Trauma, Bodily Injury without feeling it, Body Horror in general (more will be added as time goes on, these are what I'm currently certain off)

Demo: In the works!

Alone in a land you can't recall and stuck at the bottom of a seemingly endless ravine, the start of your journey isn't a pleasant one. Body slowly crumbling away, memory missing, and seemingly stuck with a stranger intent on calling you a name you can't remember, your attempts to leave seem fruitless until they finally offer a helping hand. Hopefully with no strings attached.

Set in the world of Nyr, you're just a lost soul trying to figure out who you are and what happened to you.

Features, added or intended:

☆ Fully customizable MC (name, hair, skin color, personality, etc.)

☆ Romantic or Platonic routes, Poly included.

☆ Long Crocodile. You'll see. ♡

☆ Learn more about the world and maybe save it, maybe launch a salamander at someone.

☆ Diverse cast of characters, ethnicities, religions, etc! (Please do tell me if anything's not accurate enough, it's fantasy, yes, but I am using some real-life ethnicities and such as basis!)

☆ A lot of lore. A lot. I made a map. I will do more than just a map. It's inevitable.

Eden's Passing isn't romance focused but, those inclined towards it, does have multiple routes with it.

Zacharie, M, 36(RO)

A 4'11" man with spiky green hair and red tinted glasses. Adventurers clothing, torn at the edges and taped to his body on his limbs, cover most of his skin. What you can see of his skin, primarily his face, has stitches spanning the length and width. No one is allowed to touch them. Beyond that, he seems nice, even when he mutters insults at passing plants or argues with books. But his skittishness towards others is concerning, especially the glint of pure terror he sometimes shows. It's typical to see him hovering around Cassian, primarily either hiding behind him or riding his shoulders.

Solo OR Poly route with Cassian or Florian.

Cassian, M, 29 (RO)

At 6'6, he's the tallest of the group. Long black hair drapes down well past his hips, sometimes being used to hide his eyes from others. Old yet well cared for armor is his ordinary choice of clothing, no matter the situation. Quiet and melancholic, it's hard to catch him smiling at much of anything. Despite that, he's the first to jump into a fight to protect his friends. One of the few people to understand Zacharie, he keeps a firm eye on anyone that might pose a threat to the smaller man. A bit of an enabler, he will turn a blind eye to the more playful deeds his companions wish to take.

Solo OR Poly route with Zacharie.

Florian, Gender Selectable (M/F/NB), 25 (RO)

At 5'3", they're the second shortest of the group. Blond curly and short hair, styled like an odd pixie cut, clashes against the bright red coat they drap over themself. Two antennae stick out from their scalp, twitching at any stimulus. A butterfly bow, which sometimes flaps on its own when Florians distressed, keeps it from falling off. When they're not being pestered by Zacharie or Wynn, they're actually the most sensible of the group. A bit of a motherhen, they do their best to prevent the others from getting into trouble. It's a thankless job, and they aren't even getting paid for it.

Solo OR Poly routes with Wynn or Zacharie.

Wynn, Gender Selectable (M/F/NB), 23 (RO)

A 5'9" elf that's joined the group alongside Florian. Long, pointed, and pierced ears flick every so often, parting their short, light purple hair. Clad in a cape that trails in the air and an outfit that shows off a concerning amount of chest, they aren't the shyest with showing skin. Long pants that hide even their boots cover their legs, yet never get dirty as they drag across the ground. A bit of a flirt, they aren't the type to take much seriously. It's common to see them, Zacharie, and Twig up to no good, typically with Wynn at the lead. A natural born leader, one might be confused why they follow MC's lead, even they seem at odds with that fact.

Solo OR Poly route with Florian.

Twig, NB, 26 (RO)

Looming over at 6'4", they tend to forget just how tall they are. Long purple hair ends as their tail begins, the fluff at the end matching their hair. Thick and curly when short, it covers up their eyes from the view of others. 5 horns sprout up from their scalp, imitating a crown of sorts, and range in size from a few inches to just two. Clad in purple and blue robes that are breathable yet skin-tight, they've had Zacharie modify it to properly accommodate their tail. Out of the group, they remain the friendliest even in the face of adversity. It's... hard for others to tell whether they're simply naive or just too forgiving, but regardless of that, they remain the first to lend their hand when others need it. A bit of a goofball as well, it's easy to catch them trying to pick the funnest option first. Quick to trust and quicker to befriend, one might wish to spare them from the cruelty of the world.

Solo route

???, NB, ??? (RO?)

A figure that stands at 5'10, they're your savior from the pit you woke up in. Long hair, starting black and quickly fading to a bright red, flows from their scalp like tendrils. It flows as if hit by a breeze constantly, regardless of airflow. Clad in only a white robe tied shut at the waist by a sash, it's easy to notice the gaps in their skin. They never answer when it's brought up, leaving you wondering just what has saved you from the ravine. Quick to anger, you'd almost think they're unpredictable if not for the consistent causes and phrases. Regardless of who you are, they insist your name is Eden. Regardless of their affection towards you, they refuse to tell you who they are. They insist you'll figure it out.

Solo route.

#if game #twine if #twine game #interactive fiction #if wip #twine #wip #please know I'm skittering behind the scenes #the prologue is being worked on btw don't worry. I'll probably post intentionally bad pics #if asked to anyway #ill probably delete these extra tags after a bit

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alohaasaloevera · 4 months

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TBH I THINK EVERYBODY WOULD’VE THRIVED AT LEAST A LITTLE BIT IF KLANCE WAS ONE-SIDED

KEITH BLUSHING SOMETIMES AT LANCE WHEN HE TEASES HIM???

OCCASIONALLY STARING AT HIM LONGINGLY??

LIKE IT CUTS TO LANCE TALKING, HE’S THE CENTER OF FOCUS and everything else in the background is just… backgrounding but from afar you can see Keith staring at him with a small smile on his face???

MAYBE A HUG AFTER KEITH COMES BACK?? I THINK THAT’S PUSHING IT TOO MUCH THOUGH

DREAMWORKS COULD’VE MADE THIS FILLER EPISODE OR SOMETHING WHERE LANCE BUYS A CAMERA AT THE EARTH SHOP AND TAKES SEVERAL PICTURES OVER THE COURSE OF A FEW DAYS

ONE SCENE SHOWS KEITH AND LANCE IN KEITH’S ROOM AND LANCE STARTS GOING ON ABOUT RELATIONSHIPS AND CRUSHES

“So… what about you? Got any person in mind for future Mrs. Red Lion?”

“Not really..”

“C’mon Mullet! There’s gotta be at least one girl you like!”

“No. Now get out.”

Then Lance takes a picture with Keith and tells him to keep it!!!

It ends with the door sliding closed. Keith looks at the picture before he leans on the cool metal, slowly slipping down until he’s on the ground with his face in his hands (DREAMWORKS GOTTA ADD THAT BLUSH TOO)

“Quiznak.”

OR IT’S KEITH PAUSING FOR A FEW SECONDS AFTER LANCE GOES OUT AND THEN HE STARES AT THE PICTURE BEFORE SAYING QUIZNAK???

I would’ve loved one-sided Klance tbh better than nothing

Sunset scene could be the same (maybe a tad bit more complimentary) but after Lance goes to GET THE GIRL, It shows Keith staring at the sunset with this bittersweet expression on his face????

In the end, Keith is happy for Lance but it still doesn’t erase the fact that he’s had a long-running MEGA BOY CRUSH on him. DreamWorks makes it so emotional that critics PRAISE the show!!!

But V:LD is a kids show after all, and it’s about giant space robots, so romance would not be the main target. One-Sided love is more complex, BUT STILL. JUST…SUBTLY

OHHH THE Q&AS TOO

“Does Keith love Lance?”

“I’m sure you can figure that out for yourself.”

KEITH LISTENING HIS EARS OFF TO ROMANTICIZING INDIE??? Y’ALL I REACHED A WHOLE STAGE OF DELUSIONAL. LUDICROUS. LUNATIC. MANIAC.

when the gold rays fell on your skin

awnd my hair got caught in the wind

thuh quier sang a melancholic hymn

(AHHAHHAHHAHHAHHAHH)

ine thuh morening you would be gone

ide b morning trina hold on

two ze memori uf ur luhips

gwad, eim souh luvseck

What have you done to me?

#voltron #vld #vld lance #vld keith #lance mcclain #keith kogane #klance #laith #CLAIMING MY DELULU BADGE #OH GOSH #WHAT IF #WHAT IF 💔💔#OOOH LOVEEEE #NEVER KNEW WHAT I WAS MISSIN #I ALWAYS THOUGHT #I MIGHT BE BAD #aloe vera does it again guys #she did the word vomit thing again

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charlidos · 1 month

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I'm having a serious bout of nostalgia these past weeks. I started reading from my pile of fanfiction which I've printed over the years. And ended up reading the only Lord of the Rings story I have saved for posterity, namely Calico's brilliant (but sadly unfinished) Viggo/Orlando fic Blood Oranges. And wow, it's really quite an intoxicating read.

It was never a big fandom for me back then, but I remember reading a little, and I remember finding that whole cast quite wonderful.

All of a sudden, I felt a strong need to look back at the Viggorli pairing of yore. Turned out to be a bit of a rabbit hole for me.

I realised I find it very fascinating to have this soon 25 years perspecitve on them, since fandom is usually quite topical. Particularly RPF, since it's quite dependent on that darn thing we call reality.

Looking back at a pairing like Viggo and Orlando is wrought with wistfulness, with all the could-have-beens and never-happeneds. In the now of a pairing, you can fantasise of a future, but with the reality of a past, it's quite different.

I've always been intrigued by the relationship that Viggo and Orlando had during those 18 months of filming LotR. Sharing a make up trailer, getting lost in the woods together, and just generally spending a lot of time together. And waxing lyrically about each other. More than ten years later, O said in an interview that V is his biggest influence, that the way V took care of him on the LotR is something that mattered a lot to him. And that V in general is a legend, a beautiful soul etc. It's quite touching.

But it's also a quite melancholic and wistful statement since O also implies it's not that easy to keep in touch with V because "he's an artist, an ACTUAL artist".

youtube

A few years later, O very randomly appeared on a rather odd Italian show where people are reconciled with each other, live on tv. O was there when two estranged sisters were reconciled. O says he has a similiar situation with a "good friend", someone with a similiar age difference as the sisters, someone who used to take care of him. It's not at all clear, but it seems this "brother" gave him a ring with the inscription "To Wherever it May Lead". A line from Legolas to Aragorn which was cut.

(It's a little difficult to hear, but O says that the line from LotR was engraved in the ring when it was given to him, and that he always has it, as an encouragment. I've only found this clip on a Chinese site, hence the subtitles.)

So, it seems to be implied that V gave this ring to O. That O maybe also lost touch with V. And that maybe they've reconciled? It's unclear, but I find it terribly intriguing.

Of course, I know nothing about what's actually going, and it's all fantasy, but it's nonetheless quite a fascinating perspective to look back like this over the years. In my brain - warped by years in fandom - it turns into this EPIC. Either an epic romance, with its ups and downs, loss and great love. Or an epic tragedy, full of unfulfilled desires, bad choices and opportunities lost. There's still some fanfiction written these days (not much, but I'm in awe that there's any at all!). The lovely recent work of chaosmanor really sold me on very wistful, but also quite hopeful, reconcilation fic.

O and V are getting old, but they are still two quite handsome fellows. And I hope there will be a proper, public LotR-cast reunion in time for the 25 yrs mark. They had a few covid-oriented reunions on zoom for the 20 yr celebration, but I hope it'll be live one day.

I would like to see the fellowship of tattoed nine together again, as long as they're all still alive.

#orlando bloom #viggo mortensen #lord of the rings #viggorli #nostalgia #fanfiction #lotrips #fandom warps your brain #it's chronic

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tryingtimi · 2 months

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Books of 2024 (2023 or close to it)

Thank you for the tag @barbex it sounds like a fun one hehe. 9 books should be listed that were read in the last 12 months (or alternatively liked when you read it) if I'm right. And when I read the rules I had the same reaction: mind went blank on if I ever read a single book lol. Luckily I keep track of my reading because I like watching them back.

No pressure tagging: @aninkwellofnectar, @bloodlessheirbyjacques, @the-void-writes, @circa-specturgia, @aalinaaaaaa, @dyrewrites, @italiangothicwriteblr, @cherrybombfangirlwrites, @blind-the-winds and anyone who wants to join.

All of the listed were read last year and which I liked especially.

When The Stars Alight by Camilla Andrew (@aninkwellofnectar). Bi MC, gaslamp fantasy, gothic, court intrigue, delicious spice

You've already seen this many times on my page, because I really enjoyed this book and it was a window to many things I didn't know I'd enjoy in a story. So many beautiful description, beautifully emotional and sexy sex, rarely seen complex character dynamics and so much mouth watering food.

Éjféli Iskolák (Midnight Schools) by Attila Veres. lovecraftian horror set in Budapest

It's a horror short story collection by a hungarian author who I got recommended by a collegue. Attila Veres has a talent to capture that melancholic, sometimes surrelistic feeling living in Budapest which makes his work so authentic. But also very Big Ew for all the horroristic shit he created (in the best way.) My favourite one was the 'Porn After Midnight'.

Yumi and The Nightmare Painter by Brandon Sanders. M/F romance focus, sci-fi/fantasy, anime-esque

You all know I'm a Sanderson trash. And the fact I, the slowest reader on the earth, read this book in two days, proved that very much lol. It felt like watching an anime, I swear to god. There's magic, time travel kinda thing, pretty innocent humour, loads of painting in it.

A Christmas Carol by Charles Dickenes. christmas nostalgia, historical fiction?

We all know this, but I'm very behind on classics book-wise so I began to catch up last year. Espceially because I love the animated movie so much. It was a lovely and educative read.

Y/N by Esther Yi. litfic, kpop fandom and industry satire basically, comteporary

It was one of my favourites from last year tbh, because I couldn't put down the damn e-reader. A very strange little read, 100% unhinged, but made me realise I might enjoy litfic, so I'll read more this year. Also, the story is not "summarizable" but the fact that this is the first two review on GoodReads tells a lot I think: reading this feels like that one night when i accidentally smoked weed for the first time I sort of feel like I just hallucinated this entire thing Yeah.

Even Though I Knew The End by C. L. Polk. F/F romance, fantasy, novella

Lesbian magical detective. Done, sold. I wanted to read this a while now, and it did not disappoint. It gave exactly what it promised. Fast paced little adventure with some humour and a lovely couple. Not a life-chaning read but as I mentioned, it gave what it promised. I enjoyed it anyway.

Interview With The Vampire by Anne Rice. M/M romance kinda, supernatural, philosophical

Finally started to read the books my all time favourite movies are made of. Loved every bits of this, though sometimes it got way too wordy or I don't even know what. Overall though, it got me. Full of contemplation about human nature, God (though I could do a bit less without that) and death, plus the iconic vampire husbands and their arguments. It's just a real long broody monologue of Louis tbh. I'm fine with that it seems, though.

Legend & Lattes by Travis Baldree. F/F romance (not focus), cosy fantasy

Read pretty fast too. It's very much what it promises also. Cosy, and relaxing, and endearing. Love the concept of how a stoic warrior woman can settle finally and do something other than fighting. It was cute.

Tress of The Emerald Sea by Brandon Sanderson. M/F romance (not that important i think), cosy fantasy, Princess Bride-vibes

Yes, I got all the secret project, because of course I would. This one was also something like Legends & Lattes imo. In Sanderson style tho. I'm also loving when the narrator is a third person telling the story. Those are always fun. Oh and the story had many cuteness, humour and Our Flag Means Death kinda pirates.

#tag games #book recs #sandersons are my comfort reads what can i say #this year will be all about unhinged and dark and horror tho #fun times

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it-happened-one-fic · 3 days

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Dancing With Visions - Unwilling to be Parted - Argentine Tango - Zhongli

Author Notes: I was really quite delighted when I spun the wheel of fortune I use to decide who dances what style and Zhongli got the Argentine tango. I must confess that I have always personally loved to watch performances of Argentine tangos, so that possibly shows up a bit in this fic. The performance in this fic was heavily inspired by Maksim Chmerkovskiy and Meryl Davis’s Argentine tango to “Montserrat” by Orquesta Del Plata on Season 18, week 10 of “Dancing With the Stars.” I also listed to "Montserrat" while writing and editing this fic. Just like the rest of this series, reader is female. I hope you enjoy!

If you would like to read more of this series, the fics can be found here: Dancing with Visions Masterlist.

Type: Female reader/ dance/ fluff/ romance implied

Word Count: 1905

Zhongli was respected by everyone and, in the eyes of the populace at large, seemed to know everything there was to know about anything. And perhaps that was why he was asked by an orchestra to perform an Argentine tango while they played, as a part of the overall performance.

After all, it was a song specifically written to be danced to, so they did not want to lose that aspect of the music. Though admittedly, it wasn’t exactly what I had initially expected when I’d heard it was going to be music written for a tango.

But then, it wasn’t music for a ballroom tango, it was music for an Argentine tango, and there was, evidently enough, a distinct difference between the two dances.

The Argentine tango was the more intimate, melancholic sister to the dance known as the ballroom tango. Or at least that was how Zhongli had described it to me when he’d asked me to be his partner for his performance. A request that I had hesitantly accepted only after much reassurance from my current partner.

I couldn’t deny that Zhongli’s description of the dance was accurate, though. While the ballroom tango and the Argentine tango held much in common, there were very distinct differences.

It honestly felt like there was more connection between the two dancers for the Argentine tango, which was more moody than aggressive, as the ballroom variant so often was.

I glanced over at where Zhongli sat, ever patient in the chair at the table on the opposite from where I stood.

In many ways, I’d been surprised to learn that the orchestra had set up such a performance area for us. But, as both they and Zhongli had asserted, Argentine tango music was music made for dance. It was only natural that the dance took centerplace as the orchestra performed their moody, careful sounding piece.

The music started and I stepped towards Zhongli, stepping up into the empty chair beside me and then onto the table between us. Adjusting my skirt as he looked towards me, his head turning in perfect time with the plucked strings of the music.

We’d practiced this dance numerous times, but his gaze never failed to startle me. I didn’t know what it was about his amber-colored eyes with slightly inhuman pupils that gave me the slightest of pauses, but it never seemed to fail. I was just lucky that my hesitation matched with the music.

I straightened, pushing myself up and off the chair and pivoting on the foot that rested on the table as I twisted, letting myself fall easily into Zhongli’s arms where he sat.

I looked up at him calmly as I stretched my arms back and over my head in the most languid manner possible. Slowly cartwheeling off his lap as he watched with quiet interest. Holding my hand as I stood just as he turned to look back out at the crowd.

Still seated, he twirled me across the floor until I stopped in front of him, his hands tracing their way up the side of my legs.

I inhaled slightly at the motion but let my hands rest over gloved ones, taking a gentle hold of them before pulling them off me and tossing them into the air before I stepped forward and turned. Leading with my head as I faced him and he stood.

I lifted my arms, easily sliding into our dancing hold as he almost immediately began to walk me backwards and across our stage.

Our steps were light, and almost stealthy as he pushed me backwards, pausing only to let me lean back to the lilting of the violins before he turned with me. His posture ever upright and strong as he twisted, placing me at his side and stepping lightly in place with me as we faced each other.

As if we weren’t having to concentrate on our intricate footwork at all and instead one another’s eyes were far more important.

And though I couldn’t speak for him, that certainly was true for me. Zhongli’s eyes were eternally interesting and beautiful.

His gaze was still one of pointed interest that seemed to make it impossible to look away from him.

I forced myself to break our eye contact though, as I turned the side, only to get swung lightly through the air as if I weighed nothing. Landing in a crouched position with one leg extended and my one arm still stretched out so my hand could stay in his.

Almost like it was locked in place, either by his grip or my unwillingness to let go. That was up to our viewers to decide.

The room was perfectly silent save for the music around us as he stepped lightly around behind me and I twisted on my toes. Pulling my legs under me as I looked up at him and he spun.

My hand left his only for a fraction of a second before he was taking it once more in his firm, but surprisingly gentle grasp.

He tugged lightly and I launched into the air, spinning elegantly so that my back was to his chest as he caught me against him. Wrapping an arm around me and holding me there as my legs curled backwards and split to lock around him as he stepped backwards.

But that was the nature of both this dance and Zhongli himself. Each motion flowed into the next effortlessly. As if each step were a natural progression.

This was a dance that told a story. A romance filled with sophisticated maturity and a sort of nostalgia that could only come with time.

I reached back, my hand brushing against Zhongli’s temple before he swung me forward, my legs kicking up into the air and flaring out my skirt before I touched down.

Zhongli immediately stepped back and away from me, placing a potent distance between as I turned to look back towards him. Almost as if I were drawn to him while he placed careful distance between us.

But his eyes never left me.

Though separate, we stepped forward together, our arms reaching towards each other in a sweeping, graceful motion.

My hand found his as our other arms wrapped around each other in a loose embrace. Close, but not close. Separate, but never far.

He shifted me so that I was in front of him once more, our gazes holding one another as our steps lagged slightly with the tempo of the music before he began pushing me backwards and across the stage once more.

Our steps turned fast as we twisted from side to side. Almost like we didn’t have time to waste, but also couldn’t bear to be rushed in this intricate dance that spoke of deep emotions.

We reached the edge of the stage, Zhongli stopping me before twirling me lightly so that we could shift back the other direction. Me still retreating as he pushed and guided me ever backwards.

Trusting me to stop with him just as I relied on him to guide me to halt before it was too late and the edge of the stage was passed.

This time we pivoted, shifting so that we were both technically facing the same direction with our heads turned to look at one another rather than in the direction we moved.

We released on one side, me spinning out as his arm stretched, teasing at letting me go but apparently not quite able to before he pulled me back towards him.

Twirling me in as I lifted my leg for him to catch at the last second, before he lifted me into the air and spinning effortlessly with me.

He paused though, facing the crowd and tossing me into the air lightly. And I spun lightly before landing safely in his arms once more.

He leaned with me, dipping me towards the ground as I extended my arm and looked away from him even as one of my arms remained wrapped around his shoulders.

He swung me down easily, his arm remaining wrapped around me as my feet touched down and I spun to look at him. Finally letting go of him as one hand pressed to my chest. Holding him at a slight distance as I looked up at him once more.

He met my gaze, his stare somehow unshakeable as he reached out with one hand. A silent request that I accepted with my hand slipping carefully into his.

We moved at the same time, him stepping towards me just as my other hand reached towards him, and the distance between us was closed once more.

I swallowed as his hand slipped from behind his back and wrapped around my shoulders as he spun me dramatically to the side. My one leg extended behind me as I looked away from him yet again.

He pulled me back up into an upright position swiftly and we shifted to the side, our footwork speeding up once more as he spun me once more, and I paused. Kicking up one leg before he spun me out. Letting go of me with one hand that I tugged back and pressed to my chest as we looked towards each other for a fraction of a second. Me leaned back and relying on his support while he gazed at me, supporting me with one arm but also holding me at a careful distance.

He shifted, holding out his free arm as he pulled me towards him and I spun. Launching into the air and landing safely in his embrace. Our sides pressed together with my legs curled under me and his arm wrapped steadfastly around me as our hands remained entwined.

He spun with me that way, my position shifting subtly as we rotated. My hand released his so that I could reach up and cup his face as I curled towards him. One of my legs shifting so it curled around him instead of just under me.

I was no longer pressed merely to his side, but holding onto him in a sort of loose embrace as his other hand cupped my shoulder.

His gaze flickered over to mine and I swallowed, forcing myself to hold eye contact with him as he paused for a moment and I uncurled my legs. Straightening them out so that the toes of my shoes barely touched the ground as he walked backwards. Inclining his head towards mine as my hand slid down the side of his face to rest against his neck.

We were hardly even an inch apart when he came to a stop. Letting me step closer to him before letting go, almost reluctantly and standing off to the side of the stage as he turned and sat. This time in the chair that was on the side of the table closest to me.

Applause erupted around us and I exhaled a breath I hadn’t even realized I’d been holding. I looked towards Zhongli quietly, half-stunned by the noise around us as he met my gaze and smiled softly.

His stare was no longer one of intensity now, but I still found my eyes lingering on his before I at last looked away. Smiling awkwardly at the audience as Zhongli stood and joined me.

His hand finding mine as our fingers entwined themselves together once more. Seemingly unwilling to be parted.

If you would like to read more:

Next: Coming Soon!

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jessamine-rose · 2 years

Text

⋆‧͙˚*✧•̩̩͙*˚ Fairytale ˚*•̩̩͙✧*˚‧͙⋆

I thought that writing Herbarium would free me from the Capitano agenda. But I was wrong and now we have a side story + epilogue written from Capitano’s POV…….pls don’t expect much from this, as it’s just a collection of dark fluff and bonus scenes which take place throughout Herbarium. Also, three cheers for Sumeru update ٩(๑❛ᴗ❛๑)۶

To those who previously enjoyed Herbarium, I hope you enjoy this fic and don’t mind me tagging you. I will forever be grateful for your feedback!! And thank you once again to my dear friend @diodellet for peer-reviewing another self-indulgent fic :’>

Tw:: YANDERE, unhealthy relationships, kidnapping, violence, blood, murder, psychological trauma, mention of child abuse, mention of nsfw, spice, MINORS DNI

Note:: Female reader described as physically weak and smaller than Capitano, pre-release characterization of Capitano which will likely be obliterated by canon lore

♡ 3.3k words under the cut ♡

i. Once upon a time, an unlikely romance blossomed between a Monster and a Damsel.

The battlefield is a merciless place. A corner of the world nourished by violence and bloodshed, a place where only the strong could lay claim to honor and victory. For as long as he had been a Fatui Harbinger, Il Capitano had full control over this domain.

On the battlefield, there is no chance to appreciate the beauty of the natural surroundings, not when all would eventually be sullied by blood and death.

And yet here he is, standing in a peaceful meadow so far removed from the reality of the world. Having fallen victim to an opponent like no other, whose weapons take the form of melancholic glances and immortalized flowers.

“This is for you.”

She gives him flowers again. The dandelions are pressed between two sheets of parchment paper, puffy seeds flattened and denied of their promised liberation.

And just as he had done with that fateful bunch of windwheel asters, Capitano accepts her gift.

“The flowers are preserved this time,” he notes. “Are these from your personal collection?”

She shakes her head. “I don’t share my flowers. I picked these two weeks ago and pressed them for you.”

“And for what reason have you taken pains to offer this gift to me?”

She looks up, directly facing him. “You don’t seem to be the touristy type. I just thought that you might like a souvenir of Mondstadt to bring home. Or think of it as compensation for helping me read those Snezhnayan classics.”

How strange. Many a soldier have looked at him with fear or hatred, oftentimes as the light faded from their eyes. On the other hand, there is a sense of privilege to be felt in occupying ______’s gaze. The melancholy look in her eyes is a mystery which he has yet to uncover.

“Your gesture is greatly appreciated.” He keeps the parcel in his coat pocket, careful not to crumple the flowers. “I shall see to it that your gift is properly maintained.”

“That is good to hear.” She looks away, ending that brief moment of recognition. Then she sits down on the grass and opens her library book, quickly absorbed in her newest story.

For her to put herself in such a vulnerable position before him…he cannot tell if her trust is a matter of blind naivete or foolish courage. Had she met a lesser person, she would have quickly fallen prey to the cruelty of the world.

His appointment in the Goth Grand Hotel will begin in a few minutes. It is time to resume his mission.

Capitano walks over to the edge of the meadow, nodding at a hidden subordinate. They bow and run deeper into the forest to prepare his carriage.

He looks at ______ one last time. She is still staring at her book, completely apathetic to his departure. Among the flowers, she presents the perfect image of ethereal beauty.

It would astonish many to hear that the Captain had fallen victim to the charms of such a delicate little flower. But that was the reality of this battlefield.

ii. The Monster, having fallen under the spell of true love, sought to become the Damsel’s protector.

Procuring information had been child’s play.

“My lord, the Maier son was spotted leaving the Angel’s Share! He will arrive in an hour.”

The Fatui agent is careful not to step on the blood. The cleaners already have their fair share of evidence to dispose of.

Capitano is still standing inside the Maiers’ office. “Keep an eye on him henceforth. Should he ever suspect the involvement of the Fatui or ______, eliminate him at once.”

“Yes, my lord!”

They rush out of the room. Capitano glances at the bodies on the floor.

The Maier couple had been cowards to the very end. Up until their slaughter, they had begged for mercy and spoken ill of their former foster child.

“Lord Harbinger, it is all a misunderstanding!”

“That brat! What kind of lies has she been telling everyone?!”

To think that he even granted them the mercy of a quick death. The Tsaritsa would forgive him for turning their mere interrogation into a spontaneous massacre. The suffering of his soldiers is nothing compared to what his darling had been forced to endure.

“My lord!” Another agent appears, holding up a worn folder. “We were successful in obtaining all records of ______ from Mondstadt Orphanage. All available personal information is listed in this folder, with the exception of the adoption papers.”

“Has the orphanage been sworn to secrecy?”

“They promised to never speak of her moving forward.”

Another pathetic lot. For a safe haven to be easily silenced with bribery and threats…he is already aware that injustice flourishes beyond the battlefield.

Capitano wipes the blood off his gloves and opens the folder. By now, he already knows most of his darling’s past through earlier background checks and careful deductions. There is nothing romantic to be found in her melancholy; it is simply the byproduct of a tragic story.

NAME: ______

STATUS: Dismissed at the age of 18.

How pitiful. All her life, she has been a powerless damsel deprived of hope and a kind savior. She was only able to leave her prisons once her tormentors were done with her.

“My lord.” The agent is still bowing before him. “We have already completed our other task. The purchased books will be delivered to your home shortly.”

“Confirm that the books will arrive before my return. You are dismissed.”

“Yes, sir!”

He can still recall the titles and stories of every book his darling had read in the meadow alongside him. She has a fondness for fairytales, from the classics to dark fantasies to creative subversions. It is easy to tell which archetype Capitano would be associated with.

He would never be regarded as her hero or knight in shining armor. To claim that his love is honorable and pure would be a falsehood.

But he would protect her. He would place her in a tower so high that it would be impossible for anyone else to reach her. And regardless of her feelings, his darling would never be exposed to the violence of the world ever again.

He only hopes that she will quickly adapt to the merciless winters of Snezhnaya. A flower does not take kindly to being uprooted from its natural environment. However, she has shown him that it is more efficient to claim ownership over a pressed flower.

“My lord.” The cleaner gives him a brief bow. “All evidence of your involvement has been erased. What should we do with the bodies?”

“Leave them as they are. Let their deaths become a public spectacle in Mondstadt.”

So she may know of his resolve to destroy all of the monsters in her story, with himself as the sole exception.

Capitano closes the folder and turns to his darling’s slain tormentors.

“Let the consequences of their dishonor be put on display."

iii. Following the Monster’s profession of love, the couple was married in a faraway land.

There is no grand proposal or wedding. A few weeks after their arrival in Snezhnaya, Capitano presents his darling with a simple ring crafted in the likeness of flowers.

She doesn’t resist. She simply allows him to slip the ring onto her finger, flinching at their brief skin contact. Following that short ceremony, he begins calling her his wife.

His darling has adjusted to her new prison but she remains a silent captive. She denies him of her flowers and friendliness, instead offering her obedience as the bare minimum. It is a futile strategy, but Capitano can respect her logic.

She knows that she is locked in a one-sided battle. Eventually, she will concede defeat.

On occasion, he is granted small victories. He often catches his darling polishing her wedding ring despite it being a dreaded mark of his ownership. At one point, she had even dared to inquire about his real name.

“I’m curious, that’s all,” she whispers. “I just want to know your surname.”

He only stares back at her. “For what reason? Do you intend to use my family name?”

“...Never mind. Forget that I asked.” She opens her notebook to the newest flowers. The white roses make a lovely addition to her collection, including the one that has been permanently stained with her blood. “Can we visit the woods later? I would like to pick more roses.”

Capitano’s mask hides any hint of his smile.

iv. The Monster, however, could only dream of the Damsel’s requited love.

Another stack of books is delivered to their manor.

His darling gives him a confused look. “You bought more books for me.”

Capitano is already unboxing them for her. “That is clear.”

“But why?”

Her confiscated book is still fresh in their memories. After that minor dispute, Capitano had limited his book purchases and her interlibrary loans to reserve his darling’s time and attention. His sudden bulk purchase only serves a similar purpose.

“Is it indecorous of me to support my wife’s hobby?” He sets the final book on her desk. “I trust that you will be reading these for your personal enjoyment and not as a means to avoid me.”

Her collection of books is steadily increasing. Perhaps he should set up a bookcase or even a personal library.

“...Of course.”

She uncaps her pen and opens each book, writing “Property of ______” on the front pages. Then she selects a leatherbound novel and flips to the next page.

Capitano remains in the bedroom.

He can already ascertain the moment she realizes his tactic.

The books are all printed in native Snezhnayan at a level far too advanced for her comprehension. Her dictionary would prove useless in translating the archaic words and figures of speech.

To her credit, his darling makes a noble attempt. She takes out her dictionary. She mutters words and phrases. She flips through the other books and does not even acknowledge his presence.

Her shield has become another weapon for him.

Her favorite books have served as an excellent source of psychoanalysis. Capitano’s new pastime of reading his book purchases beforehand has even equipped him with an arsenal of story spoilers. He wonders if his darling has noticed the recurring themes in his choices.

After an hour of her fruitless endeavor, she finally approaches him.

“Capitano.” She gives him the book. “Can you please read this to me?”

“Would you like me to start from the beginning?” He adjusts his sitting position in the armchair and pats his thigh.

She only sighs before taking a seat on his lap.

She is practically weightless to him. It would only take a tight embrace to crush her.

“Yes, please.” She stares ahead at the pages. “You…it has been a while since I last asked you to translate for me.”

The Snezhnayan classics have been untouched ever since she labeled them. Perhaps Capitano will reread those to her one day.

He does agree with the sentiments of the stories’ villains.

v. Yet he persisted in his efforts to win over the Damsel’s heart through priceless treasures and chivalrous acts.

The battlefield is red with dendrobiums this time.

The flowers bloom across the ravaged scenery, vermilion petals demanding the soldiers’ attention. Some survivors have taken the opportunity to rest and admire them.

“My lord, the Inazuman forces have retreated! A few survivors have been captured for interrogation. Shall we…?” The sergeant’s voice trails off.

Capitano picks the dendrobiums and stands up. He had chosen only the prettiest, most vibrant trio for his darling.

“Sergeant Agapov.” He holds up the flowers, careful not to get blood on the petals. “See to it that these flowers are safely transported to Snezhnaya along with my luggage. They are to be kept in fresh condition.”

“Yes, my lord!” They take the dendrobiums and rush to their tent.

Capitano turns around.

Two soldiers are staring. They look away immediately.

By now, he is already used to this. The Fatui headquarters is rampant with whispers of the Captain’s despondent darling and his punishments for minor offenders. Some even claim that she has cursed him with moments of weakness.

He has no response to those allegations. If not for his loyalty to the Tsaritsa, he would have left the battlefield ages ago to devote his strength to his ethereal flower.

Though a chat with those soldiers would effectively remind them of his earlier show of strength.

✿ ⚘

“Sergeant Charon, your status report.”

The spy enters the tent and kneels. “My lord, you will be pleased to learn that your wife is in good spirits.”

Capitano looks up from his report. “Do elaborate on what you mean by ‘good spirits.’”

He had already expected his darling to act differently while he was away. If she has been eagerly awaiting news of his death, their reunion will be rather disappointing.

Charon shakes his head. “I…I was referring to her health! Your wife spends the majority of the time reading her books, and she rarely speaks to Sergeant Fames. She looks neither joyful nor sullen in your absence.”

“I see. You are dismissed.”

Charon leaves immediately.

So his darling seems unaffected by his absence, at least to outsiders.

He has only been gone for a week. He can still recall their conversation from the night before his departure.

“Will you miss me?”

In that moment, she had never looked more vulnerable.

She was beginning to show signs of defeat.

It had taken everything in Capitano not to abandon his position and swear his undying devotion to her. Instead, he had knelt before her and made a sacred promise.

“There is not a single moment when I do not think of you or your safety. Let these be your words of comfort until I return to you.”

His hand was caressing her cheek, the other clasping his darling’s own hand. And for once, she did not flinch from the contact.

“All right.” She averted her gaze. Her free hand wrapped around his wrist, but she made no move to remove his hand from her face.

Her touch was so delicate. A sensation so light and insubstantial that it left him wanting more.

“I’ll trust you on that.”

His collection of Mondstadt souvenirs is safely stored amongst his luggage. Capitano unlocks the box and takes out his preserved calla lilies.

vi. As the seasons passed, the Damsel slowly succumbed to the same curse that had befallen the Monster.

She welcomes him home this time around.

“Welcome back.” She closes her notebook and leaves her desk. “Ceres didn’t tell me that you had arrived. Has she left?”

Capitano enters the room. “Sergeant Fames was dismissed a few minutes ago.”

“I see.” She stands in front of him, head lowered. “How was your mission in Liyue?”

Liyue had greatly improved their military defense. What was originally a three-week mission had been extended to a full month apart from his darling.

The flowers of Liyue pale in comparison to the one he already has at home.

“Liyue boasts of a scenic landscape and unique flora.” He walks over to his closet and takes out a change of clothes. He has already removed his coat and armor. “Your souvenirs are in the living room. I was able to procure wild Glaze Lilies for you.”

“Thank you.”

He unbuttons his shirt.

A quiet gasp. “Are you hurt?”

The wound on his chest is only a scratch. But his darling is already rushing to his side to inspect the bandages.

She must have gone mad in his absence.

“The pain was only fleeting,” he assures her. “The wound will heal in time.”

“But it could leave a scar.” Her touch is gentle. “Doesn’t that bother you?”

Capitano only shrugs. “A scar is but an everlasting reminder of the past.”

“Exactly. Do you…can you still remember the pain until now?”

She looks up.

Her gaze is clear. The listless veil has been replaced with pure concern. All that he can see in her eyes is his own singular reflection.

“Darling,” he tells her, “this pain is incomparable to what you inflict on me daily.”

He removes his mask and kisses her.

She has weakened him. How could he go a day without the blessing of her touch?

She is more responsive this time. She clutches his shirt and kisses back, careful not to touch his bandaged wound. She smells like flowers, the combination of different fragrances mixing into her own intoxicating scent.

Her hips still bear marks from their last night together.

Capitano touches one of the bruises. His darling whimpers and looks up at him.

Their first night of intimacy had been an enlightening experience. He quickly learned that it is much easier to garner noises and reactions from his darling during lovemaking. Her own scars had been covered up with his marks of affection.

When they are connected, neither does she fear his touch.

His own love bites had disappeared weeks ago. If he could choose his scars, he would willingly carve his darling’s marks into his skin.

“Capitano.” She steps away from him, head lowered. “You…shouldn’t you rest first? We don’t want to agitate your injury.”

He only laughs and tilts her head upwards, claiming her gaze once more. “My beloved flower, you truly underestimate my strength.”

vii. And so the Monster and the Damsel lived happily ever after.

The flowers of Sumeru are beautiful. Nilotpala Lotuses glowing in the dark, Padisarah with purple-tipped leaves, Kalpalata Lotuses blooming across treacherous cliffsides, fragrant Sumeru roses bereft of thorns. And beyond that region, there are still so many other flowers to admire in Teyvat.

Capitano still prefers his own ethereal flower.

“The Sumeru roses belong to a different family from the classic rose. They are just as lovely, aren’t they?”

His darling snips six purple flowers and presses them inside her notebook. Each rambler rose takes up two whole pages.

Capitano is standing beside her. “You already picked numerous Sumeru roses near the bookstore. For what reason do you desire such a bountiful collection?”

She merely faces him. “I told you before, didn’t I? I don’t share my flowers. These are for you.”

Her gaze is as mysterious as ever. Some claim that it has changed over the past year—that her eyes have become completely consumed by darkness and melancholy, only to light up whenever she looks at the Captain. She only sees him.

She has gracefully lost to him. But Capitano could argue that he had been defeated first.

He holds her wrist. “We should return to the hotel. The remainder of my time will be devoted to my mission at hand.”

She does not flinch this time. “Good luck with your negotiations. I’ll just be reading my new books in our room, I guess.”

“Do not even think of trying to sneak out,” he warns. “I have guards stationed all over the hotel. Until we find a suitable replacement for Sergeant Fames, you will rarely leave my side.”

Her pulse continues its steady rhythm.

“I know.” A small smile forms on her face. “If I ever run away, my husband will capture me immediately. Can you promise that?”

She has truly become his one and only weakness.

There are also rumors of the changes to Il Capitano, the Fatui Harbinger who dyes the battlefields with blood then proceeds to pick the loveliest flowers for his darling.

To the entire world, he may be nothing more than a monster. But in the eyes of his beloved flower, he is her loving protector and knight in shining armor.

“You have my word.”

♡

Author’s Note ๑ Epilogue 1 ๑ Epilogue 2

Askndkfnaddk I am very surprised with myself for completing Fairytale in just a little over 24 hours. I can’t say much about the quality of this addition to Capitano and Darling’s twisted story, as I only focused on fairytales as the primary theme. But it was worth it to write about Capitano’s yandere tactics and give him back his flower rights <3

Once again, thank you all for reading and I hope you liked my work Σ੧(❛□❛✿)

Tag a Capitano enjoyer!! @bye-bye-sunbird @yandere-romanticaa @shumidehiro @dear-yandere @northcafe @dulcetthorns @nicebonescomrade @lambdrop @lolnoone @uhhhh-hi-im-sorry-for-this @poetics-of-fuubutsu @p214ven @elixir-de-silence @loleah @springtidewaves @frostedclementine @literaree @the-dreaming-city @something-was-here @shadowthief78 @lyra-mew @siphite @blankussy @xreaderarchive

#il capitano #capitano #yandere capitano #yandere capitano x reader #the capitano agenda #capitano x reader #fatui x reader #yandere fatui harbingers #yandere genshin #genshin x reader #tw: yandere #tw: dark #tw: blood #tw: violence #tw: death #spicy warning #mdni #fem reader #jessamine-writing

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fumblingmusings · 5 months

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Lukewarm Coffee and Plum Rice Pudding

Absolutely pure schmop for USUK. Alfred needs a break. Arthur is making old man dessert. They are both tired and more than a little in love. Very chaste romance below, just stretching writing muscles in the present tense. Enjoy!

Arthur’s house is small. It is small, old, and smells of syrup and plums. When Alfred inquires as to why, England gives him a very funny look, as if the other man is as stupid as Arthur’s frequent insults suggest. He simply states that if Alfred cared to look in the kitchen, he would see the vat bubbling away on the hob.

America ponders how he is to do such a thing, considering he is still standing on England’s porch.

He says as much, and Arthur scrunches his nostrils. There is dirt, America notes, on the bridge of said nose. Most likely mud from the garden (for where else would the plums have come from?), the result of Arthur rubbing his skin, perpetually sniffing as if he has a cold. Alfred suspects it is something akin to hay fever and it would go away if Arthur bothered to take something as simple as an antihistamine. He wouldn’t, of course, because Arthur refuses to take anyone’s advice, no matter its practicality.

Alfred remains under the tiny portico.

“Are you going to let me in? It’s cold.”

“It’s fifteen.”

Alfred nods, as if that number means anything to him. (It does, when he thinks about it for longer than a second. He tries often to not do so).

Still, Arthur steps back, muttering something about making Alfred take off his muddy shoes and leave them at the door. England then disappears down the tight hallway, turning left behind the stairs and returning to his kitchen. The sound of a radio station playing, some odd indie music, seems to be coming from the area.

Alfred follows his nose and ears, and sure enough, a rather large pot is bubbling away, making a sticky sound when Arthur goes to stir. Not burnt. Yet. Arthur lowers the volume of his radio, the announcer declaring it to be one of the multiple BBC channels. There were six?! More?

America drops his weekend bag on the wooden chair sticking out from the round table, then plants himself into the second chair. An excessive amount of crocheted placemats and coasters litter the small surface, and he is unable to help himself from picking one up and inspecting. Perfect, as always.

The silence seems to stretch on. With any other time that Alfred would drop by unannounced, he would be talking Arthur’s ear off. As it is, Arthur notes how utterly melancholic the boy appears to be.

Turning off the heat, Arthur moves the pot to the countertop, pouring the simmering fruit into a large glass bowl. It splatters as he does so, and the contact stings his bare wrists.

His loud, emphatic fuck makes Alfred start, look up from the table and across the cluttered room. Arthur is shaking his arm, as if trying to fling the stinging pain out of his limb.

“Careful,” America says unhelpfully.

The replying glare and bull-like snort are somewhat good-humoured, so Alfred manages a smile.

“Why are you here?” Arthur asks, turning to his sink to cool down the splatter. Alfred watches, quiet.

“Wanted to visit,” Alfred replies. He hears Arthur chuff to himself.

“Wanna coffee?” England asks instead of acknowledging Alfred’s answer.

“Not instant?”

“No. In the French press. I’ll need to microwave it up though.”

America sucks on his tongue, then nods his assent.

“Sure.”

Arthur fills up one of his floral mugs two thirds of the way, then goes to the fridge. He pauses, the door open and his face hidden from view.

“Warm or cold milk?”

“Cold.”

“Weird boy…” but still, Arthur does as bid, pulling out a carton and throwing the mug in the microwave for just over a minute. He returns to his bowl of plums, then inspects Alfred again.

“How long?”

“Huh?”

“How long will you stay?”

“Oh. Until I get found out?”

England’s green eyes spark with glee. “You’re being naughty?”

Alfred’s smile grows, hearing the childish naughtiness that always manages to leak through Arthur’s prim and proper exterior. There was nothing Arthur enjoyed more than a good deception, a practical joke, being a general annoyance. Was it any surprise such traits were also found in Alfred?

When Arthur’s face lit up, when that veneer of bored politeness cracked… Alfred was reminded why people actually tolerated (or worse, loved) Arthur. Alfred would only ever whisper it in the dead of night when he was sure Arthur was not listening. Confessing sincerely and earnestly on how much England had never truly been extracted from America.

More than once, Arthur had in fact, not been asleep, and Alfred had become ashamed to even look the man in the eye for the next three days.

Unabashed openness was a rarity in Arthur too, both in joy, and indeed in love. It was much more his style to simply open his home, offer a drink, and try to be useful. A land of such beautiful words and poets struggles to speak plainly at times, hiding behind inferences, suggestions and looks that Alfred only ever caught in candid photographs or mirror reflections.

Truly, they were as bad as each other. And yet they understood.

“I needed a break,” Alfred finally confesses.

Arthur waves him over, not commenting on his reasoning. “I’m making rice pudding for the plums. You can help. Make yourself useful.”

America could have kissed Arthur. Not for the gift of rice pudding; Alfred feels it is slop - unpleasant in texture and lacking in any flavour - but for Arthur’s immediate understanding. The time of a nation was valuable, and often they were used as endless free labour. It could be physical (Ivan’s railway construction came to mind), but for people like Alfred and Arthur, it was bureaucracy. An office intern with no voice in policy and yet expected to enact decisions to carry them through.

Arthur learned long ago how to bite back; his own workaholic nature would take care of the punishing hours, no effort required from Downing Street whatsoever. Alfred, the perpetual people pleaser, had experienced varied results.

Some years are better than others.

Arthur understands and seems very content - proud even - of his ability to be a bulwark for Alfred. More than once, he has slammed the door shut in the face of some silly-looking man in a suit demanding the world’s superpower to get in the black car.

Arthur knows when not to prod. Some things he will not let drop, badgering and arguing until Alfred cracks. Other times, he will do as he is doing in that moment - hearing the unsaid and knowing exactly what needs to be done.

A distraction, a comfort, an indulgence.

“There’s condensed milk in the pull-out cupboard. Two cans.”

The ping of the microwave leads to Arthur bustling around the tiny kitchen. There is a pile of dishes waiting to be washed in the basin and sticky surfaces of spilt sugar and fruit juice. Arthur hums to himself as he works, matching the quiet radio and its dreamlike rhythms.

Alfred places the cans squarely on the counter, then lays his chin on Arthur’s shoulder, right at the junction of his neck. The warm breath that he exhales visibly causes Arthur to shiver.

Not exactly looking back at America, Arthur raises a hand up to run his fingers through the boy’s golden hair.

“Your coffee’ll get cold,” England gently chides.

Alfred hums, only to wrap his arms around Arthur. England’s cool hands (so perfect for baking those cursed scones) hold on to one of Alfred’s own, the other petting him softly.

“Big baby,” Arthur murmurs right into Alfred’s ear. “Rest up. You’re home now.”

Once, perhaps not too long ago, Alfred would have bitten back an angry and spiteful retort, but now it was not so. Home was an idea, a feeling, many places and many people. His glamorous and large apartment in New York; his ranch in Texas with his wonderful horses; sitting in Montreal with Mattie watching the Canadiens lose to Tampa Bay for the Stanley Cup final (both of them drunk for differing reasons).

Holding on to Arthur like a buoy in the man’s tired and cluttered kitchen, a lukewarm coffee on a dirty counter, an excessive amount of boiled fruit cooling in a bowl.

Home.

#hetalia #hws england #hws america #usuk #fanfic #op

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tenshijhnny · 9 months

Text

« Not Allowed »

Pairing - Student!Yuta × Student!Fem!Reader

Synopsis - You and Yuta were schoolmates and maybe more than only mates

Genre - romance x love of youth at school

Warnings - mention of sex ; heartbreaking

Note - written with « Not Allowed » by TV Girl bc i felt depressed + ask some questions if you need to oor if you have some ideas : here

The soft murmur of the melody resonated in my ears as I walked through the streets illuminated by city lights. "Not Allowed" by TV Girl played in my headphones, accompanying my solitary steps with its melancholic rhythm. It was one of those nights when my thoughts seemed to drift into the past, to memories that felt both close and distant.

My mind brought me back to a bygone era, to a time when the sparks of youth shone in our eyes. Yuta, a name that evoked bittersweet memories, was at the center of these thoughts. He came from a certain group of music not really famous tho, a talented artist, but for me, he had been much more than that.

We had met in college, two lost souls in the labyrinth of student life. Yuta was charismatic, with a presence that naturally drew people in. His black hair and radiant smile melted hearts and caught gazes. He was the kind of person who instantly brightened up a room just by entering.

One day, our paths crossed by chance at the library. I was lost in a sea of books, desperately trying to grasp the intricacies of a difficult course. And then, he appeared, like a ray of sunshine through the gray clouds. He sat down across from me, a mischievous smile on his lips.

"You seem like you need help," he said, his soft voice resonating in the air.

I looked up to meet his gaze, captivated by his deep eyes. "Uh, yeah, I'm struggling a bit with this course."

He laughed, a light laughter that resonated in the room. "Well, let me help you. My name is Yuta."

And that's how our friendship began. Yuta was brilliant and compassionate, always ready to lend a hand to those in need. We spent hours studying together, but our conversations quickly surpassed the limits of academia. We talked about our dreams, our fears, everything and nothing. He had the gift of making me feel understood, accepted for who I truly was.

As "Not Allowed" played in my headphones, I recalled one of those summer nights when everything seemed possible, when we hooked up for the first time. I mean, yeah, we fucked together like a week or two. Maybe a month or a year. We had decided on an impromptu getaway, leaving our books and responsibilities behind for a few hours. We climbed onto the university roof, the stars sparkling above us.

"Do you hear that?" Yuta had whispered, pointing his finger towards the starry sky.

"Hear what?" I had asked, perplexed.

"The stars. They tell stories, you know. You just have to listen closely."

I looked at him with an incredulous smile, but he led me into a series of imaginary stories that seemed to perfectly fit into the canvas of the nocturnal sky. It was these kinds of moments that made Yuta exceptional, someone who saw beauty in the little things and was determined to share that vision with the world.

It was the little things I noticed about him over time that made me fall in love with him. And that evening, despite the stars that could tell us stories, I went ahead and kissed him.

Against all odds, I couldn't have expected better. Without wishing to flatter him, he was a real sex god. I mean, no matter the time, no matter the place, if he was in the mood I knew I was going to end up with trembling legs.

Once at the kitchen table, while I was baking some cookies for the afternoon, Yuta came up behind me with his hands wandering.

"Need some help?" he says mischievously.

Without giving me time to reply, he grabs my lips with his teeth before inserting his tongue into my mouth. I let my lover guide me lovingly. His hands traced my curves as I lost my left hand in his hair and my right hand went straight down to his cock.

After much foreplay, he finally inserted himself into me, breathing a sigh of relief. Hearing him tell me how important I was to him pleased me as much as the sound of our skins touching.

What I liked most about Yuta was that he wasn't headstrong. On the contrary, we rarely argued. When our lovemaking was over, we'd get back to baking cookies.

Time had flown by, seasons had changed, and our friendship had continued to grow. We went through ups and downs, but every moment spent with Yuta was precious. However, as we neared the end of our college journey, a subtle tension began to creep between us. A tension I couldn't explain, even to myself.

One evening, we sat in the park, gazing at the stars just as we had done so many times before. "Not Allowed" played in the background, creating a nostalgic ambiance.

"Do you remember everything we've shared?" Yuta suddenly asked, his gaze drifting into the distance.

"How could I forget?" I replied with a tender smile. "Those were the best moments of my life."

He seemed to hesitate, as if he wanted to say something but couldn't find the words. "You know, there's something I've never told you..."

Before he could finish his sentence, I felt a knot of anxiety in my chest. Was it what I thought? The feelings I had kept within me, hoping they would remain hidden forever, suddenly seemed on the verge of emerging.

"Yuta, what do you mean?" I asked, my heart racing. He looked away, his cheeks taking on a slight rosy hue.

"Maybe I should have told you sooner... but there's something I've been feeling for a long time. Something I can't ignore."

My hands grew clammy, my thoughts jumbled in my head.

"Yuta, what... what do you feel? "

He finally lifted his gaze, looking at me with an intensity I'd never seen before.

"I've met someone else," he whispered, his voice filled with sincerity.

The melody of "Not Allowed" seemed to intensify, as if it had captured the emotion of the moment. It was as if the whole world froze, leaving only the two of us in this bubble of emotion.

Time seemed to stop for an eternity, then I moved closer to him, gently placing my hand on his.

"Yuta, I... I... I'm happy for you..."

A bright smile lit up his face, and he hugged me. Strangely I felt betrayed, forsaken by the boy I loved. This embrace seemed to be my last. The lyrics of the music in the background echoed in my head: "I dreamt I was standing in your doorstep, licking sweat off of your forehead, with your finger in my mouth". So it was over. Never again would I feel his warm breath on my neck, or his kisses on my forehead when he finished. A stranger took away my one and only love.

It was the beginning of something new. Our youthful love had been like a sweet melody, filling our lives with joy and uncertainty. We explored this new facet of our relationship, meeting the challenges of budding love.

However, like many young loves, our story came to an end when life separated us at the end of school. The paths we had chosen drove us apart, leaving us with precious memories and unfulfilled dreams.

As I walked through the nighttime streets, the song "Not Allowed" slowly faded, giving way to silence. The stars shone above me, reminding me of the sparkle in Yuta's eyes, the gentle smile that had always been his. My love for him had become an indelible part of me, a precious chapter of my life.

Past and present intertwined in my memories, a love story that had begun with a melody and grown into something deeper and more meaningful. As I continued my journey, I knew that Yuta was there, somewhere in the fabric of the universe, a constant reminder of what we had been, what we had shared. And perhaps one day, our paths would cross again, and our youthful love would be rekindled, like the melody of a beloved song.

hope you like it

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