#how to weight loss being lazy

[jelreth]

god i remember like two years ago when id vent here every time something went wrong LOL. not now sweetheart we keep that shit under close wraps and never let loose

[grimmweepers]

— ☆ 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐋𝐀𝐒𝐓 𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐓𝐑𝐀𝐂𝐓

𝐬𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬: although it wasn’t in the way that he planned, zhongli finally proposes to you ♡

𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: Zhongli x F!reader

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 1.7k | masterlist | byf/dni

𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐬: fluff, toothrotting fluff, established relationship, he calls you ‘my love’, ���dearest’, you’re aware of him being the former archon, set at that floating island in the sky, you guys are so so in love lalalala

reblogs and interactions are always appreciated ˚ʚ♡ɞ˚

this piece is part of a flufftober event by spookuna ♡

For a moment, Zhongli couldn’t believe the words that left his lips. It had slipped out so naturally, so casually, as if he were merely asking about the weather. The question always lingered within him, much like the ring that waited patiently in his pocket whenever he decided the time wasn’t quite right.

Zhongli, a man of tradition, had always envisioned asking you at an appointed hour, at an appointed place, where the occasion would be nothing short of extraordinary.

Yet, here it was, out in the open, spoken with such casualness that betrayed its significance.

A gentle breeze swept across the landscape, nudging the summer clouds into a lazy drift. It was a cozy day for Liyue and as the sun made its descent below the horizon, the sky transformed into a fiery shade of orange.

High above Teyvat, hidden amidst the clouds, two pairs of legs dangled over a small floating island. They belonged to you and the former Archon, who often sought refuge in this corner of Liyue. Your fingers were intertwined with his as you gazed over the endless expanse. Finally free of prying eyes and the demands of everyday life, you sighed.

“Isn’t Liyue extra beautiful today, Zhongli?”

“It is, indeed,” he hummed, yet his eyes were not on the fading day. His gaze was fixed solely on you who sat beside him so calm and content, that he almost felt a pang of loss when you let go of his hand to rest your chin in your palm.

A small smile formed at the corners of your lips when his response reached your ears but your attention remained at the world below.

“I think you would appreciate its beauty more if you actually looked, you fool,” you replied, chuckling as you turned his face toward the dotted treetops and silhouettes of tiny homes.

Zhongli feigned a tired sigh, “No, I’m very aware of Liyue’s grace. I just prefer what’s in front of me, my love.”

You nudged him playfully, your legs swinging carelessly in the air. If there was a part of you that was afraid of heights, it vanished entirely in his presence.

“I’m serious,” He said, sliding an arm around your waist as a subtle invitation for you to relax your head on his shoulders.

He was serious though.

Being immortal— he had learned— was both a gift and a curse. It granted him both solitude and loneliness. He watched Liyue grow through centuries as if it were his very child and only two years ago, you had marched into his life like a reminder that love had not forgotten him. Beyond even the gift of immortality, you gave him a reason to cherish the present. So yes, he was utterly serious about choosing you above all else.

Unaware of his contemplation, you decided to tease him. “So you’re telling me you’re growing tired of Liyue?” You knew he wasn’t but what was the point of being tough and impenetrable if you couldn’t poke a bit of fun?

“How could I?” he shook his head. “Liyue is forever new and beautiful. You, however, are just a terrible distraction.”

You both laughed but there was weight to his words. Selfishly, he was thankful for not being the Archon anymore because, by Celestia above, you would have distracted him more than he dared to admit from his duties.

Then you remembered something.

“Oh, right!” You sat up and a soft smile played on your lips when you began taking out a book from your travel bag. The stiff cover and imperfect stitching suggested to him that you had made it yourself.

“I have something to show you.” You opened to the first page and there was a photo of you two from one of your travels. “Remember this?”

He chuckled, the memory still vivid in his head, “Do you know who you’re speaking to?” Zhongli took the book from you, studying it before flipping to the next page and then the next.

“I can see that you’ve put the photos in order… How thoughtful.”

You nodded.

Then he stopped at a certain picture, “Ah, our first Lantern Rite together— that was a pleasant night. You were so enchanted by those noodles from that vendor, that you insisted on having them for dinner all week.”

“And for some reason, my hunger has not yet been quelled, Zhongli,” you teased with another nudge.

“Soon, soon. I promise,” he replied with a sly grin only reserved for you.

“You know,” you began, “I’d like to travel beyond Liyue someday.”

“Where would you go?” he raised a brow at the sudden statement.

You hummed, thinking for a moment and then you pointed at the patch of emerald forestry barely visible through the billowing clouds, “Sumeru— the jungles there are supposed to be incredible. Or perhaps Inazuma. The cherry blossoms there are breathtaking,” turning more to the south as you said the latter.

As always, Zhongli listened while you rambled on about your future adventures.

“...We could go anywhere, do anything,” You suggested at the end of your little spiel.

“We can plan something,” he agreed.

“Oh, it’d be magical,” your heart swelled at the idea, “Maybe we could even reach Fontaine and have a picnic by their waters.”

You nearly gasped at how remarkable your idea was, “Oh my, Zhongli. Can you imagine sitting under the sun? With a book? My bones are getting all relaxed just thinking about—”

“Dearest?” Zhongli gently interrupted.

“Yes?” You replied, slightly worried about talking too much.

“Do you suppose we could keep doing this?”

“This?” You looked around the floating island, admittedly a little bewildered, “As in, coming here? Why would we ever stop?”

“No, no. I’m referring to us, just being together wherever we go. It doesn’t matter to me where we are.”

“Zhongli…”

“Do you think we could continue this… journey together?”

The question hung in the air, simple yet profound.

At this point, you turned fully to him, gaze softening as you met his amber eyes. They were wise and longing and wonderfully human.

“I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

Any form of hesitation died in his throat as he fiddled with his pocket and presented a ring to you. The world faded into a soft blur as he did.

“Then do you suppose you could marry me?”

Nothing but your breath escaped your lips. You were momentarily speechless. Sure, Zhongli had been oddly quiet but today was meant to be just another day. Now, your reality as you knew it became a distant memory.

He swallowed hard as he held the ring. It looked ancient but well-preserved, like a piece of fine craftsmanship. The gold band had delicate carvings unfamiliar to you and the stone was cut in such a way that it caught and refracted the last rays of sunlight as if it were alive. Maybe it was the remnants of divinity residing in him, but it radiated a soothing warmth in his hand. How would anyone believe that a humble consultant at the Wangsheng funeral parlour proposed to you with this?

Your chest began to bubble with emotion and you wanted to scream.

“Y-You want to marry me?” Your voice caught in your throat.

You could feel yourself getting hot, the reality of him wanting to be with you forever slowly crept up on you.

“Yes, I simply want to enjoy life with you. But if it takes a contract to call you my wife then of all the contracts I’ve ever woven, this one will remain my final and most sacred.”

He looked at you with a reverent smile.

“So what do you say?”

You pulled him into a tight embrace, feeling his words settle over you. In front of you wasn’t just the God of Contracts; he was the man who captured your heart. For every lingering kiss, every fulfilled promise, every time he opened you up to a new world of knowledge even when you thought you saw it all, and for every time he lent an ear and believed in your dreams— you knew what your answer would be.

“Yes. Yes!” The second time sounded louder than the last. Your voice was full of so much tenderness and conviction. You couldn’t stop saying it. “Yes, a thousand times, yes.” If you told the version of yourself from many years ago that you would be this important to someone, you would laugh.

“Thank you,” he said in the most sincere voice you’ve ever heard. “You have made me the happiest I’ve felt in a long time.”

Zhongli slid the ring onto your finger before cupping your face. You could feel the trail of kisses he was leaving on your forehead, then down your cheeks, and finally they found home between the plush of your lips— his kisses were so warm and gentle that it was hard to believe this was the same God people described as having a heart of stone.

Everything around you seemed to pause. The sun had almost fully set and the sky was now painted with the first hint of evening stars. With you in his arms, he wondered if this sense of peace came from being on this island or from the fact that he could now soon call you his wife.

Wife… he repeated in his head. His wife… it sounded just right.

A crisp breeze had settled between the two of you, perhaps for the better, to calm your burning hearts. After finally breaking away from him, you were the first to speak.

“So, what do we do now?”

Zhongli chuckled, pressing a kiss to your hair, “We continue, just as we always have… However, I hope you don’t mind me being a little more permanent to you now.”

“Permanent, huh?” You smiled, feeling a warmth coursing through you that had nothing to do with the summer air. “I like the sound of that.”

Eventually, Zhongli rose, helping you to your feet. He offered you his arm with a familiar gentlemanly gesture, “It’s getting a little dark. Shall we head back, my love”

“Mmm,” You slipped into his grasp, “Let’s go home.”

Home. The meaning was always tied to Liyue, by the earth and stone he had shaped for thousands of years. But now that's changed.

No matter where the world took him, as long as he faced it side-by-side with you, he knew that home would be wherever you were. Seeing you was like returning to a place he never truly left. Lost in thought, his thumb brushed gently over the ring he had just placed on your finger.

Home.

Zhongli liked the sound of that.

For the first time in his long life, the word felt complete.

a/n: i actually wrote this for an oc a while back, but i’m so glad i get to share this with people because i was so smitten at the time of writing it and reading this brings back all those feelings

© 2024 grimmweepers — do not repost, copy, translate, modify my work on any platform

all dividers are from @/chachachannah

[pandapetals]

I have a request if you’re interested

Logan and Reader get into a really bad car accident and Reader ends up in the hospital with their injuries. Reader has temporary memory loss and Logan struggles with how long it could take for their memories to come back. I love the angsty stories 👀

Hi, I love angsty stories as well. When I read this I immediately thought of the movie The Vow. So, this is inspired by what I vaguely remember from it. Also, it’s longer than i thought it would be but i couldn’t help it. 

logan howlett x fem!reader - married couple, angst, car accident, inspired by the vow, no y/n used, slight reader description, logan POV, memory loss, self-loathing logan, guilt, past relationship, jealousy, ex-boyfriend, slight fluff at the end, not proofread—got lazy

Logan sat in the cold, sterile chair beside your hospital bed, his elbows digging into his thighs, hands tangled in his hair. His eyes, rimmed red from sleepless nights, stayed fixed on your face—pale and still against the stark white of the pillow. The steady hum and occasional beeps of the machines filled the room, a cruel symphony that reminded him how fragile your life had become.

Your chest rose and fell in shallow, uneven breaths. He reached out, his fingers trembling as they brushed against the back of your hand. It felt wrong—too cold, too lifeless. You had always been so warm, so vibrant. The weight of the wedding ring on your finger, still there like a promise, made his throat tighten. He wanted to tell you he was sorry, but the words stayed trapped in the hollow silence between you.

He stared down at your hand as if by holding it tightly enough he could pull you back to him, back to the mornings when you'd steal the blanket and laugh at his protests. Back to the afternoons spent dancing in the kitchen to songs neither of you knew the lyrics to, back to before.

The argument played in his head on a loop, though the details were blurred now—just fragments of harsh words and raised voices. What had he even said to you? Something cruel, something stupid. Something about how he felt like he was being shut out lately. But wasn’t that the irony? He had shut you out first, hadn’t he? 

The look on your face, the way your shoulders had slumped, defeated, haunted him now. You’d grabbed your keys and your coat. Your voice was low and trembling as you said, “I just need some space, Logan.”

And he had let you go.

Why didn’t he follow you? Why didn’t he stop you? If he’d just swallowed his pride for one second, he could’ve called after you. Could’ve told you he didn’t mean it. Could’ve held you until the anger melted away. But he didn’t. You had walked out into the night, into the rain-slicked streets where headlights blurred like ghosts.

Now, you were here, unmoving, silent. A deep gash marred your temple, angry and red against your skin, and your arm was in a cast, bruises blooming dark along your collarbone. The doctors had said the words he never thought he’d hear: brain trauma, coma, uncertain recovery. They had said it calmly, clinically, as if they weren’t shattering his entire world.

Logan let out a shaky breath, leaning forward until his forehead rested on your hand. “I’m sorry,” he whispered, his voice cracking under the weight of everything he wished he could undo. “I’m so sorry. I was stupid and angry, and I—” His words choked off into a sob he couldn’t hold back any longer.

The memory of seeing your car crushed on the side of the road burned in his mind. The twisted metal. The shattered windshield. The red and blue lights flashed as he ran toward the wreckage, screaming your name. He had gotten there too late to stop it. Just like he had gotten there too late to stop you from leaving.

Every moment since then had been a waking nightmare, the guilt eating away at him like acid. He stayed by your side day and night, afraid to leave in case something changed—afraid you might wake up and he wouldn’t be there. Or worse, afraid you might not wake up at all.

His fingers tightened around yours, desperate, as if holding on to you could tether you to this world. He thought about the vows you had exchanged on your wedding day. How you had promised to stand by each other, for better or for worse. But this…this was a kind of worse he had never imagined.

“I need you to come back to me,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “I’ll fix it. Whatever I broke, I’ll fix it. Just…please.” His tears fell onto your skin, and he cursed himself for being so weak. For being the reason you weren’t awake to hear him.

The nurses came and went, adjusting the machines, checking your vitals, murmuring polite words he barely registered. To them, this was routine. To Logan, it was agony.

The night stretched on, each hour slower than the last. Logan stayed right there, clinging to hope and your hand. The moonlight streamed through the blinds, casting pale stripes across the floor. He thought about the life you had been building together—the plans, the dreams. He thought about how he had ruined it all with his anger, and his carelessness.

“I love you,” he said softly, leaning down to press his lips against your knuckles. His voice cracked as he added, “I don’t know how to do this without you.”

The stillness in the room was broken. Your fingers twitched—just the faintest movement, but enough to make Logan’s heart leap into his throat. He froze, staring at your hand as if he’d imagined it. Then it happened again, your fingers weakly curling around his.

When your eyelids fluttered open, his heart clenched. He straightened immediately, leaning forward, his breath caught somewhere between his chest and his throat.

Your gaze darted around the hospital room, wide and unfocused, like a bird trapped in unfamiliar skies. The fluorescent light painted your features in muted tones, and when your eyes finally landed on him, Logan froze. This was the moment he had prayed for, clung to in the stillness of endless nights. But the furrow of your brows, the faint confusion etched across your face, made the air in the room feel impossibly thin.

“Oh,” you murmured, your voice hoarse, as if trying it out for the first time. You glanced down at your hand, still encased in his, and a flicker of discomfort crossed your features. You gently, almost absently, tried to pull away.

Logan’s fingers tightened around yours instinctively, though he quickly released you, his hands retreating into his lap as if burned. “Hey,” he said, his voice cracking slightly. He swallowed hard, forcing a smile onto his face despite the warning bells going off in his chest. “You’re awake. That’s…that’s all that matters.”

You gave a polite, almost apologetic smile, the kind you’d offer a stranger holding the door open for you. “Are you…one of the doctors?” you asked, your voice lilting with curiosity. Then, with a faint chuckle, you added, “You don’t look like a doctor, though. Too handsome for that.”

The words hit Logan like a punch to the gut. His smile faltered, his throat tightening as he stared at you. He would have laughed—maybe even teased you back—if not for the hollow look in your eyes. The look that told him you weren’t joking, that you meant it.

His hand twitched in his lap, aching to reach for yours again, to anchor himself, but he didn’t dare. Instead, he forced out a soft laugh, though it sounded brittle, strained. “Not a doctor,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “It’s me, Logan.”

You blinked, tilting your head slightly, studying him as if trying to piece together a puzzle that refused to fit. “Logan…” you repeated, testing the name on your tongue. “I—I don’t…” Your voice trailed off, confusion deepening in your eyes as you glanced around the room again. “I don’t understand. Where am I? What happened?”

The tight band around Logan’s chest grew unbearable, threatening to crush him from the inside out. He wanted to reach out, to hold you, to tell you everything would be okay—but how could he, when the person he loved most in the world looked at him like he was a stranger?

“You’re in the hospital,” he said gently, his words measured like stepping across thin ice. “You…you had an accident. A bad one. But you’re okay now. You’re safe.”

You nodded slowly, but your expression remained clouded. “An accident…” you murmured as if trying to grasp the edges of a memory just out of reach. Then your gaze flicked back to him, hesitant. “I’m sorry, but…I don’t know you.”

The words hit harder than he thought possible. Logan’s shoulders sagged under the weight of them, his hands clenching into fists in his lap as he forced himself to stay calm. He had prepared for this—doctors had warned him it might happen. But nothing could have braced him for the reality of hearing you say it.

“You don’t…” His voice cracked, and he cleared his throat, blinking rapidly to push back the sting of tears. “That’s okay,” he said quickly, though the words felt like shards of glass in his mouth. “You’ve been through a lot. It—it might take some time for everything to come back.”

You gave him another polite, uncertain smile, and the distance in it gutted him. “I guess so,” you said lightly, though your tone carried an edge of unease. “But…um, if you’re not a doctor, who are you?”

Logan’s jaw worked silently for a moment, his fingers curling tightly around the fabric of his jeans. How was he supposed to answer that? How could he possibly sum up everything you had been to each other—every laugh, every fight, every kiss—when you couldn’t even remember his name?

“I’m your husband,” he said finally, his voice quiet, trembling under the weight of the admission.

The room seemed to go still. Your eyes widened slightly, your expression shifting to something unreadable—shock, disbelief, maybe even fear. “My…husband?” you repeated, the word foreign and heavy on your tongue.

Logan nodded, his throat bobbing as he swallowed hard. “Yeah,” he said softly. “We’ve been married for two years.”

You shook your head slowly, a small, nervous laugh escaping your lips. “I—I think you’ve got the wrong person,” you said, your voice tinged with apology. “I’m not married. I mean, the last thing I remember…I had just broken up with Henry…I don’t even…” You trailed off, looking down at your hands as if searching for answers in the lines of your palms.

Logan’s heart shattered into pieces, each word cutting deeper than the last. He couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think past the overwhelming ache in his chest. This was worse than any nightmare he’d ever had, worse than the accident, worse than waiting in that hospital room, hoping you’d wake up.

“You don’t remember me,” he whispered, more to himself than to you.

“I’m sorry,” you said softly, and the genuine regret in your voice almost destroyed him.

Logan leaned back in the chair, his hands covering his face as he tried to collect himself. He couldn’t fall apart, not now. Not in front of you. You needed him to be strong. But how could he be strong when the love of his life didn’t even know who he was?

When he finally looked up, your gaze was still on him, uncertain and wary. He forced a small, fragile smile, his voice breaking as he said, “It’s okay.”

You turned your head, your gaze drifting past Logan to the window, where the sunlight filtered through sterile white blinds. The light painted soft patterns on the hospital wall, but your expression remained distant, blank. When you finally spoke, your voice was quiet, tentative, as if testing the waters of your own thoughts.

“Are my parents here?” you asked, still not looking at him. “Do they know?”

Logan’s lips parted to answer, but then you added, almost absently, “What about Henry?”

The name hit Logan like a cold slap to the face. He felt his stomach drop, the ache blooming deep in his chest as if something vital had just been ripped out of him. Henry. Of course, you’d remember him. The name twisted in his mind, sharp and jagged. He forced himself to stay still, his knuckles whitening as he gripped the edge of the chair.

“Your parents know,” he said, his voice calm, betraying none of the storm raging inside him. “I’ll call them and let them know you’re awake.”

You nodded slightly, still gazing out the window, your profile softened by the daylight. You didn’t ask about Logan again. Didn’t even look at him. Just Henry. Henry, the man you had loved before him.

Logan pushed to his feet, the motion deliberate and slow as if moving too quickly might shatter the fragile calm he was trying to maintain. He had to get out of the room—just for a moment, long enough to breathe through the tightness in his chest.

“I’ll go get the doctor, too,” he said, his voice tight but even. “They’ll want to check on you.”

“Thank you,” you murmured, finally glancing at him, but it wasn’t the kind of look he was used to. It wasn’t filled with love or recognition. It was polite. Detached. The look you might give a kind stranger.

Logan’s heart twisted painfully, but he nodded and left the room. He made it halfway down the hall before his knees threatened to give out. Pressing a hand to the wall, he closed his eyes and took a deep, shuddering breath. She doesn’t remember you. She doesn’t remember you, but she remembers him.

It shouldn’t matter. The doctors had warned him this could happen—that memory loss could be selective, and inconsistent. It didn’t mean you loved Henry now. It didn’t mean you wouldn’t remember Logan someday. But the thought of you holding onto someone else while Logan had to start over? It tore him apart.

𓂃

You sat propped up in the hospital bed, the pillows arranged carefully by one of the nurses. Your parents were on either side of you, their voices gentle as they spoke to you, relief etched into their faces. The doctor stood near the end of the bed, clipboard in hand, explaining something in medical terms that felt both simple and complicated.

Logan lingered just outside the room. He didn’t want to intrude. But he also couldn’t leave—couldn’t bring himself to step away when every part of him screamed to be near you.

He could hear your mother’s voice rising and falling, warm and comforting. You were laughing now, though it was light and hesitant as if you weren’t sure how to feel. Logan closed his eyes, leaning his head against the doorframe. He wanted to be there with you, to tell your parents how long he had waited for you to wake up, to reassure them that he hadn’t left your side. But when he finally stepped inside, you looked up, your expression unreadable.

“Logan,” you said, and his name sounded unfamiliar on your lips. He held his breath, waiting for something—anything—but instead, you hesitated. “Um…would you mind giving us a little privacy? I just…I want to talk to my parents for a bit.”

His chest tightened. The words shouldn’t have hurt as much as they did, but they knocked the air out of him anyway. He glanced at your parents, who exchanged awkward, apologetic looks. Then his eyes flicked back to you, searching your face for some sign that you didn’t really mean it. But you were waiting, patiently as though asking him to leave was nothing out of the ordinary.

“Of course,” Logan said quickly, swallowing down the lump in his throat. His voice was steady, but he couldn’t stop his hand from curling into a fist at his side. “Take your time.”

He turned and walked out before the cracks in his facade could show. Each step away from you felt heavier like it was sinking him deeper into quicksand. Once he was out of earshot, he leaned against the wall in the hallway, his head hanging low, his hands bracing his knees.

Logan had spent days, weeks, clinging to hope that you would wake up. But this? This was a new kind of agony. You were awake, alive, breathing—and yet, he couldn’t shake the feeling that he had already lost you.

Eventually, your parents emerged from your hospital room, their relief evident in the softening of their faces. Your mother spotted Logan first, her lips pressing into a trembling smile as she hurried toward him. She wrapped him in a tight embrace before he could even react, her arms warm but shaking slightly.

“Logan,” she whispered. “I’m so sorry.” Her words carried the weight of a shared grief, a mother’s heartbreak that mirrored his own.

Logan’s throat tightened, but he managed a small nod, his arms briefly returning the hug before she pulled back, dabbing at her glassy eyes with the corner of her sleeve.

Your father approached next, his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his coat. A man of few words, he wasn’t the type to display emotion often, but there was something raw in the way he looked at Logan. His jaw worked as if wrestling with what to say, and finally, he reached out, patting Logan on the shoulder.

“She’ll remember you, son,” he said quietly, the gruffness in his voice doing little to hide the uncertainty beneath it.

Logan nodded again, forcing a small, tight-lipped smile. “I hope so,” he replied softly, though the words felt hollow in his chest. He didn’t know if he believed them.

Your parents lingered for a moment longer, your mother touching his arm gently before they walked down the hallway, their figures disappearing around the corner. Logan stood there for a beat, staring at the door to your room. He could hear faint sounds—your voice, movement, the subtle hum of machines.

His heart pounded. He wasn’t sure if he was ready to face you again, not after the way you had asked for privacy, not after hearing you ask about Henry. But he couldn’t stay away. 

Inside the room, you were sitting up slightly, your hair mussed against the pillows, your expression caught somewhere between exhaustion and curiosity as you fiddled with the edge of the hospital blanket. When Logan stepped inside, you looked up, your lips parting slightly in recognition—not quite familiarity, but something softer than before.

“Hi,” you said, tilting your head.

“Hi,” Logan replied, his voice barely above a whisper as he closed the door behind him. He stood awkwardly for a moment, unsure if he should approach, but when you didn’t tell him to leave, he slowly crossed to the chair by your bedside.

“You don’t have to sit so far away,” you said, surprising him. There was a faint hint of amusement in your tone, a flicker of the warmth he had spent years falling in love with.

Logan’s breath hitched, but he smiled, moving closer, pulling the chair right next to your bed. “Better?” he asked lightly, his heart skipping at the way you almost—almost—smiled back.

“Better,” you murmured. You studied him for a moment, your brows furrowing as if you were trying to solve a puzzle. “So…you’re Logan?”

He nodded, his throat tightening again. “Yeah. That’s me.”

“And we’re married?” you asked, tilting your head. There was no edge to your voice, just genuine curiosity as if you were asking about someone else’s life.

“Yeah,” he said softly, leaning forward slightly, his hands clasped tightly between his knees. “For two years now.”

You let out a soft breath, shaking your head in disbelief. “That’s so crazy. I mean, I don’t feel married.” You glanced down at your hand, frowning at the simple wedding band that still adorned your finger. “It’s weird…I don’t even remember the wedding.”

Logan’s chest ached, but he forced a small, hopeful smile. “It was beautiful,” he said. “You picked this little garden venue. Said you wanted it to feel like something out of a fairy tale.”

Your lips quirked upward slightly, and for the first time, you looked at him like you might want to believe him. “That does sound like me,” you admitted, your voice lightening.

He chuckled softly, daring to hope, just a little. “It was the happiest day of my life,” he added quietly, his gaze dropping to your hand.

You hesitated, glancing back at him. “So…what’s the story with us?” you asked, curiosity shining in your eyes now. “How did we even meet?”

Logan’s heart lifted at the question, the smallest spark of hope igniting in his chest. He launched into the story, telling you about the coffee shop where he had spilled an entire latte on your laptop and offered to pay for the repairs. How you had laughed, waved him off, and then somehow ended up sitting with him for hours, talking about books and movies until the shop closed.

You listened intently, your head tilting, the faintest smile tugging at your lips. Logan felt like he wasn’t completely invisible to you. Like maybe he could remind you of what they had.

But then the door creaked open behind him, and Logan’s voice faltered. He turned, his stomach dropping as he saw him.

“Henry,” you said, your entire face lighting up in a way that made Logan feel like the air had been sucked out of the room.

“Hey,” Henry replied, stepping into the room with a boyish grin, far too casual for Logan’s liking.

You beamed, sitting up straighter, your eyes sparkling with recognition. “You’re here!”

Logan watched as Henry strode over to your bedside, his confidence unshaken, his presence commanding. You laughed at something he said—light and free, like it came effortlessly. Like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Logan’s chest tightened painfully as he watched you smile at Henry in a way you hadn’t smiled at him once since you woke up. It wasn’t fair—Logan knew that. It wasn’t your fault. But watching you joke with Henry, watching you light up for someone who wasn’t him? It hurt more than he thought was possible.

He shifted in his chair, suddenly feeling like an intruder in a space that should have been his.

“I…I’ll give you two some time,” Logan mumbled, standing abruptly.

You glanced at him, a flicker of guilt crossing your features, but it was gone almost as quickly as it came. “Oh, okay,” you said, your tone polite but distracted as your gaze returned to Henry.

Logan didn’t say another word. He slipped out of the room, his heart heavy, his hands shoved into his pockets to stop them from shaking. Once the door clicked shut behind him, he leaned against the wall, staring blankly at the floor as your laughter drifted faintly through the cracks.

He had thought there was hope. For a fleeting moment, he had believed he could reach you. But now, as the laughter continued, all he could feel was the growing weight of doubt pressing down on him, threatening to crush what little hope he had left.

𓂃

Henry had finally left, his departure marked by the faint echo of his footsteps down the hallway. The air in the hospital felt quieter now, the tension that had lingered in Logan’s chest slightly eased but was not gone. Night had begun to creep in, soft shadows stretching across the halls, but Logan couldn’t bring himself to leave.

He sat slumped in one of the chairs by the wall outside your room, his head in his hands, exhaustion pulling at his body like weights. He knew he should go home—sleep, shower, eat something that wasn’t from a vending machine—but the idea of leaving you even for a little while felt impossible.

Just as he was steeling himself to push through the door and check on you, it opened. He froze, his breath catching as you stepped out. You were still in your hospital gown, though you’d tucked it neatly into a pair of oversized gray sweats. Your casted arm hung awkwardly at your side, and your steps were unsteady, the hospital socks slipping slightly against the tile.

Logan shot to his feet without thinking, reaching you in three strides. “Whoa, easy,” he said, his hands gently gripping your uninjured arm to steady you.

You let out a soft laugh, a sound so warm and unexpected that it made something flutter in his chest. “I’m fine,” you said, though you didn’t pull away. In fact, you leaned into his touch, just slightly, the way you might lean into a doorway for balance.

“Fine?” Logan’s brows rose in disbelief as he adjusted his grip, his fingers steadying you at your waist. “You’re wobbling like a baby deer.”

“I’m starving,” you shot back, ignoring his concern and offering a playful roll of your eyes. “And no one’s feeding me in there, so what was I supposed to do? Waste away?”

He huffed a laugh, shaking his head but unable to stop the grin that tugged at the corner of his lips. “You should’ve buzzed the nurse.”

“I did. She brought me some mystery soup that smelled like feet. Hard pass.”

Logan snorted, his laugh slipping out before he could stop it.

You glanced up at him, the corner of your mouth twitching into a grin. “Anyway, I asked Henry if he’d go to the cafeteria for me.”

Logan stiffened at the name, his heart sinking slightly. “And?” he asked cautiously, trying to keep his tone neutral.

Your grin faded, letting out a low scoff, shaking your head in exasperation. “And the fucking asshole said, and I quote, ‘Are you sure you want to gain weight from that trash?’”

Logan blinked, his brows pulling together. “What?”

You rolled your eyes again, more dramatically this time, but there was humor in it. “Yeah, I know, right? What a prince.”

Logan couldn’t stop the rush of emotions that surged through him: relief, amusement, and a flicker of hope he hadn’t dared to feel since the accident. “That doesn’t sound very…supportive,” he said carefully, though his lips twitched with the effort not to smirk.

“Yeah, no kidding,” you replied dryly, then tilted your head slightly, studying him with a faint smirk. “You, though? You seem like the kind of guy who’d smuggle me in a cheeseburger if I asked nicely.”

The teasing glint in your eyes caught him completely off guard, and for a second, he forgot how to breathe. The playfulness in your tone, the familiarity in the way you looked at him—it was the closest you’d come to being you again.

“Cheeseburger, fries, milkshake,” Logan listed, trying to match your energy, his grin breaking free despite himself. “Name it, and I’ll make it happen.”

“Careful,” you warned with a mock-serious expression, though your lips curved into a smile. “I might actually hold you to that.”

“Good,” Logan said softly, his voice dropping just enough that you blinked up at him, something unreadable flickering in your expression. For a moment, the space between you felt smaller, the weight of your shared history—your love, your life together—lingering in the air even if you couldn’t remember it.

Then you broke the moment with a small laugh, glancing past him down the hallway. “Okay, so…where’s the cafeteria?”

“You’re not going anywhere,” Logan said firmly, his hands still steadying you. “Tell me what you want, and I’ll get it for you.”

Your lips parted, surprised, but then you smiled again—this time softer, more genuine. “Fine. Surprise me.”

He smiled back, his chest feeling lighter than it had in days. For the first time since the accident, there was something else besides fear, guilt, and heartbreak. There was a spark—a tiny ember of hope.

When Logan returned with a tray of food, you were back in bed, the blanket pulled up over your legs as you flipped through the channels on the TV remote. The sight of you looking so at ease, so normal, made his throat tighten.

“Delivery service,” he joked, setting the tray on the table beside you.

You eyed the burger and fries with mock suspicion. “Okay, points for presentation. But does it taste as good as it looks?”

“Only one way to find out,” he quipped, handing you the burger.

You took a bite of the burger, your eyes widening slightly as the flavors hit your tongue. “Okay,” you murmured, groaning softly in approval. “That’s better than I expected.”

Logan sat in the chair beside your bed, the faintest smile tugging at his lips as he watched you eat. He didn’t say anything letting the sound of your quiet satisfaction fill the room. You looked comfortable, at ease—more yourself.

You glanced at him, catching the way he was looking at you, and tilted your head. “What?” you asked, a small, teasing smirk tugging at your lips.

He shook his head, his smile growing slightly. “Nothing. Just glad to see you’re enjoying it.”

You eyed him for a moment, then plucked a fry from the tray and held it out toward him. “You want some?”

Logan blinked, caught off guard. “I’m good,” he started to say, but you waved the fry in his direction, insisting.

“Come on,” you said, your tone light but with a faint edge of concern. “My mom told me you haven’t left. You should probably eat something before you pass out.”

He hesitated, the simple gesture tugging at something deep inside him. You didn’t know who he was—not fully, not yet—but there was something familiar in the way you looked at him just then. It wasn’t quite recognition, but it wasn’t indifference, either.

“You’re stubborn, you know that?” Logan said with a soft chuckle, leaning forward to take the fry from your fingers.

“So I’ve been told,” you replied playfully.

The moment felt light and ordinary, but something struck Logan as extraordinary. The way you’d handed him the fry, the way you spoke to him—it reminded him of the quiet intimacy you used to share in your everyday moments. It wasn’t everything, but it was something.

As Logan chewed the fry, you leaned back against the pillows, watching him curiously. “So, did you really not leave?” you asked, your tone quieter now.

He swallowed, glancing down at his hands. “I just…wanted to be here,” he said, his voice soft but steady. “In case you woke up.”

You studied him for a moment, your expression unreadable. “That’s really…sweet,” you said finally, your lips curving into a small, almost shy smile. “I mean, you’re my husband but…thank you.”

Logan looked up at you then, his chest tightening at the vulnerability in your voice. He wanted to tell you everything—to remind you of the life you’d built together, to make you remember how much he loved you. But he didn’t. Instead, he smiled softly and said, “You don’t have to thank me. I’d do it a hundred times over.”

You blinked, something flickering in your expression—something that made Logan’s breath catch. It was brief, fleeting, but for a moment, it almost seemed like you were seeing him.

“Did we know each other a long time before we got married?” you asked suddenly, your gaze searching his face.

The question caught him off guard, but he nodded. “Yeah. We knew each other for a while.”

You frowned slightly as if trying to piece together a memory that stayed just out of reach. “You feel…familiar,” you admitted, your voice quieter now, almost to yourself. “It’s weird because I don’t remember you, but…being around you doesn’t feel wrong. It’s…nice.”

Logan’s heart ached at your words, the mix of hope and longing almost too much to bear. He wanted to hold on to the tiny glimmer of connection you were offering, even if it wasn’t the same as before.

“It’s nice for me, too,” he said softly, his voice steady despite the lump in his throat.

You smiled at that—small and tentative, but genuine. Logan felt a flicker of hope. Maybe you didn’t remember him. Maybe you didn’t remember the life you’d built together, the love you’d shared. But something was still there, beneath the surface, waiting to be rediscovered.

You handed him another fry without a word, and this time, he took it without hesitation.

[puckstories]

Game Tape ⋆.ೃ࿔*:･ Quinn Hughes

Pairing; Quinn Hughes x Fem!Reader

Warning(s); None I believe. Established relationship, fluff + a teeny tiny bit of angst?

Summary; A lil domestic moment, chatting on the sofa late night. Quinn is stressed. (Terrible summary I apologize)

Word Count; 1.8k

Author's note; This is kind of boring? I don't know. I wanted to write something gave a glimpse into the sort of stress that being a professional athlete can have on the player, as well as their partner? Fem!Reader's relationship with Quinn is complex, and she's his anchor, in the way that if he's flying to close to the sun, she'll be there. I don't know. Would love to know your thoughts if you have any! I hope you like it. -Honey

It’s a cold early December evening, one of Quinn’s rare days off. Snow has finally began to blanket the sidewalks, and the sharp bite of the wind carries the unmistakable promise of Christmastime. The two of you have spent the entire day tucked indoors, savoring the kind of lazy comfort only winter seems to invite. Breakfast was a cozy affair in bed, dinner a warm, aromatic soup you cooked together. Now, you’ve settled onto the sofa together in the living room. Quinn is slouched against you, his arm draped lazily over your shoulder as his eyes flicker across the glowing screen, his brows furrowed as he processes his latest game tape, another tough loss for his Canucks. You're comfortably absorbed in your book, your legs casually draped across his lap as you flip through the pages.

"How many times are you planning to watch that play?" You ask, your tone teasing but gentle, eyes never leaving Wuthering Heights.

Quinn lets out an exasperated huff, pausing the tape mid-play. The room falls silent except for the soft hum of the furnace. He rolls his eyes, his expression caught somewhere between frustration and chagrin. "The more I watch, the more stuff I catch," he says, moving slightly to let his head fall back against the couch, his gaze fixed on the ceiling as his fingers drum absently at your thigh. "I don’t know... something just feels off."

"Something's off with the team?"

Quinn’s eye twitches—a subtle sign of annoyance at the fact that you weren't really listening to him. He lets out a dry, humorless laugh, shaking his head slightly before responding. "I meant me," he says, his voice edged with frustration, though not directed at you. "Something is off with my game. I'm not playing as well as I normally do, and everyone is noticing."

"Well, you’re playing, what, over thirty minutes a night? You’ve got a heavy workload. That’s bound to lead to a mistake or two," you say, your tone matter-of-fact as you casually flip to the next page of your book.

He rolls his eyes. He knows you're right, but refuses to admit it. A muscle in his jaw tightens as his gaze returns to the paused frame on the TV screen. He exhales a deep, weary breath, his shoulders slumping slightly under the weight of his own expectations, and he's leaned back into your side where he was before, his head resting on your shoulder again. "That’s not it," he mutters, more to himself than to you. "I know it’s not. It’s... mental. Like, I’m overthinking everything out there. I see the play happening, but I'm a second behind. Just can’t figure out what the hell’s wrong with me."

"Well, I'm sure torturing yourself by watching the same play over and over again will fix it."

He lets out another laugh, a genuine one this time. "It may not be helping, I'll give you that. But I don't exactly have another solution right now, and you're too absorbed in your book to even care."

A soft laugh escapes your lips as you let your book fall closed in your lap. Shifting slightly, you turn to properly face him just as he lifts his head from your shoulder. The movement lets you take him in fully—the dark circles under his eyes seem even more pronounced now, a testament to weeks of exhaustion, and the faint red mark on his forehead, left behind by hours of wearing his helmet, looks irritated despite his insistence that it doesn’t bother him. Still, even with the wear and tear etched into his features, he’s as handsome as ever to you—perhaps even more so. Your hand reaches up almost instinctively, your fingers weaving gently through the overgrown waves of his brunette hair, the strands soft and free from sweat. "I do care, dummy."

Quinn sighs, leaning into your touch just a little, as if your hand in his hair is the only thing grounding him. "I know, I know," he murmurs, his voice low. "I’m just... frustrated, is all."

Your lips twist into a frown. "I'm sorry."

He shakes his head, letting out a huff. "Don't apologize, idiot. It's not your fault I'm stressed out."

You hum softly, a sound that seems to settle the air around you. Leaning your head against his shoulder, you reach for one of his hands, cradling it in yours. Your thumbs move gently over the skin of his palm, slow and deliberate, tracing circles that feel almost meditative.

Quinn exhales, this time a genuine sigh of contentment, the kind that feels like a weight lifting off his chest. A rare sense of peace begins to creep in, softening the tension he’s been carrying. For once, he allows himself to let go, his mind surrendering to the comfort of the moment.

His breathing slows, each inhale deeper than the last as his eyes flutter shut. The usual storm of thoughts in his head grows quiet, replaced by the grounding simplicity of your presence. He focuses on the warmth of your touch, the way your fingers intertwine so naturally with his, as though they were meant to fit together. The subtle notes of your perfume—sweet strawberry and vanilla—linger in the air, soothing him further.

For the first time that evening, the relentless noise from hockey fades into the background. In its place is you: your closeness, your touch, your quiet companionship. And in that fleeting moment, Quinn lets himself just be—no plays to analyze, no mistakes to overthink, just the steady comfort of being next to you.

A few quiet minutes pass before you break the silence. "Can we be done with this?" you ask, gesturing toward the paused game tape on the TV. Your tone is soft but insistent. "Let’s call it a night early and go cuddle in bed."

Quinn’s lips twitch into a smile as he glances down at you, a mischievous glint in his tired eyes. He raises a brow, his voice taking on a teasing lilt. "Cuddling? That’s it?"

You meet his gaze with an amused expression, tilting your head slightly. "As opposed to what, mister?"

He chuckles, the sound low and warm, and shakes his head, his grin widening. There’s a lightness to him now, a stark contrast to the earlier frustration. "Don’t act like you don’t know what I’m talking about, dummy," he says, his voice mock-accusatory.

His laughter lingers in the air, and you roll your eyes in response, though a smile creeps onto your face despite your best efforts.

"Just wanted to get a laugh outta you."

Quinn’s smile widens, the corners of his lips quirking up in that effortless way that makes your heart flutter. Shaking his head, he leans back against the couch and, without a word, wraps his hands around your waist. In one fluid motion, he pulls you into his lap, his movements casual but firm.

His arms encircle you securely, drawing you closer until there’s no space left between you. He rests his head on your shoulder, his breath warm against your skin as he nuzzles into the crook of your neck. The scent of him—clean and familiar, with a faint trace of cologne—fills your senses. He takes a deep breath, letting out a contented hum that vibrates softly against your collarbone.

Your fingers instinctively find their way to his hair again, threading gently through the dark strands. The repetitive motion seems to soothe him, and you feel the tension in his shoulders start to melt away.

"I’m serious," you murmur, your voice softer now. "I don’t want you making yourself crazy over hockey."

"I’m not making myself crazy," he murmurs, his voice low and resolute. "I just want to win."

You exhale deeply, the sound heavy with both concern and understanding. You pause, choosing your words carefully, not wanting to push too hard but unable to stay silent. "I want you to win, too," you say gently, your fingers still gently combing through his hair. "But not at the expense of your mental health."

Quinn lets out another hum, the sound more thoughtful than dismissive. He knows you’re right—of course, you’re right—but that doesn’t make it any easier to accept. Winning isn’t just a goal for him; it’s a necessity, a part of who he is. He’s never been the kind of person to give anything less than everything he has, even when it takes a toll. He leans back slightly, his gaze distant as if he’s searching for answers somewhere in the room. The drive to be the best gnaws at him relentlessly, and the belief that he can be, that he should be, is a constant weight on his shoulders.

"I’m not letting it affect my mental health, alright?" he says, glancing at you with a small, reassuring smile that reaches his eyes, giving you peace of mind in the moment. "I’m fine. Just... need to get my head straight, that’s all."

You study him, your eyes searching his face with a intensity that only deepens the slight furrow of your brow. His words linger in the air, and as you take them in, you know without a doubt he’s being honest. You’ve always been able to tell when Quinn is trying to bluff his way through something, and this isn’t one of those times.

His hazel eyes hold yours, unwavering and filled with a quiet vulnerability that he rarely lets show. Slowly, he raises a hand, his fingers brushing against your cheek in a touch so tender it sends warmth radiating through you. "Promise me something?" He asks.

You nod, leaning ever so slightly into his palm. "Yeah, angel," you reply, the nickname slipping out naturally. "What is it?"

He lets out a small, almost exasperated huff at the sound of that nickname—a stupid nickname, he’d call it if you asked—but the corners of his lips twitch upward, betraying how much he secretly adores it. As much as he hates to admit it, the way you say angel makes his heart skip every damn time. "Kick my ass every once in a while for overworking myself?"

You let out a snort, shaking your head as a laugh bubbles up from your chest. "So, what, I should kick your ass right now?" you tease, your eyes gleaming with amusement.

Quinn lets out a scoff, followed by an exaggerated eye roll, his expression caught somewhere between amused and exasperated. "I meant in the future, smartass," He quips.

Another laugh escapes you, this one louder, brighter, filling the space between you. "Alright, deal," you say, your grin mirroring his.

He leans in closer, the warmth of his presence pulling you in, and presses a soft kiss to the tip of your nose. The gesture is tender, almost childlike in its sweetness, but the grin that follows is anything but. "Good." He murmurs, "Now, can we go upstairs like you were saying? Think I have a better idea than cuddling."

[woso-story]

The Weight Of Love And Loss- Part Five

Alexia Putellas x Reader - Part One Two Three Four Six Seven Eight Last Part

The apartment felt unbearable. Alexia had barely lasted two days after your conversation in the café before she packed a small bag and left for Mapi and Ingrid’s. The weight of the emptiness, the silence, and the memories crushed her. Every corner of the space carried a piece of you: your favorite blanket draped over the couch, the little succulent you insisted on keeping in the kitchen, the faint smell of your perfume lingering in the hallway.

But what hurt the most was the bedroom. The space that had once been filled with whispered laughter and quiet intimacy now felt cold and sterile. She hadn’t been able to sleep in the bed after you left, curling up instead on the couch, hoping exhaustion would eventually overtake her.

It never did.

“I can’t do it,” Alexia had admitted to Mapi when she arrived at their doorstep. Her voice was barely above a whisper, and her eyes were rimmed red from days of crying. “I can’t stay there.”

Mapi had simply pulled her into a hug, murmuring, “You don’t have to. Stay as long as you need.”

Ingrid prepared the guest room for her, making it as comfortable as possible. Alexia spent her first night at their place sitting by the window, staring out into the city lights, wondering how things had spiraled so far out of control.

---

The first few days at Mapi and Ingrid’s were a blur. Alexia felt like a shadow of herself, existing but not living. Mapi tried her best to cheer her up, dragging her to brunches with teammates or movie nights in the living room. But no matter how much Alexia tried to participate, the ache in her chest never went away.

One evening, Alexia was scrolling through her phone when she stumbled upon an old photo of the two of you. It was from a lazy Sunday morning, your hair tousled from sleep as you grinned at the camera, Alexia’s arm wrapped around you. The caption read: My favorite mornings.

Her chest tightened as tears welled in her eyes. She quickly put the phone down and buried her face in her hands.

Mapi found her like that, sitting at the dining table with silent tears streaming down her cheeks.

“You have to stop torturing yourself, Ale,” Mapi said softly, sitting beside her.

“I can’t help it,” Alexia whispered. “I miss her. And it’s my fault she’s gone.”

“You can’t change the past,” Mapi replied. “But you can work on the future. You’ve already taken the first step by recognizing what went wrong. Now you have to keep going.

It was easier said than done.

---

At Mapi’s insistence, Alexia made an appointment with a psychologist. It wasn’t an easy decision—Alexia had always prided herself on being strong, someone who could handle anything life threw at her. Admitting that she needed help felt like admitting defeat.

Her first session was stiff and uncomfortable. She answered the psychologist’s questions with short, guarded responses, unwilling to let her walls down. But something shifted in the second session.

“I lost her,” Alexia found herself saying, her voice breaking. “Because I couldn’t see what I was doing. I thought I was protecting her by not letting her in, but I was just pushing her away.”

For the first time, she spoke openly about the pressure she’d felt after her injury—the fear of being forgotten, of losing her place on the team, of failing to live up to everyone’s expectations. And slowly, session by session, she began to unravel the tangle of emotions she’d been carrying for months.

---

Alexia threw herself into her recovery, but this time, she approached it differently. Instead of overtraining to the point of exhaustion, she followed her physio’s advice to the letter, focusing on both her physical and mental well-being.

Her days became a balance of rehab sessions, therapy, and spending time with her teammates. She started journaling, pouring her thoughts and feelings onto paper. She even picked up a new hobby—painting—which helped her quiet her restless mind.

Mapi and Ingrid noticed the change almost immediately.

“She’s getting better,” Ingrid remarked one evening as she and Mapi watched Alexia paint in the living room.

“Yeah,” Mapi agreed. “But she still misses her.”

They weren’t wrong. Even as Alexia started to find her footing again, there was a part of her that still ached for you. She often wondered what you were doing, whether you were as okay as you seemed during that last conversation.

There were nights when she wanted to call you, to tell you about her progress and promise that things could be different. But she held back. She knew you needed time, and so did she.

---

While Alexia was rebuilding herself, you were rediscovering who you were.

Your new apartment became a haven, a space that was entirely yours. The freedom to decorate it however you wanted, to come and go as you pleased, felt liberating. You spent your weekends exploring the park nearby, taking long walks by the lake and watching the world go by.

Work became your escape, and your dedication didn’t go unnoticed. The promotion you’d been working toward for years finally became a reality, and it felt like validation for all your hard work.

But it wasn’t just your career that flourished. You started reconnecting with friends, saying yes to dinner invites and weekend trips. On a whim, you adopted a small Maltese puppy named Mylo, who quickly became your constant companion.

For the first time in a long time, you felt like yourself again.

---

One evening, you were scrolling through TikTok when a familiar face appeared on your screen. It was Alexia, walking onto the pitch, the caption reading: La Reina is back.

Your heart skipped a beat.

Without thinking, you opened Instagram and went straight to Alexia’s account. There it was—a photo of her being subbed on, her face glowing with a smile that looked real, not forced.

You couldn’t stop yourself from double-tapping the photo and leaving a comment: Proud of you.

It was a simple gesture, but you meant it with all your heart. No matter how things had ended between you, you couldn’t deny how much you admired her strength and determination.

---

On the other side of the city, Alexia sat in bed scrolling through her phone. Normally, she didn’t read the comments under her posts, but something compelled her to that night.

And then she saw it.

Proud of you.

Her breath hitched, her fingers hovering over the screen. It wasn’t much, but it meant everything. After all the mistakes she’d made, after all the pain she’d caused, you were still proud of her.

She set her phone down and lay back, a small smile spreading across her face. For the first time in months, she felt a glimmer of hope.

If she kept working on herself, if she continued to heal, maybe—just maybe—there was still a chance for the two of you.

But for now, she would focus on the present, knowing that if it was meant to be, your paths would cross again.

---

And so, while you curled up on your couch with Mylo by your side, and Alexia drifted off to sleep with a rare sense of peace, the future remained unwritten. Both of you were healing, slowly but surely, and perhaps that was the most important step of all.

[jay-ce01]

“A new chapter”

Natasha x Fem!Reader

Warning : Pregnancy ?

Words : 2k

The early morning light filtered through the sheer curtains of their bedroom, casting a soft, golden hue over the room. Natasha Romanoff lay sprawled beneath the sheets, her red hair spilling over the pillow like a fiery halo. Beside her, you stirred gently, feeling the warmth of the sunlight kissing your skin. Instinctively, your hand drifted to the small bump on your stomach, a tiny life that had grown inside you over the past five months.

Natasha, who was never much of a morning person unless it involved a mission, shifted slightly and wrapped her arm around your waist. “You’re awake,” she murmured, her voice thick with sleep.

“Mmm,” you responded softly, resting your hand over hers. “So are you.”

A lazy smile tugged at Natasha’s lips as she blinked her eyes open, catching sight of you, her wife, the love of her life, and now the soon-to-be mother of her child. It was a sight she would never tire of. “How are you feeling today?” she asked, a hint of concern in her voice.

You smiled, brushing a strand of hair from your face. “Better,” you replied, leaning into her touch. “Not as queasy as yesterday. I think the worst of the morning sickness is finally behind me.”

Natasha’s green eyes softened with relief. Though she was known for her cool, composed demeanor in the field, you had seen a different side of her throughout this pregnancy. She had been attentive, caring, and fiercely protective, never missing a beat when it came to making sure you were comfortable and healthy.

“Good,” she whispered, pressing a soft kiss to your shoulder. “I’m glad.”

You turned to face her, cupping her cheek in your hand. “You’re going to make a great mom, you know.”

Natasha laughed softly, the sound warm and genuine, but there was a flicker of uncertainty in her eyes. “I hope so,” she said. “I’m still learning how to do this.”

“You don’t have to know everything right away,” you reassured her. “We’ll figure it out together.”

She nodded, though you could tell she still carried the weight of her insecurities. Natasha’s past had been riddled with pain and loss, her childhood stolen away by the Red Room, where she had been trained to be a weapon rather than a person. The idea of being a mother—of nurturing and caring for another human being—was new and terrifying to her. But she was trying, for you, for your family.

“Come on,” you said, swinging your legs over the edge of the bed. “Let’s get some breakfast.”

Natasha groaned, reluctantly letting go of you as you stood. She stretched her arms above her head, her muscles rippling beneath her skin. Even in her most relaxed moments, there was an edge to Natasha, a constant readiness that came from years of espionage and survival.

As you made your way to the kitchen, you couldn’t help but smile at the simplicity of it all. Your life with Natasha had been filled with ups and downs, from the chaos of her missions with the Avengers to the quiet moments like these. But it was the quiet moments you cherished most—the times when it was just the two of you, no world to save, no battles to fight, just love and each other.

In the kitchen, you busied yourself preparing breakfast. The smell of fresh coffee filled the air, and you reached for the pancake mix, suddenly craving something sweet.

Natasha appeared behind you, wrapping her arms around your waist and resting her chin on your shoulder. “You’re making pancakes?” she asked, a hint of amusement in her voice.

“Yep,” you replied, grinning. “Pancakes for me and the baby.”

Natasha chuckled softly, placing a gentle kiss on your neck. “I’ll never understand how your cravings work.”

“Neither will I,” you admitted, laughing. “But I’m going with it.”

As you cooked, Natasha helped where she could, setting the table and making sure everything was just right. It was moments like these that reminded you how far you had come together. Years ago, when you had first met, Natasha had been guarded, distant even. She had built walls around herself to protect her heart, but somehow, you had broken through.

It hadn’t been easy. Your relationship had faced its fair share of challenges, from Natasha’s past to the unpredictable nature of her work. But through it all, you had loved each other fiercely, and that love had grown into something beautiful. Now, with a child on the way, your bond felt stronger than ever.

Over breakfast, you and Natasha talked about everything and nothing—the baby’s nursery, possible names, and how much your lives were about to change. Natasha still had that familiar look in her eyes, that subtle mix of excitement and fear.

As you cleared the table, Natasha caught your wrist gently, her touch feather-light. "Y/N..." she began, her voice uncharacteristically hesitant. "What if I... what if I don't know how to be a mother?"

You paused, setting the dishes down and turning to face her fully. This was a conversation you knew was coming, but it still made your heart ache to see the vulnerability in her expression. Natasha Romanoff, the Black Widow, rarely let her guard down, and when she did, it was only with you.

You took her hands in yours, squeezing them softly. "Tasha, you are going to be a wonderful mother."

She shook her head slightly, her eyes downcast. "I wasn't raised with love or warmth. I don’t know what a normal family looks like."

Your heart broke for her. You knew Natasha's past haunted her, the trauma of the Red Room, the years spent as a spy, the lives she had taken. But you also knew the woman she had become—the woman who had fought so hard to make amends, who had chosen love over isolation, who had made a life with you.

"You’re not defined by your past," you said softly, lifting her chin so her eyes met yours. "You’re kind, caring, and protective. You’ve already shown me what kind of mother you’ll be, just by how you love me. You don’t have to know everything right away. We’ll learn together. We’ll make mistakes, sure. But we’ll figure it out. Together."

Natasha's lips quirked into a small, uncertain smile. "Together," she repeated, her voice soft.

You leaned in, kissing her gently, your hands resting against her chest. “Besides,” you whispered against her lips, “I have complete faith in you. You're one of the strongest people I know, and if anyone can do this, it's you."

Natasha’s arms wrapped around you, holding you close as she buried her face in the crook of your neck. Her breath was warm against your skin, and you felt her relax, the tension easing from her body.

“Thank you,” she murmured.

You smiled, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. “I’ll always be here for you, Tasha. Always.”

---

As the weeks passed, your pregnancy progressed steadily, and Natasha became more and more involved in preparing for the baby’s arrival. She threw herself into the task with the same dedication she had for her missions, researching parenting techniques, attending every doctor’s appointment with you, and even reading baby books at night.

Despite her initial reservations, Natasha had embraced the idea of becoming a mother with a quiet determination. You watched with pride as she grew more confident, though there were still moments of doubt. Whenever those moments arose, you were there to remind her that you were in this together.

One evening, after a particularly long day, you and Natasha sat on the couch, the soft glow of the TV illuminating the room as an old movie played in the background. Your head rested on her lap, and she absentmindedly ran her fingers through your hair. You felt peaceful, content, and safe.

“I can’t believe we’re going to be parents soon,” you mused, your hand resting on your growing belly.

Natasha smiled down at you, her eyes soft with affection. “It’s still surreal to me too,” she admitted. “But in a good way.”

You chuckled. “I hope our kid has your determination. And your sense of justice.”

“And your kindness,” Natasha added. “Your warmth. They’ll need that.”

Your heart swelled at her words, and you turned slightly to meet her gaze. “They’re going to be lucky to have you as a mom, Natasha.”

Natasha brushed a strand of hair from your face, her touch tender. “And they’ll be lucky to have you too, Y/N.”

---

The months flew by, and soon, you were in your final trimester. The nursery was finished, the tiny clothes neatly folded, and the crib assembled. Natasha had even painted the room herself, a soft shade of lavender that filled the space with a sense of calm and tranquility.

One night, as you lay in bed together, you felt a sudden, sharp kick from the baby. You gasped softly, your hand flying to your stomach.

Natasha immediately sat up, her eyes wide with concern. “What? What is it? Are you okay?”

You smiled, taking her hand and placing it on your belly. “Feel that.”

Natasha’s eyes widened as she felt the movement beneath her palm. Her face lit up with wonder and awe as she felt another kick. “Wow…” she breathed, her voice filled with emotion.

“She’s strong,” you whispered, grinning.

Natasha’s lips curved into a soft smile, her eyes glistening with unshed tears. She leaned down, pressing her cheek against your belly. “Hey, little one,” she whispered. “It’s your mama. I can’t wait to meet you.”

Tears welled up in your eyes at the sight of Natasha speaking to your child, her voice filled with so much love and tenderness. This was the side of her that only you saw—the side of Natasha that was vulnerable, open, and full of love.

As the days passed and the due date drew closer, the anticipation built. You and Natasha continued to support each other through the final stages of the pregnancy, and with each passing day, the reality of becoming parents became more and more tangible.

---

The night your water broke, it was raining outside, a heavy downpour that soaked the streets. Natasha had been pacing the living room, her nerves getting the best of her, when you suddenly gasped, clutching your stomach.

“Tasha,” you breathed, “it’s time.”

Natasha’s eyes widened, and for a moment, she froze. Then, in typical Natasha fashion, she sprang into action, grabbing your hospital bag and helping you to the car.

The drive to the hospital was a blur, but Natasha never left your side. She held your hand through every contraction, whispered words of encouragement, and reassured you when the pain became overwhelming.

Hours passed, but Natasha remained steadfast, her love and support unwavering. And when the baby was finally born, when the tiny cry filled the room, both of you were overcome with emotion.

Tears streamed down Natasha’s face as the nurse placed your daughter in her arms. She looked down at the tiny, perfect face, her eyes wide with wonder. You watched as Natasha’s tough exterior crumbled, replaced by a softness you had never seen before.

“She’s beautiful,” Natasha whispered, her voice thick with emotion. “Just like you.”

You smiled through your own tears, your heart overflowing with love. “We did it, Tasha.”

Natasha looked at you, her eyes filled with so much love it took your breath away. “We did,” she whispered, leaning in to kiss you gently. “And I couldn’t have done it without you.”

As you gazed down at your daughter, now resting peacefully in Natasha’s arms, you knew that this was the beginning of a new chapter. A chapter filled with love, laughter, and the beautiful chaos of parenthood.

And no matter what challenges lay ahead, you knew that you and Natasha would face them together, as a family.

[scrumpledorph]

I feel compelled by some recent realizations to share the story of my lifetime experience with weight, weight loss, fatphobia, and self acceptance.

I weighed 180 lbs for a lot of my early childhood, and got bullied constantly for it. It was comorbid with severe, impairing asthma that limited my ability to use my body at any pace faster than a brisk, if I was lucky, walk. Nobody ever blamed the asthma, they just called me out of shape, lazy - all the usual insults. I got kicked out of high school gym class in both grades it was a required course because I couldn't run fifteen laps of the gym. I never signed up for it again.

I was the school whipping boy wherever I went. (I moved schools a lot, because I'd lash out violently about this happening to me) One time in elementary school a group of boys hid behind me because they were being bothered by some girls, and knew they wouldn't get within ten feet of me outside the classroom where they were forced to. The first guy I ever hooked up with negged me to lose weight and join him at the gym if I wanted to do anything more serious with him.

Then a growth spurt combined with a two week vacation where I only ate ramen twice a day in high school shaved literally a third of that off. 120 lbs. My parents and I considered it a miracle. Suddenly I really liked how I'd come to look. I went from a frumpy, comely child to a heroin chic rockstar like David Bowie, and all the other imitators that chased after him, and I wasn't even trying!

I was skin stretched over bones. If I lifted my arms up every single rib from the collarbone to the stomach was pronounced, with gaps you could run your fingers along. This was before I realized I was trans, so I was mostly putting myself into the world as a twink (femboy hadn't really come into parlance yet, I'd probably have used it if so). People started treating me well for the first time in my life, I was popular. My romantic advances were reciprocated instead of pushed away in disgust for the first time in my life, I went on dates, I had a couple short lived girlfriends.

Some time in my twenties, I realized I was lactose intolerant. To both truncate and avoid needless disgust; once I took steps to mitigate that my weight rebounded back up from the 160 it had ended up settling at as my metabolism evened out, to 216. So I tortured myself with the most bland, boring diet in the world: plain oat cheerios, cashews, barely seasoned salads and coleslaw, microwaved chicken wiener sandwiches. It sloughed off the pounds, at first.

I hit a hitch around 180. I had originally wanted to go back down to 160, with the height I'd gained since high school that would put me in about the same ballpark range as how I looked then, and it's what the BMI scale says is healthy for my body proportions. But I simply could not go under 180.

Even a single cheat day a week, the recommended amount for any diet, would make my body snap back up by two pounds the next day, which took me the entire rest of the week just to get back to where I started. It was truly miserable, checking the scale every single morning and beating myself up over every single time my family took me out to eat or brought me leftovers.

So I stopped. I said fuck it, let my body sit at 185. Now? I can eat pretty much anything I want and it barely makes a dent in the long run. Recently checked in after three nights of stacked turkey dinner plates for the holidays, with eggnog and ice cream and a whole bag of christmas candy sitting on my desk next to me that I take occasional nibbles from. 184.8, exactly where I want it to be. The BMI scale says this is the borderline of overweight for my height.

An acquaintance who had known me while I was in that emaciated point in my life recently reconvened with me, and said that I looked a lot healthier. It was genuinely the first time anyone in the world had made a positive comment about my body outside of that short lived stint of emaciation. It was a genuine shock, because I hadn't up to that point considered for a second that I could possibly have looked bad to anyone at that point.

An article I doubt I could find with how bad google is nowadays once said that around 97% (I might even be lowballing it) of diets fail, because the body will slash your metabolism by 30% if you drop even 5% from where it wants to sit. I guess all I have to say is: listen to your body.

If maintaining your slim figure is a hobby all unto itself: with a meticulously crafted diet and double digit hour exercise regimen that you lock yourself in by checking the scale every morning? It's not worth it, holy shit. Maybe you'll end up with an extended illness that keeps you from working out for a week or two. Maybe your willpower will just finally give out, and you'll spend a week catching up on all the pleasure you'd denied yourself while you were dieting. But I know, from experience, that one day you'll just end up where your body wants you to be, whether you're comfortable with it or not.

I promise you that the freedom of accepting the weight your body wants to be at and being able to treat yourself guilt free will bring you so much more joy than having a thigh gap does.

[writingwithcolor]

Any advice for handling race in reincarnation situations?

@swamp-spirit asked:

I'm writing a story that includes characters being reincarnated with completely different appearances. It's a fantasy world, and most of the characters are being reborn in the same region, but I still want a range of skin tones and features in the main cast (this is a comic). I have weird feelings about a character being 'reborn' with notably lighter or darker skin, but it also feels implausible and lazy for people to Just Happen to have a similar appearance when the theology of the story doesn't support it. Characters being reborn, and taking out things specific to real life groups, what are the major things you'd want an author to read up on or take into account? (Note: there is not a 'white' looking ethnic group in this story)

I don’t think it’s a problem as long as the skin tones don’t have any correlation to the circumstances that they’re reincarnated into.

- SK

It’s an interesting question, because in most religions where reincarnation/ transmigration of the soul is a feature of “what happens after death”, remembering one’s past life is not really part of the package deal. From what you’ve written, it’s not clear to me where the “memory” of these characters’ lives are held. Is there a 3rd person omniscient narrator telling the audience who each person is in their next life or do the characters themselves retain memory of past lives?

Assuming this is your typical reincarnation scenario where characters retain no memory of previous lives, it doesn’t much matter. The next life is the next life. Who a person was in their previous life and that identity, in theory, means nothing to them. This also means whatever personality, values, experiences and so on they had in their previous life no longer has meaning. They are, in effect, another person. However, you say you feel awkward about the above which makes me wonder if characters are remembering past lives, in which case…

If you study pretty much any major Asian religion where reincarnation is a part of the belief system, having no memory of the previous life is par for the course. In present-day religions like Jainism, Sikhism, Hinduism and Buddhism, only “special” (I’m using the term very casually here) entities like bodhisattvas, guru, arihant, buddhas, etc. usually get to keep their memories, while the rest of us (literal) mere mortals are supposed to lose our memories between lives as a part of Samsara. In Hinduism, even the gods often forget their previous lives, unless their reincarnation had a targeted purpose (Like being born to defeat an evil entity). 

For most people, it is only through prayer, devotion, meditation and accumulated virtuous/ good/ compassionate deeds that humans are thought to deepen their understanding of the nature of the universe, and thus have the capacity to remember past lives (I’m, again, paraphrasing very loosely here from several years worth of university history+religion courses).  

This is why the isekai genre in Japan is largely regarded as a “cheat”/ parody genre of fantasy. The protagonist, according to common Japanese cultural beliefs, which are quite heavily grounded in Buddhism, is definitively “cheating.” Not to get too ironically biblical, the character’s success often comes from the forbidden knowledge borne of their previous life. 

Thus, there are two ways I look at your characters’ predicaments: 

It’s not technically reincarnation - not by the way most major world religions define reincarnation, anyway. You have people who died now inhabiting other bodies, but that’s not the same as the transmigration of the soul. Also, you want to delve into the weirdness (and maybe heaviness) of “Wow, I went to sleep with one face and woke up with another.” There are certainly stories about people who have had dramatic cosmetic plastic surgery, weight loss surgery, HRT, etc. and then experienced the difference in the “before” versus “after” of how their altered physical appearance makes them feel, as well as how other people treat them. Even if the community your characters are born into now differs from their previous community (Which I guess would make this more a “I traveled between dimensions, and my appearance altered in the process” sci-fi adjacent affair), their new life will still have social environments with differing attitudes towards human physical appearance that will affect your characters’ emotional states. 

Isekai it up and play with the ridiculous contradiction of having past lives and differing memories of one’s appearance. Isekai manga, manhwa and webtoons all make use of this trope heavily, especially with protagonists who experience a “glow-up” (Ex. Going from a Plain Jane OL to beautiful fantasy heroine) or, by contrast, protagonists who end up in very different forms from their original lives (Tensura, I’m a Spider, So What?). I’d be creative and go even more granular. Being able to tan after a lifetime of getting sunburns or no longer needing glasses might be nice, but what if the new body lacks the enzymes to process dairy or alcohol? What about dealing with differences in hair texture? Skincare routines? What about living life as a very tall person after being quite short or vice versa? What if you bumped into an acquaintance from your previous life, and one of you clearly got a more “coveted” reincarnation?  See how far of an extreme you can take this idea until it feels too uncomfortable or ridiculous. 

Marika.

[whumpsoda]

Dream Idea!!!

here’s that story I was talking about from my dream…

cw: living weapon whumpee, dehumanization, brainwashed whumpees, multiple whumpees, numbers as names, memory loss/amnesia

——————

Five swallowed, saliva rolling over his mouth’s dry, sandpaper roof. The wheels of his chair jumped over a bump in the tile, snapping his eyes awake.

His handler - that’s all he knew them by, he wasn’t allowed to know their name - rolled him down the hallway, constantly stopping to pull out their badge and open the next set of doors. The walls were all colored a dingy, peeling grey, the doors each a florescent white, hurting his vision.

The straps, burning black and of a coarse leather, curled over him every which way - around his neck, wrists, ankles, head, and so on. They would have been uncomfortable had he not been so used to them. Maybe at one point they had been uncomfortable, but that time was long gone.

Five could barely move in them, even if he wanted to. Sometimes he did have that urge, like earlier, but the handlers were good at dealing with him when he got bad.

His partner - he didn’t really know what else to call him - was pushed alongside Five, in a chair of his own, though one missing the restraints. Good boys didn’t need those, and Six was a very good boy.

Five was not.

Six was master’s favorite, by far. Six was pretty, slender and tall with a nice face to match. Six listened all of the time, took lessons as easily as possible, and was always obedient. Six was quiet, silent even, and perfectly docile. Six was even Five’s favorite.

Five liked looking at him, as much as he could in his peripheral vision with the straps locking his head in place. He liked the way his nose poked upward, the way his lashes fluttered when he blinked. Five liked him.

But, there was a word sitting right on the tip of his tongue and waiting when Five studied him. Not said, just there. With the weight of a ton, not able to be pushed past the gate of his teeth.

Somehow, for some reason, Five new it was a bad thought. Five always got a lingering tingle in his belly when bad thoughts started coming, and that tingle had been going off all day.

Five managed a slight shift of his position, making it just so he could see Six even better. The tingle got even more twisted around his gut when Five realized he was wearing one of the correction helmets.

Why would Six ever need a correction helmet?

Six was a good boy! Six was always good, even when Five wasn’t. Five couldn’t think of an instance where Six would ever have needed the correction helmet.

Six blinked, slow and lazy, knobby knees curled up to his chin. His face was falling slack, ever so limp by the second, drool dribbling from his parted lips. That’s how everyone was when they were being fixed, yet this time something about it was just wrong. Bad even, although one half of his mind was saying Six was a very good boy for allowing himself to be bettered.

Bile flooded Five’s belly, clawing up his warm throat at the sight, so much so that he had to shove it back down to keep it from spilling out. Thrumming, his brain was plagued with a sharp throb. Something was wrong, or maybe everything was wrong, they weren’t supposed to be there, it was all so very wrong and his name wasn’t even Five it was-

“Everyone…,” he managed, voice crackling, gaze washing over the scenery as they passed, all of the others having a good, docile time in the play room, “this, this is… normal. Good.”

His handler, lazily guiding his chair, hummed in agreement. “That’s right.”

He needed to remind himself how to be good. That he could be a good boy if he really tried. “I am… normal. This is how this one is meant to… to be.” A smile twitched on his face, not reaching his eyes no matter how much he tried.

“Exactly.” She said, ruffling his hair just the slightest. A bit affectionately, like one would do to a dog.

The mantras didn’t work, they never really seemed to. The bad thoughts were closing in, practically strangling him, making it like his mind couldn’t breath. “Mmngh…!” Five grit his teeth, wriggling in fruitlessly in his chair.

His handler’s easiness squeezed sour, stopping in her tracks. “Don’t start.” “No! No, no, no!” All wrong, everything was so fucking wrong, “Let me-!”

Collar buzzing, spit flew from his lips as the shock sounded, thick and melting in his head. His handler kept her finger on the button for a good second before finally letting go, his limbs turned to writhing jelly.

“Good thing you’re in your chair this time. You did a number on the cafeteria when you last flipped out.”

“You can’t do this-!” He wailed, tears welling up and blurring his vision. Five was confused on just why he was acting out, but still was sure there was a reason. “Help! Someone, please! Help me!”

“Hush. You’re going to disturb the others. Don’t want to upset Six, now, do we?” His handler tisked, continuing to roll him down a new hallway is if he wasn’t screaming bloody murder.

“Let me go! Let me out! Now!”

Finally they reached an actual room, Five’s sore and exhausted limbs fighting weakly, to no avail. His handler allowed him the freedom to shriek, only until they slipped his own correction helmet over and onto his head.

That got him to quiet. Thoughts not of his own molded his mind like putty in an instant, drowning out all of the bad with good.

Five wanted to be a good boy. Obedient, docile, and good. Everything was normal. Everything was fine. That was how it was meant to be.

They circled him, squeezing his head dry of anything unauthorized.

Five wanted to be a good boy. Obedient, docile, and good. Everything was normal. Everything was fine. That was how it was meant to be.

Five would be a good boy eventually, and they would make sure of it.

——————

Taglist- @silly-scroimblo-skrunkl

If anyone wants to be removed or added to the taglist, please let me know! :)

[true-lavender]

The beauty of Zhongven is that they've been married for centuries and when you have someone for so long you have your time periods of being so incredibly close and time periods of when you need some space from each other so I interpret their relationship as one of the open type.

Time to time they both go to other people but they always come drifting back to each other. Mortal lives are fleeting and should be cherished while they last. They, on the other hand, will have each other for all eternity.

Like, fuck bro, they introduce their partners to each other time to time and when they speak about each other they can't even mask the deep-rooted fondness of centuries so their partners sometimes have to do a double take and question whether they're witnessing a friendship or some irl soulmate bullshit. They're bad at hiding affection for each other so they have to evaluate which partners they're willing to take the risk of introducing.

Sometimes it leads to occasional threesomes or more... Gods ought to have some fun, you know And they value all their partners greatly too, even if at the end of it all they'll always find each other in a familiar embrace of one another.

Like, they didn't like each other at first. Or more accurately, Morax didn't like Barbatos because to him Barbatos was an enigma. Even while being surrounded with gods like Guizhong who had their fair share of unorthodox ways of rulership, Barbatos was completely and utterly different. He claimed he had given his nation freedom but to Morax it seemed like nothing more nor less than abandonment of a cowardly or lazy God.

So when he showed up in Liyue Harbour purely to invite Morax for a drink, he was flabbergasted and kept searching for Barbatos' true intentions. Which turned to be futile because for some reason, this weak and irresponsible God had been telling the truth and kept fleeting around Liyue purely for entertainment and morax' company. And no matter how much he denied it, he couldn't help the feeling of fondness whenever the wind tides in Liyue turned and Mondstadt's god of freedom descended to his abode with another drinking invitation. Or simply a request to walk among the humans, just them in the crowd of strangers. Of 'his children' as Barbatos has cheerfully proclaimed them to be with deep fondness straight from his hearth. Morax' children. And he thinks faintly that somehow, even if Barbatos officially has nothing to do with Liyue, they are his children too. He had never before thought of his people like that. But it fits. Painfully so.

So how could one not grow terribly fond of a god who manages to bring out the best in everything he frets around?

As time passes they both face losses, in from of friends, acquaintances, fellow archons, their people, their children, and Morax terribly dreads the day he'll find himself alone, when the wind of his mental stability will cease playfully spinning around him and be laid down to rest, replaced by some other soul who, no matter how much it'll strive to do so, will never be able to reach even close to the warmth of Barbatos' words and actions, whose winds will bring nothing but pain accompanying memories.

The cataclysm is the first time in all of the long years of companionship that he clearly sees Barbatos break down. He can't blame him, he has a feeling that much like he himself, Barbatos is weighted down by the same worries. They're just pawns to celesties, now the last remaining archons of the original seven. Two lonesome souls left alone in this world.

He knows he wouldn't be able to bear losing Barbatos too and he suspects Barbatos is much the same.

They find solace in each other's company, much like always, but there's something different to it. They're the last two. The only remaining ones. And Morax knows he'll hold onto Barbatos not only for how long the Celestia will allow him to, but beyond that. They're complete with each other, no matter how much time it'll pass before they see one another again, no matter who gets to warm their way to their hearts in the meantime, they'll always end up in an embrace of soothing winds and stable rocks, support to many and to each other.

And if anyone intends to take the blessing that is Barbatos away from this world, they'll have to suffer Morax' wrath first.

[eggrollforyou]

How Can I Say I Love You

Law x F!Reader

WC: 1467

CW: angst to fluff, parental/parental figure loss, tooth aching fluff, minor Law backstory spoilers (if you're not caught up through Dressrosa), seems like an OC but I'm too lazy for that, so leader insert 🤣, mutual pining, post time skip 

A/N: this was supposed to be a quick, cute thing, but that clearly got away from me. So I’ll be turning it into parts. Still cute, but apparently my brain had something else in mind. Readers and Law’s thoughts are in italics. Enjoy!

Three little words. Just three little words that seemed to hold so much weight, they'd change the trajectory of everything. Three little terrifying words that could mean the end, if unrequited. 

Far be it from Law to understand how the combinations of chemicals and electrical signals in the brain could have such a profound effect. He's known its highs but has experienced far more of its devastation. Was he cursed? Never able to express what he wanted to with you.

He first met you when you were both children. He, on the search for a cure for his disease with Corazon. You, another sick child, at one of the hospitals he was dragged to. “Hi, I'm (Y/N),” your small voice broke through the background buzz of the hospital chatter. Law turned around to see you sitting on the other side of the room, electric teal blue hair with a white streak framing your face. “Hmmph, yea, so what?” he grumbles indignantly. He hated hospitals. He was grateful for Cora-san to try to help him, but it was going nowhere. He pulled his knees into his chest and sulked while Corazon argued with the physician. “Are you sick?” you ask him, unphased by his grumpiness. Maybe that's why he's acting upset, maybe he just doesn't feel good. He must be sick like me, you think to yourself. “I'm sick too,” you get up to come closer to talk to the grumpiest little boy you've ever encountered and suddenly you fall to your knees in a coughing fit, unable to breathe. 

Law peeks his eyes over his knees, dark under the brim of his spotted hat, but showing concern that he quickly changes to a scowl, “You really shouldn't cough close to other people like that, you could get someone else sick,” he sneers. You finally regain your breath and sniffle. You were so tired of being here, no one to play with or talk to. Your mom had to work all the time to make ends meet and couldn't afford to take time off to be with you while you were admitted for treatment. 

So you spend your days alone with only nurses coming to check on you every couple hours. Your eyes were watering from the pain in your chest, but you continued, “I'm sorry. It's just SO boring here.” Law suddenly notices that you're alone. There's nothing to indicate an adult with you. It's just you and a stuffed bear that was nearly falling apart from living a loved life. “I-I'm Law,” he mumbles. “Nice to meet you, Law!” your face lights up. “Wanna play tic-tac-toe?” you ask, picking up a piece of paper and a pencil. He begrudgingly agrees and scoots over to you. You play several games until suddenly, you hear screaming from hospital staff and a tall blonde man with a heart shirt and big black coat runs, scooping Law up and running away. Hospital staff screaming about Amber Lead disease and quarantines as they chase them. Suddenly, you were alone again. 

It seemed like fate that you both found each other again as teens. You were walking to the beach with your fishing rod. It was just you now. You woke that morning, hunger eating away at you. It had been a couple days since you ate. Managing to steal a fishing rod from a boat at the docks the day before, you got up to fish. You need to try your luck again. Whistling as you walked along the shore trying to reach a rocky outcrop that would let you cast further out, hoping to catch something, you grabbed your belly as it screamed its displeasure at you. 

Law, Bepo, Shachi, and Penguin were walking along the shore, trying to figure out where their next stop would be. Rounding a dune, he sees a girl walking with a fishing pole. Electric blue teal hair, pulled back in a braid with a white streak weaved in and out of the braid. Wait….who is that? I know that hair….could it be? he thinks to himself.

“Y/N?!” you hear someone call your name and you whip around looking for the source until you see that white spotted hat that you'll never forget. The same hat from that grumpy little boy in the hospital. “Law?!” You shout in surprise. He's not alone. In tow, he has a Mink companion, and two other boys- one with a penguin hat and the other with an orca hat. Law introduces you to his little band of misfits and you spend the rest of the day catching up. 

The others are asleep, but you and Law are still talking. You shed a tear that night when Law tells you Cora is gone. You never knew him, nor did you see their relationship, but you could see the hurt in his eyes. Even in the dim light put out by the campfire you're sitting by. Losing your mother, you knew the heavy feeling in your chest when you thought about her. “You should stay with us, we could always use the extra help,” he says with hope. “Yeah, that'd be great,” you smile back. Finally feeling some peace that your nights won't be so lonely. You travel with them for a couple years. Spending your days together on the loose, running wild, doing whatever you had to, to survive. You both would stay up in the early hours of the morning. Lying down looking at the stars, talking for hours holding hands, sharing your first kiss. You were inseparable. You loved that he found family again in Bepo, Shachi, and Penguin. His heart had been through far too much, but he opened it for them. It made yours hurt less for him.

Those three little words. He felt it then with you. But his heart had been too broken, so he kept it guarded and close. Fearing what would happen to it if he uttered those words to you. Something he later regretted when you were separated again- on the run with no plan to regroup. A heist to survive, gone wrong. Law and the others managed to get to the boat you were stealing on time, but you were held up. Getting separated and then later caught by authorities. By the time you escaped, they were gone. You knew they had to leave. It hurt, but you couldn't blame them. You feared this was the end of your time with Law again. Ending abruptly like when you two met.

One of his biggest regrets was never telling you how he felt. Now he feared he would never get the chance. But it seemed the universe had different plans again. Law and his crew, the Heart Pirates, were restocking on an island- a simple routine stop. He surely wasn't looking for trouble as he was walking through the market, perusing the stalls brimming with vendors and customers alike. It was a busy morning, loud with laughter and bartering, but Law had his fill of the market. Having found a rare coin, he pocketed his purchase after paying the vendor. Making his way back to the ship, the voices grew quieter the further away he walked. He gave the crew the afternoon off, but as the captain, he had a pile of work to do. More reports, endless medical journals to read, he had a plan to start a pot of coffee and sit down in his sanctuary, his office on the Polar Tang.

The quiet abruptly ended and suddenly shouting and scrambling was coming from the market. “Stop her! Stop that thief!” a vendor screamed. Law merely peeked over his shoulder but didn't stop, it was none of his concern. As he rounded a corner leading to a bay where they were hiding the Tang, he was suddenly stopped. A woman running around the same corner slamming into his chest and bouncing back, “AHH! SHIT, watch it!” She bellowed. Law nearly stumbled over, with a scowl, ready to tear this person’s head off, he stopped in his tracks, eyes wide. He's face to face with a woman with electric teal blue hair….with the signature white streak framing her face. “Y/N!?” He gasps. 

Your eyes are wide, you're stuck frozen in place. Law…. he's right here. In front of you again. But now, he's all grown up. You hardly recognize him. Tall, filled out, covered in tattoos it seems. You can only tell by his signature hat and his same tired, piercing eyes. “Gotta go!” you rush, spinning on your heel, carrying a bag of loot of things you clearly stole from the market and running toward the tree line along the path. Law reaches out, “Wait!” he calls out as he runs after you. 

Thanks for reading! I'm pretty happy with this portion and am currently working on the remainder of it, but because my brain won't let me post anything less than what it perceives as perfect, it'll have to wait!

Tags: @shy-writer-999

Dividers by @cafekitsune

[eelnoise]

in my feels tonight so have some zoro fluff that i wrote to help 🤫

BTW i appreciate you guys so much. thanks for reading my silly fics 🫶🫶🫶

zoro x gn!reader (if I slip a pronoun in lmk!! I'm tired and it ain't proofread!!)

this fic has a sequel!!

Zoro wakes with a start. His right eye springing open and blinking several times to clear his vision. His chest is heaving and a light layer of sweat is damp against his skin as his groggy brain processes his surroundings. 

Another nightmare. 

Flashes of his past - times where he failed or disappointed had long haunted him, and recurring memories seemed to follow him even in sleep most nights. 

It eats at him deeply, even if he doesn't show it on his face or in his demeanor. Years of grief and loss in the face of danger and battle has hardened Zoro, a stoic mask carved into his expression that hides his feelings and serves as a filter for unwanted emotions. 

He has to stay strong, at least on a surface level. He has a crew to protect and a captain to aid - people who rely on and expect great things from him.

Zoro keeps his thoughts tightly wrapped, bottling them up in a way that only makes him spiral further into his own anguish. 

A quiet and frustrated sigh passes through his lips, the hand at his side twisting into a fist in anger when he feels a head-sized weight on his chest and a much smaller arm draped around his middle. 

It's you.

His heart leaps when he takes in your sleeping form. Your face is caught in the moonlight peering in through the window in his cabin, peaceful and relaxed in what Zoro hopes is a bliss filled slumber. 

He wraps his arm around you, one hand coming to rest on your head as he begins to stroke your hair. A soft, lazy smile twitches at the sides of his mouth.

You're a reminder that life can feel more vivid - a light in the dark recesses of his mind. A reminder that even someone as cold and as rough as he seems to be is worthy of love. 

Love - what a word to describe how he feels toward you. 

It's something he'd never thought about having; something that always seemed so foreign and strange to him. Loving someone with your whole being was something he couldn't understand, devoting himself to something other than his dream, and this life of piracy didn't seem possible. 

Zoro would die for his captain. He would and had taken on anyone who stood in Luffy's way on their journey. Left on death's door many times, Zoro could've gone out knowing that he'd done his part. It didn't matter if he lived or died as long as Luffy could live his dream. 

But for you, he'll come back every time. 

He has to live.

Just meeting you had ignited a flame he thought long dormant, the fire fanning into a greater blaze when you seemed to understand him, body and soul. And when you took his hand in yours that one fateful evening, your fingers entwining with his after a long conversation at midnight in the crow's nest - he had fallen head over heels. 

He cherishes you in a way he had thought impossible. You know just how he ticks, and you always seem to be right there with open arms when he really needs you. 

Words don't need to be exchanged to show the love between you - that isn't really his forte. You met this particular behavior with learned ones of your own, forgoing average public displays of affection and replacing them. A simple but gentle touch to his shoulder can anchor him. The quick brush of your hand next to his in passing always has a deeper and more unspoken meaning to it. 

You know him like no other, and he makes sure to show you just how much he cares in the only ways he knows how. 

Zoro presses his lips to the top of your head a few times, breathing in the scent of your hair with a warm smile. You hum even deep within your dreamy state and nuzzle your face closer to him, warm and safe in his tight embrace. 

God, he loves you. 

[hellyeahsickaf]

You know how you look back at past shitty connections, friends, family dynamics, and relationships and you're like "I can't believe I let them treat me that way"? I think it hits differently with disability because when you're disabled you don't always even know that you're being mistreated and/or abused in regards to it.

I know statistically disabled people are more likely to be abused but sometimes there's an additional type of abuse that's hard to identify even in hindsight because no one tells you how abusive it is.

But ableist abuse relating to your disability can look like:

Pushing you to do things beyond your limitations despite their awareness of them.

Blaming you for the "inconveniences" brought on by things beyond your control (ex: missing a movie because you had to wait for your pain meds to kick in).

Not allowing you to take breaks or antagonizing you when you do.

Bullying or making fun of things you can't help like gait, a lisp, an embarrassing symptom.

Trying to "cure" or "fix" you, often framing it as "helping" you. Sometimes they look similar and you might be able to tell by their reaction towards lack of improvement.

Holding over you the things they have to do for you (cooking, cleaning, driving, working, etc).

Giving ultimatums that demand things of you that you can't do (getting a job, keeping up with multiple chores).

Using insulting terms, language, and/or slurs that you have not permitted them to or in a context where there is intent to harm you.

Interrogating you about your disability or trying to find discrepancies between your experiences and what they've heard/read/seen about it.

Implying or saying anything along the lines of you faking, being lazy, or exaggerating. Reducing you to a hypochondriac, saying you enjoy being disabled because you seem to like having things done for you, or that you're lazy or abusing them by depending on them for things.

Asking you about it not to learn more, but to use it against you in some way.

Having a martyr complex, acting as if they're a hero for giving you the support you deserve.

Calling you a burden, implying you to be one, or treating you like one.

Acting like you owe them a debt, sometimes even demanding some kind of repayment. Keeping track of money they spend on you that you won't be able to pay back, feeling entitled to things like control, sex, a portion of government benefits, etc.

Self victimizing. They act like you being disabled causes more suffering to themselves than you.

Accusing you of being addicted to your medication. If you genuinely develop an addiction a normal response is concern not rage, finger pointing, etc. if you don't have one baseless claims are very harmful

Trying to force you to stop "depending" on things you need like medication and disability aids

Comparing you to others that are doing "better" than you. Maybe showing you inspiration porn of someone with no legs for example doing incredible things- which is great for them but the "I don't let my disability stop me so you can do anything" shit is harmful. Some of us will get very unwell if we try, and some just can't.

Trying to make others also see you as dramatic, faking, or lazy. Often embarrassing and mocking you as well.

Withholding things you need like medication or disability aids as a punishment

Saying your disability is karma or something inflicted by a divine entity/religious figure. Maybe as punishment for not praying, being queer, or something else they disagree with.

Saying that it's a result of being "promiscuous"/LGBT. For instance if you have HIV or ME/CFS that was a result of something like mononucleosis ("kissing disease").

Shaming you for things related to your disability beyond your control or expressing embarrassment over these things. including but not limited to: appearance (general but also things like say a lupus butterfly rash or weight gain/loss), having to lay down in public (ex: with POTS), inability to keep up with hygiene, etc.

Lacking boundaries and acting as if they are entitled to information or intrusion of your space/belongings due to the power they hold over you and assistance they may provide.

Implying/saying you're living an extended vacation. Maybe one they say they wish they had because they have to do x y z while you "sit around"

Abandoning you solely for your disability (ex: because you can't hang out, they don't want a disabled partner, think you're faking, etc)

Note that someone doing one or two of these things a few times doesn't always mean they're abusing you (also depends on which). It's about the patterns and frequency of this behavior as well as refusal to improve once aware that they're hurting you. People who care about you don't want to hurt you and the normal response is to do their best not to repeat the action that negatively affected you

There are more examples and you can feel free to list some

✨This is about physical illnesses and disabilities, please don't derail✨

[messycunt]

No thoughts, only Leona and Tummy bulges

-🌸

HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO MY FAVORITE GRUMPY LION i never manage to post birthday stuff on time so I'm super proud of being able to queue this in advance even tho I rushed it!

small context that's kinda not needed; reader missed leonas party so he's a lil sour abt that lol

cw: afab reader, creampie, size kink, scratching and biting but no blood, not proof read

it gets so fucking hot in savanaclaw.

now that the sun has set its not that bad though. mostly anyway, the last rays of light casting gorgeous pink and orange hues visible through the wide open aired windows of the dorm. you're much too preoccupied to worry about any of that even though you should be, nrc does have a somewhat enforced curfew afterall. something to consider tomorrow maybe.

for hours its been like this; chest to your back, a hot mouth pressed against your neck leaving a path of wet bites and kisses, sharp freshly manicured nails(a 2 days early birthday gift from vil of all people apparently, how sweet…) digging into the fat of backs of your thighs to keep them pushed up to your chest and spread open. leona did almost all of the work for you, stuffing your cunt and bouncing your body up and back down on his lap.

grunting and panting against your neck he moves a hand from your thigh to push against your lower stomach. he can feel himself filling you and you squeal at the pressure. he mumbles a strained 'fuuuuck' under his breath before lifting you off of him, scoffing teasingly at your whine from the loss of him inside of you. you're pushed down onto the bed on all fours, your lion towers over you from behind.

a pile of gifts sits in the corner of his room. its not even half of what he received today in total since he gave most of it away in the last few hours, whatever ruggie didn't manage to already get his paws on anyways.

you face it now and leona's sliding himself back into you leaning over your much smaller body and nipping at the nape of your neck. a warm careful hand moving to where you both were joined to push and rub at your clit in slow lazy circles timed differently from his thrusts. he could feel your cunt pulsing with your heartbeat.

a few tags have long carefully written notes with long titles signed in gorgeous typography too small and loopy for you to read with your clouded mind and tears of pleasure filled eyes. most are written simply 'to: leona'.

he hums pleased with himself when you cum against him from his fingers(sure to have you finish first how princely!) popping his fingers into his mouth to lick clean and moan and slowing his thrusts.

his sweat drips down on your back to mix with your own. a growl sounds from behind you, weight is shifted to lean atop you more forcefully and nails dig again against your tummy. feeling again how he makes room for himself inside of you, he loves it. skin to skin for a second he stills and you gasp.

he fills your already warmer than warm insides with his own liquid heat and your toes curl. your gift to him and his gift to you.

face still smushed against the mattress and drool pooling in your mouth you mumble "happy 'irthday my prince". he simply grunts in acknowledgement, eyes already closed. he flops to lay on his slide facing you, fast asleep.

even if you went through with the effort to wake him up from his dead sleep you can already hear his tired mumbles of 'jus' clean up later' and 'ill walk you back to ramshackle tomorrow' before falling back asleep. so you leave him, snuggling up next to him silently and falling into a dreamless sleep.

[itsbubbleteataro]

hello! Saw your requests were open! If its cool can I request some headcanons (or whatever seems the best fit) with Sampo, Jing Yuan and Sunday finding their anxious! reader ( constant buzzing like a bee level anxiety) under multiple thick blankets (woth a weighted one onto as well) being all cozy, calm and sweet? Im talking the level where you can't tell there's a person untill they peek their head out. Reader finds the squish really comfy.

(Also just wanted to let you know that your pinned post has jun Yung listed under hsr. I just assumed it was Jing yuan but if not feel free to ignore him in my request)

thank you!

Dgejoaajwnebrhrwqknerbsjwjw thank you for catching my spelling mistake im so sorry!

Sure that sounds lovely! I can also say that I confidently relate to reader here as I too can be found typing away under a mound of blankets!

HSR headcannons!

Sampo with Anxious!Reader

Finds it strange at first but chalks it up to you hiding away from the cold

That was until he realized that you usually ended up under your mountain of blankets after situations that usually resulted with you feeling anxious

how did he find this out? Well he's Sampo, so he simply followed you home and looked through your window to find you under all your blankets

placing two and two together he figured out that you tend to always be buzzing with some kind of anxiety based off of how often you wind up under your blankets

one day you had invited him over, telling him to just let himself in

Overall I think he would find it adorable and just a tad concerning

Sampo's eyes drifted over to a mound of various colored blankets laying on a bed, his ears perking up once he hears a squeak coming from it. A smile crosses his face as he watches your head poke out from from the hoard of blankets. He can't help the laughter that fills the room as you give him a sheepish smile

Jing Yuan with Anxious!Reader

The first time he finds you under your pile of blankets is after a particularly rough meeting, one where you ended up agreeing on biting off more than you could chew

The second time he found you under your pile of blankets was after you went through quite a scare, turning in his and your paperwork just before they were due

The third time he finds you under the pile of blankets he ends up laying down next to you, however leaving you to the mass of blankets

With a lazy grin he asks what's bothering you this time, only to be pleasantly surprised to find that nothing was amiss and that you simply just enjoy laying under the mass of blankets

Can't say that he entirely understands but is just wanting to spend time with you

May not be happy about sharing your space with a mass of blankets, may push it off just so he can cuddle you

You and Jing Yuan had decided to play a game of go together. He looked up at you, your brow furrowed in concentration as you lay on your stomach. About twenty blankets lay on top of you including a few weighted ones. He can't help but smile as his golden orbs watch as you work hard to beat him while retaining the comfort that your mass of blankets bring

Sunday x Anxious!Reader

How strange is it to him that when you're not in the dream realm, your found under a mass of blankets, poking your head out of anyone wishes to speak

The first time he had found out about your love of blankets, you had shown him a new weighted blanket you were excited to buy

After that the two of you took to the dream realm, excitedly dragging him from blanket store to blanket store showing him the softest of ones

The loss of his sister hurts him in ways he can't express, so you decide to gift him a weighted blanket, hoping it may have the same effect on him as it does on you

I think Sunday would be glad that you tend to stay under all your blankets, ensuring him that you will remain safe as long as you are in the waking world

"Where are you dragging me this time?" Sunday asked, an annoyed look on his face though his tone betrayed him. You rush past the animated billboards trying to get your attention as you push the door open to a store. You excitedly show him a weighted blanket and his expression softens. He placed a hand on your head, ruffling your hair. "You really are fascinated by the strangest of things aren't you my dear?"

[gravehags]

girls night in the ghouls den. You’re painting each others nails and doing each others hair and giggling and gossiping. And when you shyly admit to cirrus that you’ve never been able to cum before, well, how can she not take that as a challenge.

Lars i was not expecting to write this much but i was Inspired. Enjoy 😌

Pairing: Cirrus x F!Reader

Rating: EXPLICIT MDNI

Words: fuck knows

Tags: making out, titty sucking, fingering, cunnilingus, squirting, possessiveness

~~~

“You what?”

Cirrus’ incredulous voice cuts through the room and the sound of Chappell Roan singing that comes from the portable speaker. You’re blushing, ears uncomfortably red, and you pick idly at the dried nail polish that messily got on your fingers. When Cirrus brings a finger under your chin to tilt your gaze back up to her, butterflies flutter in your stomach.

“I’ve…I’ve never cum.”

“Not…not even when you—?”

“Especially not then. I don’t know, my head has never been in the right space. Never felt good or…well, right.”

You’re violently embarrassed - even more so from the way she’s looking at you right now with such pity. But in a flash, the pity morphs into something…different. Something shiny and hungry and your heartbeat quickens as you watch the pink tip of her tongue slide out to wet her lips.

“I could do it,” she says, straightening her shoulders with confidence, “if that uh…interests you.”

If that interests you? You’ve only been pining for the tall ghoulette for months now, aching to turn these girl’s nights you’ve been having into something more. Suddenly your mind is flooded with images of lips and tongues, deft fingers, and warm giggles. Somehow your flush deepens, spreading across your chest and Cirrus’ sharp gaze follows its path.

“Y-yeah. I’d like that. Please.”

The final word is barely out of your mouth and she’s already crawling towards you on her hands and knees.

“Lie down and get comfortable,” Cirrus murmurs, the red wine on her breath ghosting over your lips. “Gonna make you feel so good, baby.”

“Yeah?” you ask softly as you lean back onto the pile of pillows. She straddles you in a heartbeat and runs a painted claw down the side of your cheek.

“But first I gotta warm you up,” Cirrus leans down and brushes her lips over your forehead, your eyelids, your cheeks, “Nice and slow. I want you dripping for me.”

Your gasp is cut off when she slides her lips against yours, and feeling bold, you thread your hand through her dark hair and pull her close. It doesn’t take long before you feel Cirrus’ hot tongue seeking entrance which you eagerly grant. As your tongues and teeth meet, Cirrus drags a lazy hand up your torso and slowly pries the strap of your tank top down, along with the front of the shirt. When she pulls back to look at your exposed breasts you whine at the loss of her mouth. Idly she thumbs over your nipple, stiffening it before giving it a playful sharp pinch. You yelp slightly, hips bucking against her and she smiles before returning to your mouth once more. As your kisses get wetter, deeper, hungrier Cirrus continues to toy with your hardened nipple, cupping and squeezing the weight of your breast in her palm. When you whimper against her mouth and nudge her nose with yours she laughs - low and sultry.

"Gotta tell me what you want, angel," she teases, pulling back. She doesn't know why it took the two of you this long to get here but fuck she's happy you made it. Your pupils are blown and your lips swollen as you look up at her with adoration.

“S-suck,”

Cirrus tsks, knowing you can do better than that. With a shaky exhale you let out a low whine.

“Suck my tits, please.”

Cirrus coos at you, her sweet girl who knows how to ask so nicely even without being told. When her mouth descends on your breast she brings her lips together and blows a stream of cold air on the bud. The result is well worth it from the gasp that comes out of you and the tight little circles your hips make against her. When she flicks her tongue against you, you whine once more, hand returning to its place buried in her hair. Delightedly she takes your nipple into her hot mouth and sucks, smiling against your soft skin when you breathe her name like a prayer. Cirrus continues to lave her tongue along your breasts, running the muscle over every bump and valley. She could do this for hours - part of her is curious if she can make you cum just from this - but her mouth isn’t quite where she wants to be yet. When she pulls away from your chest - delightfully swollen from her ministrations - you very nearly cry out.

“Easy, angel,” Cirrus purrs, sliding down to place a kiss on the curve of your belly, “plenty of time for that later. I got a job to do, remember?”

“Mmmm, please Cir. Want to feel you.”

With a throb from between her own thighs, Cirrus regrets not having her strap on her right now so she could stuff you full of her. Instead she contents herself with sliding your sleep shorts and underwear off your hips and down your legs. When you’re finally exposed you slowly spread your legs for her, delighting in the way the ghoulette’s gaze darkens at the sight of you. Pretty little curls on a thick mound and below that…Cirrus gently reaches down to spread you apart and when your slick begins to drip on the carpet below you she nearly goes feral.

“Hmm,” she says, settling between your legs and pressing sweet little open-mouth kisses to the inside of your thigh, “Pretty.”

“Yeah?” you breathe, and she can hear the smile on your face.

“Mmhmm,” she murmurs while nosing the curls, “all pretty and pink and sopping wet just for me.”

You make a noise somewhere in between a laugh of incredulity and a moan and when she spreads you open and slowly drags her tongue through your folds, you cry out.

“Fuck, Cir!”

Cirrus places a kiss to your mound and looks up at you with devilish eyes.

“Only just getting started, angel.”

Before you can say anything else she’s on you, tongue splitting you open. She doesn’t touch your clit - not right away - instead content to tease at its hood while you twist in her grip. Briefly, she abandons it and slides down to your entrance where your slick accumulates for her pleasure. When she abruptly slides her tongue into your entrance, you shout her name. Slowly she begins to fuck you with her tongue as her fingers put a bruising grip on your hips.

“So good, Cirrus, fuck.”

She chuckles against your cunt and the vibrations make your hips buck sharply against her. Cirrus pulls away but brings a finger to your hole to tease at it as she looks up at you.

“Think I can do more than make you cum, babygirl,” she muses as she toys with your cunt, “think I can do much better than that.”

“Yeah?” you’re desperately trying to regain your composure but as Cirrus’ long finger begins to slide into you your voice wavers.

“Think I’ll ruin you,” Cirrus says simply, as if it’s the most normal thing in the world. “Think when I’m done with you no one’s fingers, tongue, strap, or cock will be good enough for you.”

You laugh, high pitched and exaltant, and look down at the ghoulette between your legs. Her hair is mussed, her eyes wild and for a thrilling moment you’re almost scared of her. You know, in this moment, that this infernal creature can and will absolutely devastate you. You barely even notice that she’s slipped a second finger inside you and buried them knuckle-deep until her stare makes you clench around her. Cirrus grins, wide and sharp at that as she slowly begins pistoning the digits in and out of you. The noises coming from your cunt are lewd and delightful, causing Cirrus to chuckle as you writhe under her touch. Suddenly, she lowers her lips back to you and when she circles and sucks your clit into her mouth, you buck against her hand taking her even deeper.

“That’s it, angel,” Cirrus breathes, watching you slowly come undone beneath her touch. “You’re doing so well. I think you can take three now, hmm?”

Your nod is frantic, back arched and hips grinding into her. When she slips a third long finger into your cunt, the stretch is delicious. She returns to your clit and with a smooth gesture, crooks her fingers inside of you to brush against that sweet spongy spot. Little lights dance in your vision as she ruthlessly sucks at your clit and massages that spot inside you. You can feel something coming, feel the pressure in your hips that slides off your spine and tightens your muscles. The pace at which her fingers and mouth move are unreal, determined to get you off. And get you off she does. With a high pitched, mounting moan your hips twitch violently against her mouth, your cries echoing in the small living room. You feel as if your heart and lungs are going to burst forth from your ribcage as wave after wave of warm pleasure crashes down upon you. You’re not sure how long it takes you to come back into your body by when you do, Cirrus is still between your legs grinning like a cat that got the canary. All of a sudden you’re aware of the sopping wet warmth that has settled in between your legs and how much of it is on Cirrus’ beautiful face.

“I…I did that?”

Cirrus laughs, high and sweet, as she licks her fingers clean one by one.

“You sure did, baby. Such a good girl, squirting for me and everything. I told you I’d do it.”

“Uh-huh,” you say, flopping back down onto the pillows. Abandoning the space in between your legs she joins you up top and regards you with a smug, yet fond, grin.

“Cirrus…that was…”

“Hmm?”

“Wow. I’d let you keep me as a pet if it meant I got that out of it.”

The words come out of your mouth before you realize what you’re actually saying and Cirrus pulls back to look at you.

“Don’t say that, little lamb,” she breathes, hand ghosting over the curves of your body. “Don’t get my hopes up like that.”

“Get your hopes up like what?” you ask, eyes trained on the ceiling, “I meant it.”

It takes Cirrus two minutes to stand and scoop you up in her arms, heading towards the door that leads to the ghouls’ bedrooms.

“Hope you don’t have anything planned the next few days,” Cirrus says conversationally as she takes you down the hallway to her door, “because I have no intention of letting you leave.”

When she tosses you on her bed, a shriek of delight squeaks out of you.

Fuck, you loved girl’s night.